False patriots

Sick and dying in the light,
their crimes laid bare,
false patriots stumble,
gasping for the air of freedom
that once filled their lungs,
choking on caustic fumes
of hate and fear,
inhaling the searing flames
of self-immolation.


The way to her heart
is a mystery.

A maze, it is,
a labyrinth that leads
to culs-de-sac
on every path a man can take.

Then a smile,
a teardrop betrays her
and tells me that
I stumbled in.

I stumbled in.

Sling stones of hope


Motors drone far off,
closer, louder
with each heartbeat,
each breath that wheezes
in, then out.

What’s to come is clear
as the sky once was
before the crush of boot
and char of fire and oil
hid sun and moon and
morning from us.

We stand in place,
slinging stones of hope aloft
with shouts that echo
thru space and time.

Words in #writeoutloud are for warming up, stretching, keeping the writing muscles loose and flexible. Sometimes they are more.

The next sunrise

The sun once rose in the east every day.

Summer mornings broke
warm and early
and afternoons were baseball
and tag and hiding and seeking
and sweaty until the bell and dinner
and more play and sweat until
dark and beyond.

The sun hides now and we seek it
amid clouds and fog.

Play and smiles are memories
that fade with time and heil salutes
and hard, grim resolve.

The next sunrise is a hope,
a wish, a dream.

Good morning is a prayer,
that all we love will survive
and rise again
when the clouds and fog
burn away.


A nameless poem, aimless words,
left scorned, unadorned,
at risk
of eternal unreadness.

No verse to be fixed
’til it fits in the mix, to be tagged
on the ear like a pig.

Nor indexed, nor cited,
all love unrequited,
for lack of the lie
called Untitled.

Friday morning sun

Angling toward the valley, gaining speed,
then looking up to see the sun pierce blue dawn sky
and light the Flatirons
brings a smile to this face
after the cold and gray.