A Catlettsburg, KY preacher named Paul,
an unconventional dude who stood 7ft. tall
dressed subfusc,
smelled of musk,
but that didn’t stop him from having a ball.

His love decends
Life truly begins
Forgiveness of sin
Changed from within
The greatest gift from the greatest friend
We’ll ever know

Free to accept
Receive or reject
Nuture or neglect
Let go or to let
Discard or collect
The greatest love ever shown

What does animal love 

            (for Pat Lawrence, 1941-2025)

She keeps dropping things—
Scrabble tiles, the endless pills,
the pens & pencils she’s always using
to sketch faces, landscapes,
the occasional naughty cartoon.
Parkinson’s has done its number
on her. A stroke hasn’t helped.
Now everything slips through her fingers
& clatters to the floor, rolling under
the kitchen table, the sofa, the bed.

But art’s too important to give up on, 
too much who she is. Her email handle
is patlartist. Her paintings don’t seem serious
until I realize that their smiling doggies
are all beloved pets long gone, mourned
& deeply missed. A bodacious self-portrait
in the nude on a beach, which makes me
laugh at first, has jagged lines
racing up her back, indicating the pain
she was in at the time, & still is.

One morning on the porch, she tells me
that because she can’t paint anymore,
she’s giving up sketching, too, out of spite.
I’m so angry, she says. If I can’t paint,
I’m done with all of it. I say Don’t be like that,
then leave to get our weekly groceries.
Next morning when I come downstairs,
a bowl of pears has found its way
from a kitchen counter into her sketchbook,
rounded, luscious, sex on a beach.

Writing As Therapy

I realize that not everything I’ve written,

Needs to be shared,

I look back across so many lines,

Where my soul I have bared.

I think of all the feeling,

And emotion that I see,

And remind myself that perhaps that,

Was written just for me.

Writing is my therapy,

The focus I achieve,

When with words upon a written page,

I allow myself to grieve.

Thoughts that have robbed me of sleep,

And haunted me at night,

Seem a bit less frightening,

When viewed in black and white.

As they spill out together,

And line up on the page,

The words seem more orderly,

And less inclined to rage.

Errant flights of fancy,

Twist out for me in rhyme,

I relax and breathe more fully,

After writing for a time.

In silent frustration,

With no words that I can say,

I write my thoughts upon the page,

Then go about my day. 

Empires rise and fall 

marked by ruins, what have I 

to show for us? If I can 

express the consuming joy 

of our rising then maybe 

I could survive the tangible pain 

of our end. We grew together strong, 

beautiful in our independence  — 

a golden age. Who would have thought 

we would die so politely, weakened, 

betrayed by Graduation Day. The end 

of an era. Our time weighs 

heavy, bittersweet. Too close to survive 

acquaintance, dying from the unyielding 

perfection of our history. I hate 

the memory of us trapped 

in photographs, stolen souls 

smiling, mocking. A new age beckons 

and I will go or remain a relic.

A shadow of our love held still

as we walk away

Never make an enemy. Otherwise, God may make them your next-door neighbor in Heaven

You only control this: What you say and do not say. What you do and do not do

Life is about two things—learning and helping

A mirror is a reflection, not a judgment

“Tell the truth with love lit by rage.”   

…Eddie Glaude ( homage to James Baldwin)

we chant we
sing we shout we
march on Lexintron streets to
drum beats we
wear frog costumes and
make speeches
on “No Kings” igniting 
sparks but
this flame’s not
hot enough

it’s time to burn

What topic to choose on this very last day
words all jumbled and floating away
earthly items
what touches my heart
two companions waiting for a moring walk
the heat index unsafe for most
what will this day hold
is still yet to be told
and so as this event comes to another end 
like so many of life challenges
it ebbs and flow like a ocena tide
some days words are easy to find
others drifing on the river
just out of touch, stiii enjoy this challenge
and all it brings
time is taken just for me
a gift of thoughts to share
with others who stepped right in
a comfort in knowing its a safe place to write
all the words that occupy
this crazy screwed up mind
and in the end 
left excited for the next new begining.