Monthly Archives: November 2021

With Pine Needles in Their Hair

 Who knows when desire germinates?
It stealthy enters through all the pores 
to reach a receptive heart. 

Mutual feelings forge an electric connection,
uniting both to respond in wordless agreement.

Home is not without, but 
rediscovering the evergreen moment; 
deliciously resting, turned on together
in the heady fragrance of a partaken now.

Feeling as if 
no Christmases, Thanksgivings, or Halloweens
before theirs - with everything filtered through
the prismatic lens of their unfolding bliss... 

Playing, dancing, teasing, and necking 
mistletoe overhead
then, lying side by side
beneath the lit tree - breathless from 
the innocent laughter 
of lovemaking.

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Posted by on November 21, 2021 in Poetry


Where Is the Counterculture?

On the cusp of the 60s and 70s, 
68 went down as the year 
of cultural revolution. 
Psychedelic shirts
with LSD phosphorescent eyes. 
I know. 
Saw the living colors myself 

Walls inhaled and exhaled 
scents of patchouli 
and cheap strawberry incense from India. 

Saw those grimacing faces above the long-haired crowd 
twisting hideous. 
I was the youth then. 

"Down with the establishment" was the chant.
Government? What a downer. What a bummer. 
"drags" were for "squares." 

The institutional church reeked
as did the communist cult 
not into being reduced  to
a number for a 
system of power claiming 
my own good
more into getting naked 
rather than getting put in a straight jacket

Politics proved to be only good 
for starting wars. 

I met Pisces Tom
partying in Coyote Canyon
near Joshua Tree. 
a genuine Haight-Ashbury hippy
who went off the grid 
to live 
in a bamboo forest smack dab
in the middle of the Mojave desert. 

Tom raised a hog
painted eerie space mandalas
and made LSD from soaking marigold seeds. 
When he was tripping
thought he could pan gold
from the desert sands
of ancient seas. 

Some of Tom rubbed off on me. 
How different today

dancing to the establishment's dirge 
while pretending not to be.   

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Posted by on November 21, 2021 in Poetry


Life Is a Highway

Masses hasten for the likely road,
the sign reading, “--Your Own Way--”
lettered black on blue
leading direct into quicksand.
Some notice the bridging crossroad,
--a 180 from the sinkhole
The highway less traveled
over a descending dead-end 
--the highway
once crested 
with thorns.

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Posted by on November 19, 2021 in Poetry


Enjoying a Bowl of Pinto Beans on Walnut Trail

Emily often pondered what was beyond 
death & taught me with a bumbling fly. 

More than a century ago, 
Walt wrote 
Leaves still able to strip 
culture-blindness from today's eyes.

Allen let it all dangle out, jazzing it up 
with his radical staccato beat. 

Carl's blast of "The People, Yes." 
imparts a feeling of significance. 

The "crooked hands" of Alfred's bird 
show the vigor to grab a word. 

The foaming creek of Kenneth's Har 
cites both academic with industrial. 

Wallace's "compass of that sea" 
--much like the one I'll use for me. 

Both parliaments and parties
are mere baubles before these. 
The razor blade of the pen
will crop them to their knees. 
Like Percy's "shattered visage," then
in heaps of crumbled seas.

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Posted by on November 18, 2021 in Poetry


Hung -Haiku

A depressed young girl
A life hangs in the balance
Calls for help ignored

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Posted by on November 18, 2021 in Poetry



Partied like a rock star,
and became a rolling stone
wandering cacti roads
mouth as dry as a salt bed
Jose Cuervo at Lake Havesu
catch a frisbee; hit the bong,
but nowhere to go--is this freedom?
sleeping on the Dodge's back seat, 
must stretch out the food stamps
fill & run at the gas station
looking for the next party 
give plasma for a nickel bag
suck the frosted keg empty
barf the Coors up secretly
(under a friend's bedspread)
full of insincere giggles
mannequin dolls
their paint peels
I burn out -
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Posted by on November 17, 2021 in Poetry



Under weathered daisies
allegedly buried, but mindfully present
an old-timer - well past his prime,
beneath a cold etched granite marker
in the gut-wrenching hope,
that she might willingly return
to  recall the pleasant times at his soil,
as he oft did at hers
   his unanswered love,
   his perpetual embrace
He would caress her with his stone
hands, devoutly wishing for the white heat
of her caring reciprocity

Thither they dreamed,
though of him, she never grasped, 
but only an altar of someone 
she once touched, of what might've been--
And the unknowing was 
the latent desire of both,
but the two blundered a chance,
though-- once upon a time?

Ergo, there, he abode silently 
Fully unclothed, she tormented him at night
with sunny flowers in her graying hair
He would drink in her earthy vanilla skin
as she reclined next to him, cuckolding

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Posted by on November 16, 2021 in Poetry


Unfinished Business

Why would anyone
want to give up their freedom
for a failed regime?

What was the outcome?
Brutal revolutions snuffed
multiple millions.

We take for granted
the liberties our forebears
secured with their blood.

values are being replaced
by repressiveness.

The influencers
will fake it til they make it,
but lies remain lies.

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Posted by on November 15, 2021 in Poetry


Human Beans

A countdown timer is essential 
when pressure cooking 
dry black beans. 
After reaching full pressure, 
time twenty-four minutes until the buzzer
& the legumes are now soft.
Use twenty minutes & they're chewy raw; 
push it to thirty; you got mush. Cooking is
a bounded & timed process to get it right.
True also of all organics
who are against
a deadline.

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Posted by on November 13, 2021 in Poetry



When I joined the US armed forces
I was a maverick looking for a way out
of family and financial despair.-- I wasn't
answering any sense of jingoistic duty.
When I was a child, I LOATHED POLITICS, 
often heatedly discussed around the
dinner table.
Santa Claus felt more natural, still does.
I am not sorry for this. 
"The Man" the "Establishment,"
is "square," --a drag.

We tried to see ourselves
as children of the flowering earth 
chemically cowboying space, 
and whatever dimension took us
far away from the evening news of war, assassinations,
and riots - all generated by the "military-industrial
complex" we were supposed to pledge allegiance to. 

Long flowing rebellious hair adorned me
listening to the musical offspring of the beat poets
who eschewed the conventions of so-called
"christianized" society.
A rebel, I remain.

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Posted by on November 13, 2021 in Poetry