the roses have offered a first round
it’s up to their keepers to prune now
if we’re to see another act
as of today, they’re past their prime
faded, wilted
not becoming
I empathize
as I, after hauling away a bucket of once lovely blossoms
prepare to bloom
again
I wouldn’t ask this of you
to cut off the incandescent glow
of your eyes like embryos
burning with uncanny,
yellow light
you feel like a creaky board
on an old dock
I focus on how I don’t fall through
and forget to reach out
to the handy man
the tension of a locked door
against the draw of my wrist
all of the opening I did or didn’t
a practice in greeting true ruin
with a grin
rain, heavy in clouds,
threatens soaked earth—and my soul—
already too drenched
Antifa, dressed in black, stalked along the fringes,
Seeking cracks in the cohesion of peaceful protest.
Police had learned not to strike when
Batons, firehoses and attack dogs
Fueled even greater dissent.
Fifty-five years ago we followed
Those who came before with sit-downs,
Boycotts, mass meetings, taking to the streets.
Pledges of non-violence were made,
Support groups were formed.
Marching with flowers in hand, we endured
Bullets and tear gas, jeers telling us to leave.
Refusing to wage war would not be tolerated.
Not at first. Not until too much blood was
Spilled, too many lives ruined.
Democracy has always been at stake.
Protection for those who belong as much
As those born to privilege and opportunity
Must exist for all of us to flourish.
The promise of America is ours to keep.
I go to bars
to meet old men.
Not really, but that seems to be the joke
since it happens so damn often.
Can always see it coming, too;
the situational loneliness that drives conversation.
He sits at the bar with a cheap beer
like a Cliff waiting on his Norm
because it used to be his norm
going to bars and talking to anybody who would listen.
Everybody’s on their damn phones all the time,
he gruffly laments. They never say hello.
I didn’t say hello–didn’t actually want to talk–
but I did offer him my menu when I was done with it
and in droughts such as the one he was drifting in,
a little spark like that is enough for conflagrations.
He introduces himself with a handshake
that could pop a tennis ball.
We make comments on the baseball game I came to watch,
swapping stories about our favorite teams.
He’s almost twice my age, curses something fierce,
but believes in treating people right.
You held doors open, said pardon me, said thank you
and you’re welcome. Nobody does that anymore.
Takes pride in his job, too.
I’m self-employed installing real hardwood floors.
I work every fuckin’ day and I don’t get paid
until the project is done.
There’s something in all that I can’t help but respect,
a deeply rooted kindness underneath a weathered exterior.
He’s a near perfect example of what a conservative man should be,
despite a few viewpoints growing more outdated by the minute.
Some can slide, but I do see need for an occasional comment.
He appreciates disagreement that doesn’t devolve to name-calling.
At least one point, he does take to heart, says
difference isn’t so bad as long as everyone can accept difference.
A strong step for a man walking a world so unfamiliar
from the age he lived his life in. An age before phones.
That’s when his begins to ring. The wife, asking
where the hell’re you at?
The conversation ending, he buys me another round
before squeezing the blood out of my hand once more.
He thanks me for allowing him
to step back into a time he thought long-dead
then leaves me with a full glass
and a mind drunk with wonder.
How much better could the world, the nation, be if we tried
to more fully reconnect with our fellow human beings?
world squeezing itself
into bone and ash over
money, land, bloody
minerals from black brown hands.
how many had to die for
white empires to live
good & prosperous. where has
shame gone to rot &
what of guilts ghost hands. do they
sit inside white mouths stuck deep
in the throats of those
who don’t wanna unpack the
ancestral blood spilled
hot on every continent
thier privilege will kills us all
Poetry in Letters: from the Next American Civil War / Vol.1 Pg 2 – Accidental Haikus
They won’t foul the gun barrel
In the beginning
Rubber companies made a
killing, folks like you
——————————————– References——————————————————————————-
– Sunday 2 August 1970
Rubber Baton Rounds Introduced In Northern Ireland
The first rubber bullets were invented by the British Ministry of Defense to be used for riot control purposes in Northern Ireland during “The Troubles”. The British Army began to use ‘rubber bullets’ (baton rounds) for riot control. Between their introduction and their replacement with the ‘plastic bullet’ in 1975, approximately 55,000 rubber bullets were fired by the British Army. The rounds were intended to be fired at the legs of rioters or the ground in front of rioters, where the bullet would bounce, losing some of its velocity, and then hit the intended target. Often, the weapons were fired directly at people at close range, and on many occasions at totally innocent civilians. These “less lethal” weapons were to result in serious injuries, and at least 17 deaths, 8 of the 17 killed were children.
https://www.webworm.co/p/teargasandrubberbullets
David Farrier. “Tear Gas & Rubber Bullets: The National Guard Has Moved In: At 10 am, I set off to meet the National Guard. Things went well, before they didn’t”. WebWorm with David Farrier. Jun 08 2025
https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/002580249703700209
Hiss J, Hellman FN, Kahana T. Rubber and Plastic Ammunition Lethal Injuries: The Israeli Experience. Medicine, Science and the Law. 1997;37(2):139-144. doi:10.1177/002580249703700209
The basset hound at the end of the street
goes by the name of Goose.
I wonder if from his lowly state,
(low in stature, perhaps, but never dignity),
I wonder if he can even see the face of his best friend,
the great dane who lives next door.
“Small and Tall,”
I whisper to myself as I walk by,
or “Goose and Maverick,”
though I know that’s not Tall’s real name,
but neither is Tall,
and I’m not sure I like those narrative connotations.
“‘cause we’re the best of friends, doo doo doo,”
I hum to myself as I jog by,
but I don’t like those narrative connotations either.
I walk by one day to find both the portly hound dog
and his portly human in the yard. I wave.
“These damn dogs are killing the grass!”
My neighbor laughs,
pointing at the well-worn tracks along the fence,
where the grass is not dying.
It is dead and has been for a long while.
Years of eager hellos and theatrical games of chase
have worn themselves into the surface of these two small patches of earth.
Each dog slides into his own groove,
one alongside the other,
like Pyramus and Thisbee,
meeting to kiss at their favorite hole in the wall.
Sniff at their favorite hole in the fence.
“Damn dogs,”
he says again.
He knows as well as I
that the grass is a fair price to pay
for the rarity
of time and love made visible.
precious are drops of garnet collected in the palms of your hand
merciful, your life’s ruby red poured out for a soul like me
sacrifice from the highest King, now my lips and pen must sing
