I’m sick to death of playing
Poetry and memoir while
Children of the world are
Killed and wounded and raped

I’m sick to death of taking sides
In war there are no good sides only
Satanic interests and feeble minds
Oh Israel, Hamas and America your
Sides are aching, the children at
Your doors inside your hospitals
Killed by our weapons of mass
Destruction produced daily
In our factories they sit as demons
In our arsenals prepared to kill
We export them to fill our filthy
Coffers making coffins for our children
It’s time to cry our tears, United Nations
Of this Earth we are One People One species
Our children bleed and run together… end


A Different Angle

I fell asleep last night
After I had pulled my
Closed door off the hinges
Woke with a smile on my
Face basking in light

When I was twenty-two
And married I decided from
Marching for equal rights
And protesting the Vietnam War
That everything positive was a lie
and all negatives were reality which
set me up to miss out on the Love
Machine. I opened only to the two
Small boys I quickly birthed, their soft
Skin and tender hearts confused my established
Bias, but still when Scott was only six months old
I went to the hospital to test my brain for tumors
Like the ones that killed my grandmother and I
Was sure that this was God mocking my happiness
Sure this white-haired tyrant was going to make me pay
For finding happiness and then when I came home and tried
To sort it out, I turned to that book, A Return to Love and read
It determinedly word by word with a grimace on my face but hell bent
On figuring out the truth, I’m still working on it, but sometimes like today
From a different angle, or was that angel?

I Pray in Drag

Ellen Bass says that poetry used to be the same as prayer or a spell.

I pray in drag, I mean in the disguise of poetry
Every pore calls out my longing for
Breath, sometimes gasping
My incantation the unhinged sound of prayer
It seems like I want to eat from your table
But my true desire is to cook food so
Delectable even you would eat letting wine dribble down your sacred chin.

To the homeless men I see on street corners
The children immigrants waiting illegally
Behind the bars of our hardness, to L.A.,
San Diego and Sao Paulo I say, Listen to the
Old women of poetry who pray hungry for intimate touch
We walk Pacific Beach with its dead seaweed and old dreams,
Inviting you to live dancing aware of the splendor of this our handmade home.

When I take off your mask, poem, you are praying
Your legs clutch at the horse of desire that carries us
Away from the past knowing that old age makes love in ways
Youth could never imagine. Opening our eyes to worlds we
Have not begun to imagine, this prayer poem is
Wanting love to show her face, to reveal how she spreasd her kisses everywhere
Just like a band of angels she too takes bodies by surprise with the
Gift of an orgasm unheard of and yet the exact image of divine consummation unveiled.

The Children Wait

I’m deeply haunted by the children at our border
At night I hear them crying, in the day I search the
Internet for something I might do to relive their pain
So far nothing shows up, governments play at doing
Something, cities volunteer, and still the stupid people
Protest, do they think a five year old will take their jobs

I see no action to take or maybe many of us would open
Our hearts and lives, but instead we wait for congress and Obama
So stuffed full of ways with no means they Pontificate with the pontiff
While the children wait alone, I’m sorry and getting less silent
But it’s still not doing any good if I knew whose door to knock
On my knuckles would be bloody from pounding but instead
My fingers search the keys and no action surfaces, so I’m
Asking you my friends, what can we do.

I’ll Never Be Homeless Or Psalm 23 revisited

Yeah though I walk through
The alley’s of Los Angeles
I will fear no evil because
The bad guy is not even real and
I’m not really alone, see
I live in the secret place of the most
High… She sometimes allows me a good kick in
The butt to straighten out my outlook
But most times it’s a grand old party
Where everyone’s invited and if you
Still insist on being belligerent, oh well
Then just look on while all the goods
Come my way you see this, sweetheart,
Is where I live, not temporarily, not
2014 or 15 but in this amazing
Universe Mansion for ever and ever, yes that’s
What I mean a thousand million years
plus, so I really don’t worry any more.

Is poetry work?

all day I contemplate
my naval until the boredom
makes me just write some
I tell of my return to home
After five weeks on the road
How the tourists have invaded
Big time now that it is July
Locals are hard to find and even
Cali license plates are only one in 5
Only one face is familiar behind the counter
At my regular coffee shop but I sit
Writing anyway, sipping the coffee that
Doesn’t even taste as good as I remember
You can’t really go back, even after a month but
Nostalgia for something that never was is
Always yelling from some past that did not exist
So I pay my bill and move on, out into today
As it really is, and I find delight in the pelicans
Flying in formation, the homeless guys carrying
Their everything on their backs and the ocean rolling
Toward me portending something I still don’t know about
Reminding me that some things like change never change.