Aside

When time is worth something
You realize... you realize.
In this air of environmental protection
(or at least realized value)
We glue our eyes to squares of glass
And frame appealing nerve endings
To our institutions and past lives
Of unending curb and bank
Stashing away tomorrows sale today
And selling yesterday's dream
As something new, I hear say.

And in That library of Congress
What is gone today is silence
And the seeming eternity of a forest
Or praire that stretches on forever
Where people would swaddle babies
And Swat them if they were white.
Which originally was preferable, in those days,
To being exposed and left for prey of wolves
Or vultures, or even the common dog
With cats gnawing on the leftovers
All because Dad had little patience.

But we would work for things
Shinier than peace and love
So we might have everything in our world
Instead?  It would seem
When interest is the only thing free anymore
Where time is money
And speculation drives up the cost
of our everything peace.

Freedom Always

History beckons
us to answer questions
The echoing interplay
between light and shadow
balanced in opposite
with us in between
In the now, but someplace else
accessing the library

Reading about who won?

We did.  Because we remember
Our mistakes, and seek to correct
for better lives
and seek to preserve ways
that engender life.

Our lives, our love
Build a bigger house
For we would and can live
to learn from our mistakes

But the questions are often lost
The answers are often made
better, best, and better than
and questions remain, too
but in our memory
as some obscure need
or wire in the blood

Giants sleep with hearts
of Gold, stone, and silver
and where the worms sleep
Trees must grow,
and return their love
Of valley and city
which keeps off cold days
and colder hearts.

And if we should hate
out of jealosy or greed
May we both find better lives
in a bigger house
built of compassion or empathy
to shelter our soul's journey
through time and space
and find company in a good book or two, perhaps.

And learn from our mistakes
As others learn from history
for often our problems repeat
and more often than not... ourself the enemy
that causes any of them, and perpetuates
the discomfort we would relieve

We would seek needs and wants
for victory over sin and death
But if the point to life is to simply live
Jesus may have shown us a good way
in Answer to forgotten questions and oppressive solutions...
rescue then love in your heart and life and others
to find heaven in the next world
at the right hand of God, if you like
or beneath his feet, if you must.
For today is a good day to live.

In Our Radioactive Days

If it is progress we make
In an industrial wake,
Thorium is the new coal
And Fusion the goal.

For progress is your peace
In worlds of famine and disease
Wherein all cancers are treated
Better, with better radiation treatment.

It is progress that brings
Simplicity of phablet machines
and electricity to free us
in doing what we need
as we continue in search for fusion
with z-pinch drives and ocean profusion.

The promise of LFTer designs
processing waste of past nuclear mistakes
The actinides that will outlast the human race
And to our boon can produce useful pace

For life is about energy, progress more-so
Where can we get it And what to do with it if/when we do
And we're actually pretty peaceful in our resource wars.
With more gerrymandering happening than counting scores.
Until it is scarce, then peace is scared And scarred
to visit the troubled waters of one blue planet.

How common is coal?  How common is gold?
Uranium is as rare as platinum
While Thorium produces as much
And common enough in our waste products
Mining the self-same minerals for wind magnets.

Where then is closing the loop
If we do not process nuclear waste
If we do not responsibly mine plays
If we haven't the energy to get to work
If we do not...
There's not much doing, going on
Where fusion may be the Hope,
Fission is the Faith,
And Charity I leave up to you,
In our radioactive days.

My Bad

Stop the lies and realize
You are keeping yourself from life
Where the leaf turns
And echoes in your mind.
Season the hour more than any glint of light
From window or sky.
The shadows are gone,
Payment has been made
Through duplication and piling up the gold coins
That were stacked, bu now pile and pushed into coffer.
The doubt lingers, a fear, a dread
But I drown that
In sorrow saved from sleep and dream
Of the moment.
The very small moment saved and rectified
Through both sweat and savings.

But we are human, we are as weak or as strong as ants
And soar higher than eagles, too,
In both making amends,
And in that of making.

What it is, I wouldn't know.  It's been but a year.
A year of making poetry?
More than likely, I've painted so very little this year.
Yet 12 have passed.
And now one full year realized
A peace welcome
A ration sustaining
Of transient order?
Or of fashion from the mind of the cult of the comet
That Haunts me, this new October.

It isn't golden.
Nor transformative.
But a making isn't ever, lest your the King of Siam
And just totally treading on dreams like Yeats
Shredding it like Bukowski
Fagging it like Whitman or Ginsberg.
But what is gay for shiny happy people,
Ah, to be a yuppy, I know not.

That dream died in my lap when
I chose to walk twixt duality
And fall, as light falls,

Down and around amongst the 10,000 things
That is life.