If Savagery Meant an Illicit Passion

where are their lives?
The ones that mattered
The ones like you, or I?
Where are the people that dried their own clothes
The ones that doubted if God existed
Where are the ones whose legs ached after work
The ones that felt they wasted their off hours watching television
Where is everyone that felt they needed a because
For doing anything and everything, because they wondered
And felt a sinner for doing anything and everything they liked
When those very things were completely acceptable to begin with
And those self-same things were done with our own time and places.
I wonder if there is something extraordinary about the ordinary
civilization=ordinary=domestication-backbiting-fighting-laissez-faire
Or maybe that's ordinarily normal
The kiss of dreams and passion possessing
The very bribe of existence for youth lost
An exchange of savagery for life itself
Trading in being supper for a nice warm coat
And so, we become animal, we become cat or squirrel or chickadeedeedee
Showing how it's done By cleaning or packing or surviving winter ourselves
But if I had a billion dollars?
I'd show them how to float like algae all pelagic and like.

But, instead I'm stuck in my Jesus christ pose.

A Crickets Teacup

Reality in the Universe
All time all movies
We wouldn't know
When Mom died she checked into a hotel
A recovery retreat from/for abuse

And I, I wept that she departed
As I was wont to do anytime she left without hugs
And Dad was sad with me.  And she?

She chose to never return except in spirit
She's somewhere out there... living her life
Dead to me, perhaps.  But only cause it's easier to believe
Than I was part of her pain or part of the problem
Or that everyone I knew through her was also, too.

It pains.  It gladdens.
It's a joy to know she's doing something she needs to do.
But I'm not thankful I can no longer call her companion or friend.

And Reality?
It is only a single language
a, "wie bist du?" or "como ste?"
with single-band voice-box or ear
implying single-brain to process or hear
But when the angeLS sing?  Anything, can make sense
Be thankful you have a second brain, but set it aside once in awhile.
Let one's spirit rise, take hold, and surprise for a spell
For that's your soul.

We only live our life once, I'm told
Learn meditation and put on hold
Those thoughts of messy desk or cluttered crap
And laugh in doing so, cause all that
proves you a robot, reactionary and myopic
As in fact, your lasting master loves you If you do, too
Help find time for yourself to live, rather than consume.

Finding the handle in that teacup will keep cool hands
For it isn't an indifferent world, perhaps lonely or confused
But time is there for you, even paupers have more than they know.
And so if you use, know that you bring peace to you and others
As we're all connected in ways both serene or good
With divinity in you but also God.
And that which surrounds you is in all our lives, too!

And if we all prove departed to some convention
If all of this is some elaborate Jacob's Ladder,
at Least we'll have given thanks for some parts
At least we'll have lived, And have been loved.
Perhaps laughed and learned something about it all.
And therein lies the Light.

Of Ants and Asses --- Poetry Super Highway April 26th, 2015 --- Poetry Challange -- Erin Elizabeth Smith

Truman Schwartz is an advisor for bucks, doe, and chickens
In school, the bluer you were, meant the more you studied.
But like Sith and Senators saying today, "Let them suffer,"
He enrolled more than he could handle in organic chemistry
So that some would Presumably flunk and toss away money
On something rigged to take it without value in exchange
For at least more than a few bucks and does facing the guns.

I'm so cerulean now that that is now over the rainbow
The rain is gone, I can see all obstacles in my way.
And when Lennon and McCartney make their art, my life lifts higher.

To skies without a chemical romance
To lives with everything.
I suppose we'll know life abounds Greater
than surmised by taste, or entertainment
while searching for phone card for dying mother.
But those, too, are the taxes of humanity
And true source for our humility.

May Sith and Senators suffer
Let them pay our taxes of humanity for us...
They're advising folly in building empire and oligarchy
One man, testing everyone, after overselling their idea
While setting courses of action to fail as many as possible
With laws of parenthood as their strong arms, through and through.
While WE pay their taxes, or healthcare, or retirement, or bodyguard.

It seems silly and stupid they're so myopic
When even the police know they're supposed to serve and protect.
US, while we're the ones paying the taxes.

e=mc@

Theoretically, we could take grams of salt
And chunk it through Einsteins equation
Or even all your poo, which highly radioactive,
Needs to be vented from all it's power!

But something nice like your broken television
That's a big poo which most families produce
And instead of burying that like dog or cat
We could power up the 3-d printer to generate
Another television, or another roll of tickets to win.

For Everything is Energy, fluid flowing through universe
Some is left to sleep as bulk and some rarefied but as sleeping
While others flock or hawk their way through to their destiny
Otherwise why would shit decay?  You must ask yourself.
The dreamer sleeps and in doing so creates the world
For us to wash our hands with and liken to God

Or to help a friend, or to write with pen
Or to help lighten up, or to water crops
Or to take boat out on water and get some exercise.

California could use your salt, California needs Water
Seems ridiculous, doesn't it what with the ocean...
But the dreamer sleeps!  Wake Him/Her UP!!!

There is war at our door
There is murder in our streets
They're taking the governor to the gallows,
While children cry in their sleep from hunger.
And hunger will only spread out to reach us all.
It happened in Syria.

Mountain Standard

Universal Greenwich Mean Time says it's snowing
That's the honest truth
To the business man it's payday
To me? Hell's probably frozen over
To Commuters slick roads
To flowers DEATH
or maybe not, maybe a year without blooms
For the flower too grows in Earth we all do
And can reproduce asexually, too.
What would that be like for humans.

Universal Greenwich Mean Time says the soil is clay and rock
That's the honest truth
What's beautiful is that we know that
To the artist it's source
To me? a pot
To commuters roads may be stuck
To flowers MUCK
or maybe not, maybe a soil it can turn up
For the flower makes it's own soil.
And can fertilize with blossom and leaf.
What would that be like for humans.

Universal Green Mean Time says there's valley
That's the honest truth
But in a different zone there's a road to commuters
To the bird a lake for to fish from
To the woodsman something to climb over
To the Great aunt, a home
And to me?  Something beautiful and honest.

Universal Greenwich Meridian Time says there's forest
That's the honest truth
To the businessman cord wood
To me? somewhere trail
To commuters roads may be windy
To flowers TUCKED
or maybe not, maybe they're in tops of trees.
For the flower of evergreens overlook all
And can feature fair abundance.
What would that be like for humans.