TV Talk Shows = Bull Dung and Flies

Why do the flies gather,
what is their interest in the smelly dung heap?
The bull hasn’t even walked away yet
but the flies are already there.

A woman was proud of all her many divorces,
A man was proud of all the children he fathered
with many different women.
And the flies were gathered around,
laughing and clapping.


You may say, “There is no morality involved with flies
crawling and flying about a dung heap.“
In this respect I’m frightened at the idea
of what is accepted, teaching our young
by means of mass media.


And flies always gather when something decays,
traditional morals and values these days
and self-righteous hosts
who carry viruses to our youth
are elevated and revered
as wise and intelligent,
though they’re pompous and vain,
so like flies they promote
a speedy decay.


And the flies are crawling about;
laughing and clapping making moral decay
look good in some way.
That I can’t understand.


So I ask you again,
why do the flies gather? What is their interest
in the smelly dung heap?


If not for justifying their own meaningless existence by enjoying and reveling in the sin of
others,
then maybe a feeling of jealousy and envy
of seeing how sensational they want their own idle lives to be.


Oh how pitiful are these flies
when the air that they breath
could be much cleaner and fresher

far away from the bulls dung heap.

I Try

I try,
but no matter…
I kick that old dog
but he does not become
young again.
He doesn’t want to fetch
the stick anymore.
He refuses to roll over and
play dead.
He will not do it for real either…
But I will not let him just
lie there like he wants,
I can’t.
I get tired of looking at him like that,
and yes,
To get him moving again I’ve tried kicking him.
I’ve tied a rope around his neck and pulled,
I even got behind and pushed.
but he insist on laying there.
what does he do?
He eats occasionally. I
only know this because of the
shit piles on the study floor.
He occasionally chews up a good shoe and
the Sunday paper. No,
He doesn’t fetch it either
I have to fetch it.
Then when I’m not looking,
He chews up all my pens.

When I Was

A wadded sock in the mouth of the Earth…
As I step out into the cool
Still air…
Where is the echo of the neighbors
Arguing?
Or the sounds of the other neighbors
Laughing?
Where are the dogs who normally
Bark at people passing by,
and the crickes
That normally say goodnight?
Where are my own thoughts?
Where am I?
I heard of me, and almost remember him.
A dim reflection of yesterday
When I was…

By Dawn

By dawn they should be singing
But lately they’ve been silent.
And the wind should bring a welcome
Coolness through the
Kitchen window, but the wind doesn’t come in.
Even the sun, which normally bright
And warm, ceases to
Cast my long westward shadow.
So I laugh at them and go on to work
Anyway.

Where Do We Cling?

They cling to the screen door
At night by the front porch light
Wanting to go in to litter
themselves on His living room carpet.

Where do we cling?

We prefer evenings struggling to
Cling to the slick metal of the
Street lamp post at the end of the driveway…
Only looking at the screen door,
contemplating…
Should we cling here, or waste our time
flying towards the screen door like the others.
Not knowing,
Eventually, we fatigue in our toiling,
Trying not to fall, we begin to slip
Then at about midnight, just before our weariness overcomes us
we decide to fly for that screen door
And we fly with all our might.
But our clinging has worn us down
That lamp post at the end of the driveway
Has left us exhausted.
And we collapse just feet from
Our warm soft resting destination.
On our backs, just before we get
stepped on, we look up.
We see those who spent their entire lives
Clinging to the screen door
Slipping into the house onto the carpet
As the door is occasionally opened by Him.

The Bayou

The bayou begins to rise behind her.
Swinging at the edge of the wrinkling murky water,
She smells the pungent wet cypress
Trunks as they stand guard for her.
But they’re deceiving;
Rocking a windy lullaby,
As she swings in the rhythm Of her youth
On an evil pendulum with squeaking chains
Entrancing her…
She closes her eyes.
Then, as the water begins to engulf her,
She barely notices.

Unfortunate Language

Barron tree in the barren field
Used the cold, bold wind to beckon me.
I would have strolled over,
But the wind was too cold,
So instead, I hurried home.

Rebellion

I, with red eyes, feel a  crushing
weight  heaped upon me
By my father's wrath.
Lifting the hammer of Thor
like a gavel he slams it down;
Breaking the sound block of my youth
demanding  order.
With the voice of my mother
echoing softly
Across the lake
Like a swan call
I rebel from myself

Deliberate in my resolve
To stare at truth,
To look it in its tired, blood shot eyes -
Defying his reality with the
Teary eyed reverie of my own?

My Friend

Fire shoots from my eyes…
I put on my daily shirt,
I go to my daily work.
And I slam the bricks down in line
And stack them up even now.
And I think about me
As I come to face you
On Wednesday at 1:30
With the rest of your family
Trembling, burning like me.
And you with your smug grin,
What secret is revealed to you
As you dream your endless dream?

Grip of Depression

The silence of my room
Isn’t so bad,
There are small sounds after all…
The faint sound of my electric clock,
And the drip sound coming out of the bathroom
Seems to make everything alright.
And a passerby speaks to the mail man…I hear
Them mumble outside my window.
I don’t see them though, my shades are drawn
So I just lay here
Smelling my fabric softened sheets
Thinking of how warm the sun must be
On their sweaty faces.

What is it?

What is this thing
That I am holding behind my back?
My hands are closed,
So if you just walk around…
What I have you’ll never know.

Leaf Shadow's Dancing

Back lit sky piercing the green canopy,
Orchestral movements on the ground.
Leaf shadows dancing
While they can in the evening light.

What wonderful music they must hear.

I only hear the engines of cars with their tires
pressing down the street,
and an occasional voice carried on
the wind.

Hardly dancing sounds.

Yet they sway, turn, bounce and move
with elegance and peaceful rhythm.
Subterranean sounds must be heard
through the trunk; a stethoscope of the Earth.
Yes, that must be it.

Missing Mother Nature

I want to go outside
Where the natural wind blows
To sit beneath a shading maple to
Talk to mother nature.

I’m afraid she won’t be listening;
as I haven’t done in so long.
She may not recognize my voice,
and I probably won’t remember hers.

Bondage

The saddening signs of pleasure
Are always around
To keep us aware of how
We are bound.
To humanity we’re glued
Someday we may move to a
Higher ground of purity when
Each feeling is not around.
Until then,
We’ll continue to have
Our thoughts, our lusts,
Our needs and desires
That keep us bound
To this Earthly ground.

I have peered through the eyes of a wolf.
Dark and strange, unwavering and clear,
Wild yet wise and knowing.
His heart was swift, his spirit strong.
I saw me as I walked along -
I wanted to fulfill my destiny -
As God intended - not what my master invented…
With a chain and a collar
Keeping me…keeping me…
He only comes out once a day to feed me…
I hope this one will free me.
He captured a part of my soul within
His eyes;
I’ll never forget:
The chain that binds him in ownership
Can never bind his spirit.

Bathing

Into the tub go the soldiers of peace.
Into the heart of a girl they reach.
There’s Barbie and Snoopy, just the head without limbs,
Then there’s a doll I suggested was in a collision.
There’s Roger the rabbit with his one lonely carrot
Hoping to ride the brown horse with a crack in…it.
Then there’s the accessories - the things that compete-
In the mind of a child - where things seem to fit.
A pan as a boat, or a plastic bed as a float,
Seem to be the things she plays with the most.
Even with all of the friends she enjoys,
Getting her to bathe still isn’t a joy…
If only she'd include the sopp as a toy.

I Love the Breeze

Storms of passionate embraces
Lead through misty mornings
And open windows revealed
By billowing curtains
Invite sweetness of mothers breath
And a kiss for God himself.