i looked up to see the setting sun,
embracing the mountains and the trees.
and somehow i knew…
there’s a bowl for every hunger.
and night itself is a blanket,
even the moon kisses good night.
what i dont know is not important,
what i am wears no mask.
and the sound of the wind in the trees,
answers what i dont know to ask!
Similar Posts
the poet’s poem,
most precious of all….he cant live without.boxed up and wrapped,presented as a giftto the passing strangerwhose lips a ‘quiver!in word, in paint,in carpenter fashion….built as if a homefor the orphaned soul…or potatoes and milk,laid out on the table,for the guests of boththis world and that!or a blanket givenon some lonesome corner,to the cold and shiveringface…
we have spent centuries
and making sacrificesto our own fears!afraid of death,and so afraid to live,we race maddened to the flame.trying to conceivean ideal, afraidto see, to touch,the reality before us!god looks alot likethe people we’re bombing,smells like the homeless manin the alley,weeps with the hungryinto an empty bowl!you want to touch the sacred?touch the stranger,the orphaned child,the addict…
i am…
approaching midnight.the world on fire,the thunderous shout of hunger.i am the ditch,filled with the bodies of freedom.i am the hammer,that drove the nails.i am the hated, the despised,and the friendless.i am the stranger,that smells like your brother.i am the enemyof tyranny and oppression.i am the bloodshed for the truth.i am the day after,destruction and fall.i…
spreading straw over young plants,
counting nickels, dimes, and quarters,to pay the rent.turning down the pot to simmer slow,listening to the news with a hollow ache.,thoughts come and go, the air still chill.nothing changes much, except the date.a half a tank of gas, and a borrowed hoe…hands moving in silence, back to the sun.death waits patiently, like an old friend.never…
the stink of money,
like torn pieces of bread,to the flock of starving crows.mind numbing phrases,that drain all feeling from the souls.light the pipe of apathy,poverty dreams and illusions.careful not to touch,not to mingle with the crowd.not to taint his holinesswith the common dirt.his time is over!his world has come to its end!truth has risen from the ruins,and demands…
stolen wrapping paper,
worn and tattered….on lonesome street corners,cigarettes crushed beneathwell known strangers feet….lights flash, windows empty,horns blow, motors running….no direction home!