Wasted Time, a poem

Wasted Time

So do we fall

sweetly against the brittle gunk

and waste the very minutes

of a peaceful ending.

So it was written,

and spoken,

and so shall it be written down


Many sit,


and wonder when.


Sonnet 18 Revisited, a poem

Shall I compare thee to a summer sweat?

Thou art more sticky, unwanted and unpleasant.

Rough wings smelling of piss do flow wild as you speak,

And your public lease is illegitimate.

Sometimes too hot your words break,

And often is other complexions marked to for sin.

And every justice spirited.

By chance our natures changing course, you win,

But summer swelters always end.

No power you have is fair, throughout!

And death will grab you, gold will not ascend,

When eternal lines to time thrown out.

So long as we can breathe or see,

You are ruing my life’s prosperity.

Soul and Pain, a poem

Soul and Pain.

Here we are again,

A dying planet and a line of willful morons

Humping their hands while complaining about the better sex.

No game, and they won’t shut up about it.

Our so called leaders are afraid to lead

Because they might not be leaders anymore if they do.

Complacency is safer than action only if you’re rich.

Sex and violence and sexual violence.

Two souls comrades butchered in the streets.

Lynchings protected by badges and city hall.

Soul and pain.

21st century lies and truth.

Soul and pain.

Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda – A poem for a dying planet

Would have,

Could have,

Should have.

These words which only pay lip service

to memory and potential

and attribute cause to regret

Serve no purpose but to hinder us

As our world decays.

We owe it to ourselves,

To our living legacies still too young to fend for themselves,

We owe it to them to act.

To organize and hope.

Two words to embody and elevate,

While we smash the banks of marble,

And pine for the fjords of freedom.

Would have,

Could have,

Should have.


Will have.

Can have.

Shall have.

Sermon on the Mount

Sermon on the Mount

Sermon on the mount!

Sermon on the mount!

Take me, oh preacher take me

to the sermon on the mount!

Sweet words are there,

Misheard of revolution,

Too long have I been gone

from where I belong.

To poke, to provoke,

To pour upon life,

On the nature of that

which we misconstrue.

What we misconstrue,

Mental paragraphs,

Random words,

I missed them so much.



Never with our Marxist

red constitution.

No more of the obscure,

No more of the hostile hostage,

No more of the starved

and starving.

No more of those starving us,

No more obscurity,

No more no mores

and now, sweet gains.

Cycles, returns,


Return of our mature

sweet odor.

These hearts, these words,

I dream of the world that Chaplin did,

I dream of his world,

and you laugh.

Well I laugh at those who laugh,

I dare laugh at those who laugh at thought,

I dare laugh at any

who have laughed at the heart.

I laugh,

I love,

And both with my strong

healthy heart.

People Can Be Products, A Socialist Poem

People Can Be Products

Who are we but products?

Products of our time

and place?

Dare what questions are such to be asked?

Asked and then asked again!

Trivial though it be,

meaning is always the goal,

the objective,

the end.

Are we just products?

Products of anger,


of hate,

Or are we something more?

Who are we but products?

Products of our time

and place?

We are the artists, the thinkers,

the doers, and the workers,

And in fact we are still much more