Wanna Be Socrates, a poem

Dull, now babbles some

wanna-be Socrates.

A Plato of the non-

existent preverbal page.

An awkward stammer

and pause gone about

with forced emotion.

So forced that it has no force,

no power,

gone and now at rest,

deserving non of its fake praise.

Lofty lust, and more incoherent

babbles and rambles in the name

of some forgotten crackpot

pipe dream.

Again this “philosopher” speaks,

and the actual teacher wretches in the corner,

excess is the key word

of the wanna-be Socrates.

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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.

It’s Wrong When It Stops Being Fun, A Poem

A wise man once said “It’s wrong when it stops being fun.”

Well, I have to ask myself, has it?

Has pining over the right word and cadence lost its spark?

What, except the dark cloud that seeps its invisible cloak on my psyche,

Keeps me from putting all for the gods and earthly kind to see,

to hear,

to learn the truth.

Poetry is not supposed to be work,

or is that too bourgeois?

I say poetry like anything can be rebranded for the worst,

but poetry is thought, the one thing that cannot be erased.

Poetry, is something to make all our own.

So, has it stopped being fun?

Not by a long shot.

The Hopeless Radical, a poem

A fearful night,

and a burned bridge freshly smolders.

Such is the life of a hopeless radical.

Less sexy than a hopeless romantic,

but more useful than a hopeless idealist.

Two are ideal hands of the state,

whose hands when pressed against us

create our struggle.

Our struggle,

Our political struggle.

The hopeless radical knows

that identity is not solidarity,

and logic cannot fixate on rhetoric.

The pressing hands,

They ignite and explode gaslights

To burn and humiliate us.

This is the life of the hopeless radical,

Of the unbowed optimist.

The state, the struggle,

The hands against us,

And our rhetorical traditions.

This is our life,

The life of the unbowed,

of the unbroken,

of the hopeless radical.

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.

Nay.

Will have.

Can have.

Shall have.

The Poet as The Revolutionary

The Poet as the Revolutionary

The poet as a revolutionary

is an all too common trope.

So what happened?

Where did they all go?

Where are the poets and lyrics

and bards who can spark the imagination

of a generation

to end the segregation

and the era of hate.

The poet as revolutionary,

A common but missing motif,

We have minds running for office

all of a generation inspired.

So dare does a poet

question their purpose?

Even now,

Even in a time of awakening,

Where conscious privilege cannot be forsaken?

The poet as revolutionary,

and the leaderless movement of leaders.

Poetry has its politics,

its stake,

its place in the revolution

and it always will.

The poet as revolutionary,

the romantics

and the voices of their days.