The Alpha Bet

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A collection of poems that are thought-provoking, somewhat spiritual, and somewhat fantasy.

Submitted: February 17, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 17, 2017








A manuscript

By JC Carey







A (To, Alpha)


Each idea is well served.
By the intrinsic
Meaning of the word.
With each letter
Understand better
What composes the world.


To provoke thought
She meant,
And induce a sense
Of wonderment.
To explain
The unexplainable,
Make people believe
The unbelievable.


Astra dances on a rainbow curve;
Each will get from life what is observed.
The missing colors, gone unnoticed –
Contain a range of subtle roses.

As the sunshine, through the sky, is sent,
Each flower attracts its own wavelength,
Transmitted from a solar station –
Like seeking like in demonstration.

Light falling through the prismatic air
Technicolor spread upon the fair.
The gray spectra of a dry sand dune –
Is transformed to the desert in bloom.

Like a prism breaks white light to rays,
Mankind is split into many ways,
Which color all the things one will see –
Function is the hue of destiny.

And each is equal to his masked task,
How to find our purpose ages ask.
What is your talent, and what life holds –
What is good for both you, and the whole.

Color is not matter, but our sight,
For everything is made out of light,
Bending to the degree, so decreed –
By the wavelength, frequency, and speed.

There are colors which sparkle like jewels,
Spreading light, and the physical rules,
An aura, with a bright ambience –
Changing along with “field variance”.

Temperature is expressed in color,
Blue is cooler, red getting hotter.
The concentric curling of a flame –
Fire separating what was the same.

There is clarity to the colors,
Purity of being “the other”
The contrast, of appreciation –
The difference is in expression.

In order to see any others,
We have to “step-down” life to colors
Chromosomal tints on a palette –
A spectral imprint of our assets.


Temperament derived by much the same,
The predominant color, aflame.
But, by one shading are we all bound –
Variations of the grounding brown.

We are ribbed by the light of dawn,
The whiteness at the heart of the corn.
The formation, skeletons of force –
Bones of light, polarized, to the core.

Primary red, beware the apple,
At the base of spinal tapping,
The temptation, to use the power –
The make another person cower.

Red can look like black, when in the dark,
The blood stained residue of scarlet.
At sunset, the sailors take warning –
But see glorious, in the morning.

The red, orange glow, generating.
The doppelganger of derangement.
The golden hitting a big impasse –
Bouncing off the arrogance of brass.


Yellow shines the gleaming intellect,
To understand what we can detect,
And focus, on what will come next –
With the photo-electric effect.

Green is the nature of the matter,
The shamrock of illusive data.
The electric eyes scanning the filed –
The brain computing what might be real.

We are walking through green with blue,
Across the rainbow, to continue
Onward slips lavender, to violet –
Violins playing to the violence.

Born with baby blues, steel blue is earned,
The searing heat leaving people burned.
The blue flame flickers toward the end –
As the gray mask of death does descend.

The purple is trying to break through.
With the half-sister to the blue,
Perpetrating a hidden purpose –
Perpetually, on the surface.


“The agenda is so engendered”,
Said the tender to the pretender.
A place to display the principles –
Which, otherwise, would be invisible.

An idea needs a foundation,
A mental block for formulation,
Pressing material into a mold –
With an electromagnetic hold.

Sunlight casts its shadows on the days.
The price we pay for blocking the rays.
Bodies catching waves is how to feel –
And the reaction is “the ordeal”.

Tone is the line between light and sound,
A similar wave pattern is found.
A mood, always moving, and looming –
A kind of solidified music.

The red, orange, yellow, of sunsets,
Time will see how the day undresses,
The blackness enveloping the gold –
Sinking into something we can hold.


Astra stands for fantastic places,
Kaleidoscopes of changing faces,
Colored and powered by emotion –
A butterfly crossing the ocean.

The scenery, and scenario,
Capturing the spirit of rainbows
Soaring, and transforming attitude –
The power of color to change mood.

And there is one for each observer,
Rainbows are not placement, but fervor.
No matter how far aside, traveled –
The arc is seen at the same angle.

Color is a little mystical,
But, like etheric, is physical;
Fabric of interwoven forces –
From Astra, slender threads are coursing.

She walks in beauty, as if rehearsed,
Vibrating at the tempo of the Earth
To only the ones who correspond –
Will the maidens of the bond respond.


The eternal wife of solid mass,
The rainbow colored life of Astra
While adding a few tones of her own –
Feel the emanations of the zone.

The fleeting vibrations, like an arc,
Never seen a rainbow in the dark.
A flying wave, which was, somehow, downed,
A feeling lost, as quickly as found.

Astra’s rainbow has a wide spectrum,
As vast as another dimension,
A dream-like quality, creative –
Over the rainbow of the ages.

Purple light will herald the return
Of everything people have earned.
The end of the rainbow, pot of gold –
Where all our colors go, to unfold.

Stolen dreams, lost memory exists.
Earth is light and sound and consciousness.
So the body’s death does not matter –
For he is going Home, to Astra.


B (brain, body, beta)


The big con began when we were born
With ourselves, made a bond;
This is me, and that is not –
A self-deception, unfought.

A big con takes confidence
In the controlling of events
The happenstance of human lives
A pride which seldom survives.

Then, there is the confidence game,
The trust a predator gains
Over the intended prey –
The weapon is what they say.

Con artists see an inner need
Which they intentionally feed.
The mark, knowingly, or not –
On one level, needs to be conned.

Consciousness is a big con,
Belonging to us, until gone.
“You can take it with you”, when you go –
But must be lost, before known.

The big con is in the not showing,
Being robbed without knowing
If the funds have been diverted –
The devil thrives on uncertain.

Another con is condescending.
Ignorance is descending.
Everyone thinks they know better –
And, in this knowledge, take pleasure.

The con is a repeat offender.
Revisits the same circuits, forever.
Another ploy, to be destroyed –
Perpetual cycles employed.

Confusion is sown in the big con,
Perception altered from beyond,
A simple suggestion, like a seed –
Once planted, this is all they need.


A real big con is control,
To continue on a roll.
Powerless is hard to conceive –
Much is difficult to believe.

The congress is a big con,
Seldom seem to know what’s going on.
Not representing the populace –
While selling out, to the lobbyists.

A big con is the world we make,
Everything about it is fake,
Constructs of associations –
Defined by representations.

The confidence man works off greed,
Those who want more than they need
Ones who want something for nothing –
This dark desire fall, to gullible.

“A sucker is born every day.”
Everyone is duped in a way,
For the right hand does not know –
What the left is doing, to behold.


Satan has taken the long con,
Disbelief, as time marches on,
Infiltrating goodness, with bad –
People unaware they have been had.

The big con is a conundrum
To which the innocent succumb
The crazed maze and labyrinth –
Is never quite what we think.

A small con is the conscience,
Hoping we make right decisions.
The unheard “little voice” –
Is always offering a choice.

A common con is to connive,
The Grand Illusion, over-dramatized.
When the plot is “all said and done” –
It was but a conspiracy, of One.

Mankind is conned and undaunted,
Because this was what we wanted;
To not know the fate of our lives –
So as not to ruin the surprise.


In the beginning was…the bubble
Of life, descending into rubble,
Dividing, to create the creature –
In time, to replicate their features.

Bubble of rock, and how to make bubbles?
To the brain, this surely befuddles.
Unless planets, themselves, are alive –
And, can evolve those who might comply.

Coupled bubbles, forming molecules,
Multitudes reflected in the pools,
Chemicals, compounded by desire –
Man is a reaction, caught on fire!

Circuits of force, plunge into the Earth
Double bubbles, molding us since birth,
Resistance and insisting, bonding –
Equal and opposite responding.

Some bubble in, and some bubble out
Either way, effects are spread about.
The introverts, inwardly vibrate –
The extroverts give the world a shake.

With a balloon, the plot will thicken,
Filled with hot air is bound to quicken.
Molten lava, heated from the center –
Point zero, the spot where we entered.

Human bubbles, bulging eyes will help,
Each a drama, in and of itself.
Billions of windows, and facing out –
To see what all the fuss is about.

Crazy bubbles, and excited state,
The input more than the form can take,
Racing against their own existence –
Resolve themselves to go the distance.

Bubbles of experience is life
Expanding consciousness, filled with light.
A helium base is what they seek –
Fill their lungs and listen to them squeak.

Jumble bubbles, who fought getting caught,
As if a higher current was sought.
Never meant to become part of the soil –
But dynamic powers, in recoil!


Exploding bubbles of big events,
Coming back to haunt us, in a sense
With a message, resurging through time –
Reminding us to look for a sign.

Blowing bubbles brings back memories
Of summer afternoon reveries,
Lost in a world of one simple fact –
We need only perform the next act.

Bubbles of electromagnetism,
Vibrating to a stellar rhythm.
Sparkling, with a sharp intensity –
In a universe which seems empty.

Bubbles of baubles, in a cauldron,
Hot energy pockets, in quantum.
But above, “all the toil, and trouble” –
Is a floating, dreamlike Bubble.

A live astral mass, of emotion,
Like the bubble we call an aura.
By ourselves, but never quite alone –
Living life inside a neutral zone.


A bubble of subtle, in a rise,
New spheres appear, right before the eyes,
Defies gravity, and common sense –
This is how we stay above the tense.

A champagne of fizzle and fate,
Awaits the dense counterpart; a grape,
Squeezed, and bottled up, to build pressure –
And “pops” the bubbly people treasure.

The collapse, and end of the bubble,
He does not leave much of a puddle,
The substance, soon evaporated –
The wrath of a shape dissipated.

Thought bubbles, totally encrypted
With the forms of what we were thinking,
Integrating into fine matter –
Leaving a unique, graphic pattern.

Bubble of the future is the mind
The meaning is what we hope to find
Inside the fragile shell of not knowing –
While the truth is standing there, glowing.


Global bubbles, we all live in one,
But each holds his own piece of the sun,
Light diffused, into a whole, almost –
One in many kings of the Cosmos.

This bubble of rock will, surely, fly,
When the time comes to dream, or die.
A rolling stone, “blowing in the wind” –
“The answer, my friend” is to begin.









C (consciousness)


Each person writes his own comic book,
Action hero or a funny look,
Silly pranks or unrequited love –
Thoughts written in the bubble above.

The comic book hero is not.
Does not know when he has lost.
Does not get distracted –
Is not misdirected, exactly.

Everyone must be the hero
Need not be macho or virile,
But respond without hesitation –
To a desperate situation.

The comic book hero always winds,
Unlike his “real life” twin,
Whose only victory is death –
Knowing he has done his best.


One step ahead of the rest
With an insight he was blessed,
Seeing all the energies involved –
The case is easily solved.

Superman flew through the current,
Yet, has not been a deterrent
Through the ages, brutal has raged –
And few people seem to be outraged.

Caped crusader on a mission,
Will begins with a decision.
Perseverance is not magic –
But not taking “no” for an answer.

The comic book hero is well versed,
His practices are unrehearsed,
As he studies, destiny looms –
In his reference library, of cartoons.

“Against all odds”, and oddly,
The Achilles heel and the gauntlet,
With tragedy at his feet –
He, still, tries to stay upbeat.


The femme fatale lives in wait
For the hero of the close escape
Provocative becomes a bad joke –
To the constantly provoked.

A target in a video game,
The electric bullets well aimed.
Even if succeeding to hide –
What is feared comes from inside.

The unsung heroes, often persecuted,
A movement poorly executed.
The tunes of glory sound insane –
Willing, and unwilling to change.

The comic book hero never cares
Regardless of the danger he dares
To take on whatever they send –
For he knows how the story will end.

In fighting for a just cause,
The hero is stating, “just because”,
Whether he triumphs, or loses –
Evil will be rendered useless.


Each wrong act makes him more right
Ashe dwindles, gaining in might.
When exhausted, almost dead –
The pillars will fall, upon their heads.

Not for death does he strive,
But will not be living a lie.
Like “the will to survive”, though we die –
His judgement is how he tried.

A graphic depiction of man
Trying to foil the evil plan,
When good people have not a clue –
What sinister is willing to do.

Villages are lined with villains,
Fellows who allow the killing.
The hero sees “unfulfilling” – 
At the root of all super villains.

Super heroes have a super power
Which is called “I will not allow it!”
Honing one talent, to a raw edge –
To be wielded with taut knowledge.


The comic book hero is not cracked,
His force field is proactive.
A thick skin closing the gap –
Between him and the Ether he tapped.

The hero can see Etheric,
At the crossroads of near it.
Sensible giving him a sense – 
Of what he is up against.

The hero battles the ghoulish,
Both admirable and foolish,
Trying to draw a conclusion –
When there is no solution.

The comic book hero is a guise,
The good guys and the bad guys.
Both see the other as villainous –
On another level, as silliness.

A caricature of himself.
His character is something else.
An idea of what he could be –
Making his identity.


The hero must be bigger than life,
The trigger of his own device.
And a surprise he cannot devise –
A grand scheme, gleaming in his eyes.

The hero is not a legal tool,
Enforcing the Golden Rule,
Fighting for what he has to say –
“Truth, justice, and the Universal Way.”

Self-esteem and humility,
Futility versus utility.
A man split in half, and a Pixie –
A frontal attack will be tricky.

The hero is defined by evil,
A dark definition of people,
When the meaning is just plain mean –
And the legions are moving unseen.

The trials and the tribulation,
Trepidation exerted daily
He does not hate the enemy –
But loves what life, without them, might be.


Powerless over insidious
Is never equal to viciousness.
Leaving only one recourse –
To stop them, with their own force.

The solitary man confesses
At a slow pace, he progresses.
Battalions taking the hard line –
But he has them surrounded, by time.

The secretive army, in hiding,
Had to show themselves, to fight him
At his feet was their defeat –
For they could no longer retreat.

Regiments rattled, against his attempt,
The bells and whistles of contempt.
Sounding the alarm was his intent –
So, after all, the message is sent.

Not a comic figure, or a joke,
But a champion of lost hope.
Giving a hand to the divine –
With a punch in the punchline.


The cross stands for moving across
The wasteland of what was lost;
The connection to a mental state –
A movement we must “initiate.”

The cross rose as a grand emblem
For the inborn suffering of men.
But began as an iconic clue –
To our energy centers, imbued.

The red cross has power to yield,
And the blue cross has a shield.
The green cross holds to nature – 
While the white cross seems to be waiting.

A cross between human and animal
Where senses meet with sensational.
A product of breeding, and Angels –
A wild genetic entanglement.

Cross your fingers when lying.
Cross your ankles when quieting.
Cross your arms when tongue-tied –
Cross your heart and hope to die.

One tends to get cross on the cross,
Terrorized around the clock
Daily taunted and tortured –
Being sucked into the vortex.

They really nail you in the hands and feet,
Input and output, of energy.
Lance in the side, vestments torn – 
“Holes in his head”, the crown of thorns.

The substance of the cross is life-force,
Both the source and the resource.
Each step threatens an overload – 
“Weight of the world on his shoulders”.

Why one objects to each object,
Abject pain is bouncing off it.
High strung, on the cross, at a loss – 
The Tribulation of the lost.

On the forehead we are hot,
And worse is the sternum notch,
From the left and right, get shot – 
We have just made the sign of the cross.


On the outside, is Satan’s legions.
From the inside, the devil’s beating.
Caught in the crossfire of hell – 
Nothing can be done, but acting well.

Insidious is the insider,
The passenger and the driver.
The power of suggestion is strong –
When thinking it is our own thought.

Physical to metaphysical,
And the physics is quizzical,
Comparable to a parable – 
As the cross becomes unbearable.

When eyes have been opened, to Light,
And visions come, from out of sight.
Crucifixion will follow, near – 
Love seeking love, but finding only fear.

The crucifixion, to the bone.
Each goes through it, but does so, alone,
Seldom knowing what is happening – 
As the will is evaporating.



Saints, artists and reformers,
And ones with emotional trauma,
Those who see what is not learned – 
Or, maybe, it is just their turn.

The crux of beginning and end,
Ostracized by family and friend
Even if telling only some – 
The “blank stare of disbelief” comes.

Desperation makes bad decisions,
Barely being conscious of what’s missing.
Drawn by the uncontrollable – 
Losing the center, of noble.

Intimidation is the hook,
From crossed swords to a cross look,
Becoming a war of the nerves – 
And on both sides the warriors serve.

Any trickery is time wasted.
The alter ego is the invader,
In constant contact with the Empire – 
Our every move is being wired.



Persecuted beyond the pale,
With the pursed lips of the veil,
Blasting the femur, the blasphemer – 
While the means are getting meaner.

The brain is reluctant to act,
When its base is under attack,
Channeling forces to defense – 
The “fight or flight” of the tense.

Knock on Heaven’s door, and it knocks back
With an electronic attack,
A systematic purgation – 
There seems to be no salvation.

The double-cross of enlightenment,
As opposed to entitlement.
To travel beyond comes at a cost – 
Even Jesus died on the cross.

On Easter Sunday is implied
The resurrection, to the other side.
Existence is for the living – 
And life is for the Dead.

D (Descend, descent)


There is always a dagger for the prince,
A weapon with no fingerprints,
Because it is wielded by greed – 
Falsehood lies beyond what we need.

The prince was born for the dagger,
Starting out as a little swagger,
Winding up with a full blown pride –
Which the adversary will not abide.

The prince of darkness needs a dagger,
Our suffering is his matter.
Many will covet his favor – 
Some of them are called “neighbors”.

Yes, always a dagger for the prince.
His advisor never tells, only hints
There is danger lurking all around – 
And not one honest man to be found.

The dagger may seem medieval,
But is, still, in the midst of evil,
The razor’s edge of terrorizing –
On the pretense of chastising.


Yes, always a dagger for the prince,
The black passage will insist
The scepter of benevolence – 
Be violated with violence.

The prince and his “milady”,
Had better live for today,
For the invisible tomorrow – 
Will perceive how time is hollow.

Sometimes a switchblade for the prince,
Not the grip but what is in it,
The ogre, behind the plan – 
Who sends a patsy, to be had.

Conspiracy connives with knives,
Paid assassins, sins despised.
The cloak and dagger of behavior – 
On the dark side of courageous.

Why always a dagger for the prince?
Too many can be convinced
To gang up on the challenged – 
In order to gain an advantage.


“Fie!”  A dagger for the prince.
Aspiration is bewitched.
Both a blessing and a curse – 
If there is any difference.

Beware the stare of desist,
Crossing over any distance.
And need not even be a prince – 
Only princely thoughts a man thinks.

And, also, a dagger for a king,
Who tries to improve something.
As the bankers are digging deep – 
For all the wealth they want to keep.

Yes, always a dagger for the prince,
Life is tenuous, at best,
And strenuous, at least – 
Down in the bowels of the beast.

Oh, a dagger for the prince
Is, sometimes, self-inflicted,
When force is too strong for the system – 
A frantic, spastic, gasping finish.


Harnessing the voltage of the Earth,
With rare elements, in reserve.
Overpowering, and relentless – 
Even the princes are defenseless.

The dagger and the prince do a dance,
Reel around each other in a trance.
Paid the piper with a viper – 
The serpentine current of hyper.

Always a danger for the prince,
Or chronic pain, making him unfit.
Crippling magnetic attacks –
Electric daggers in his back.

Yes, always a dagger for the prince,
A chink in his armor is weakness,
Exposing his flaws, to all – 
Waiting for the mighty to fall.

A fated dagger for the prince,
As it was twisted, he winced,
“Et tu, Brute?”, and Annabelle Lee – 
His cry was heard from the belfry.


The two faces of the prince,
A dual edged existence.
The cause and effect of being raised – 
The blade is cutting both ways.

Brow beaten, even as adorned,
Crowned with the devil’s horns.
A subtle attack, no one believes –
But, the Prince of Peace knows what he sees.

A dagger for the prince and the pauper,
Matters not what is in the coffers.
The dagger is indiscriminate – 
Anyone can be stabbed, in a minute.

Yes, always a dagger for the prince
And anyone with real vision.
The men in black robes, plotting –
View the truth as needing stopping.

The monk is, kind of, a prince,
A sage who has had a glimpse
Of what is kept well hidden – 
In the castle keep of forbidden.


Can the prince become a dagger?
Is he sharp enough for “dark matter”?
Can he cut through the secrecy – 
Both political, and priestly?

Only a few have gone the distance,
To win the keys to the kingdom,
Turning the lock, with open hand – 
This is how it’s done in Wonderland.

A dagger for The Little Prince,
Or exiled, as if a jinx.
A potential, to rally allies – 
Against the corruption and the lies.

Always a dagger for the prince,
Time will make us, all, convinced
The grace we take will rebound – 
And through the halls shall resound!

“The king is dead, long live the king!”
A short reprieve for the prince
Living a life of privilege – 
Until becoming a prisoner.


Yes, always a dagger for the prince,
A scathing review of revision.
The last bastion of everlasting – 
Is a soul impervious to daggers.

Bluebloods, with words not to mince,
Teach the contender not to flinch.
A prince is born, in the cavalcade – 
But, by adversity, a king is made.

Each will make himself obsolete
A mission of completion,
A predetermined extinction – 
How there is a dagger for the Prince.

In the end, a dagger for the prince,
For there is already a King,
One who comprises everything – 
Including, the “Dagger For the Prince”.





The unwritten history of beetles,
Symbiotic relations to people,
From the caveman to the modern – 
We all have to start at the bottom.

The scarab is a beetle of old,
A food taster for the Pharaoh.
If poison, a critical palate –
Will not eat it, so be careful.

Then there is the Palmetto,
A pal we met, near the kettle.
Which had got too hot to handle – 
While keeping an eye on the candle.

Log cabins were blessed with beetles.
Dirt floors made for difficult sweeping.
Cleaning the area of crumbs – 
Eating mold and mildew when done.

The little beetle, still, has the touch,
Without much, reaching out to us.
An appliance, needing fixing – 
Electric plug, not all the way in.

They will lead us to any problem,
Looking back, to make sure we follow.
There is more intelligence there – 
Than a person seems to be aware.

The heated beetle in a tizzy,
His instinct says, “must be busy”.
But his echo becomes hollow – 
Our present world is hard to swallow.

They served us well, these chosen,
Now they are sprayed with poison.
A microcosm of the macrocosm – 
Must be stopped; what we are causing.

Should feel sorry for the beetle,
Watching his wherewithal dwindle.
Man destroying those who try to help – 
Killing them, along with himself.

Everybody is part beetle,
A previous life, and early fetal.
As we rose up through the ranks –
Adapting to each circumstance.


Aiding the Earth’s immune system,
A boon to human living.
We must heed the warning of dead beetles –
Something around us is lethal.

First the frogs, then the bugs, a bee tell,
The future is giving us hell.
Leaving the wrath of a presence – 
Dead beetles and dying descendants.

The beetle is a tough little bugger,
A low maintenance ground hugger
Well organized and attuned – 
When they start dying, we are doomed.

Nature will punish inefficient
Guilty is wasted on innocent.
The watch, the stalk, and the needle – 
All they will get is dead beetles.

A blossom in a shell, walking,
Too bad the beetle is not talking,
Knowing how the universe works –
The electrodynamic quirks.


“To be, or not to be” a beetle,
Sending and receiving signals
Antennas alive with vibrations – 
A complex of communication.

Vibration is linked to their life,
They like to feel everything is right.
Out of balance makes them agitated – 
Disappearing when regulated.

The beet is kind of a beetle,
A vegetable version of needed.
The energies are feeding – 
While the masses are being eaten.

Only one in a thousand born,
Survive to become full grown.
Each mature beetle represents – 
The lives of the others, spent.

Desperately seeking a function,
The dying nature of nothing
A bottleneck in population – 
Is a need for transformation.


The beetle and a bottle is a test;
Will he risk it all for what is left?
Will he take the chance of being trapped – 
For the taste of the sweetened sap?

The beetle gives the runaround.
When something afoot is a foul,
Or when a sound is too unsound – 
For the body to take the pound.

The beetle can fly, with sound,
But, by and large, stays on the ground,
Acting as a barometer –
A geothermic phenomenon.

They fly in the face of danger,
An external, roving ranger.
The wilder the whisk, the greater risk
Would be a mistake not to listen.

Flying in the face of what we know,
Fighting an invisible foe,
The beetle can perceive the beast
Or the electric effects, at least.


They fly in the face of science,
To an etheric contrivance,
An unnatural energy surge – 
Is putting them on high alert.

A uniformed night watchman,
Fearless and undaunted.
Watching over us, while we sleep – 
The guardians of the deep.

A vineyard beset by a pest.
Plant around what beetles like best,
And they will be guarding the garden – 
As protectors of the harvest.

A nobility is obvious,
Could bring out the best in us.
Duty until the last dying breath – 
Oblivious to their own death.

Belly up, with legs flailing,
Offering themselves up, to nature
In communion with his maker – 
A host of the living sacred.


Before dying, limps to say good-by,
Has given it his all, or tried.
A final act of dedication – 
Pointing out what needs attention.

Though may have loved them to death,
Could not introduce them to quests.
A household “sprite”, in secret – 
The being and the spirit.

They are the royalty of bugs,
King of the moss jungle, and rugs.
With the largest jaws of their kingdom – 
They are the lions of the minions.

Lording over the other insects,
Inspects, detects and protects.
A creature of regal descent – 
A piece of the soul, Heaven sent.

A thankless job is heroics.
An activity seen as annoyance.
We can deal with the zeal of evil – 
When as evolved as the beetle.


E (energy)


The puzzle of life
Is a jumble.
We seem to be set up,
To stumble.
Knowledge or faith?
A brain teaser – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

Random or predestined,
Delving into the question.
Is it unknown,
Or a meter – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

Soul may go with the ego,
Or with the alter ego.
Which way she goes
“The shadow knows” – 
Either, or, both, or neither.


The bombardment
Of broken light,
Nervous energy,
Bolt upright.
From out of the woodworks,
Or Ether – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

Regard the etheric aspect,
Both the sign,
And the gasp!
Is this an Angel
Or demon – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

Could be this, could be that,
Likely neither,
And that’s a fact.
Could be a phantom,
Or a real fear – 
Either, or, both, or neither.




Sonic is demonic,
And soulfully harmonic.
Is this balanced,
Or does it teeter – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

Pulled forward and pushed back,
At the same time,
Seems out of whack.
Do we need a task,
Or a breather – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

The dragon drags on
To incomplete,
Electric, mysterious beast.
A mere symbol,
Or a “fire-breather” – 
Either, or, both, or neither.




The Dutch boy or
Little Orphan Annie,
The question questions
The sanity.
Male or female,
In a fever – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

Each side feels justified,
When implied is surmised.
Right or wrong?
The great deceiver – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

Why so overpowered?
To be provoked,
Or to cower?
To be beaten,
Or take the beating – 
Either, or, both, or neither.




Why do they insist
On inflicting pain,
The affliction of sinners,
And the saints.
To fill a need,
Or pure evil – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

Looking for a panacea,
Defensive moves,
Clearly unclear.
Will this deflect
Or increase it – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

The afterlife, who can tell?
Will it be heaven, or hell.
A warm embrace
Or a seething – 
Either, or, both, or neither.



The ole “either, or” is a trap.
Maybe, a third choice
To adapt.
To be a follower,
Or a leader – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

How to approach an opinion
On evolution or religion?
In a rational way,
Or as a believer – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

One cannot decide
Beyond his ken.
Outside the kennel of men
A “ring-pass-not”
Or “too convenient” – 
Either, or, both, or neither.




God is the ground
Of descent.
Where we come from,
And are sent.
A cosmic place,
Or a being – 
Either, or, both, or neither.

What is the purpose
Of life?
To live in darkness,
Or generate light?
Now, I am asking you,
The reader – 
Is it either, or,
Both, or neither?






The seed of an eye, borne on a thought,
Landed in the sea, where it got caught
Down in the waves of a perception –
Which is only seen by reception.

All the eyes arise to the surface,
Gasping for a breath of a purpose.
Without the weight of preconception – 
Were open to a redirection.

A plant on the planet of reasons,
For, and even before, four seasons,
And seven days, for several ways –
Of seeing the various arrays.

Our vision admits a greater light,
For there is trajectory to sight,
One emitted by the consciousness –
And bounced back from the object to us.

A constant “blind spot”, in suspension,
When something attracts our attention
And when registered in the brain –
How magicians misdirect their game.

The trick to optical illusion;
It is an insight convoluted,
When eyes almost see new dimensions,
Peering out from beyond dissension.

Creatures are the “hindsight” of the mind,
In each nook and cranny we will find
A pair of eyes, staring back, in awe –
Reporting to nature what they saw.

The eye of this world is a window
A small glimpse of life from a limbo.
The limitations are apparent – 
For clean thinking is so transparent.

Seduced by fleeting figments of light,
Not only the eyes provide for sight;
We can see, like magic, in our dreams – 
So nothing is really as it seems.

Existence is tied to the senses,
Through a pair of reflective lenses,
More of a projection of the Light – 
Why all, around the globe, are upright.


The brain is so attached to the eyes,
It cannot see through the soft disguise.
And will speak of their substance with pride
For they will live and die, side by side.

Eyes are fine, the brain is playing tricks,
Holding up the gaps with static clicks,
The filling in of the blank spaces – 
An incorrect image displacement.

Could not believe what was seen, before,
Not that we really can, anymore,
A holographic world, by suggestion –
People see what they are expecting.

The third eye is of a subtle mind,
Behind each thought and deed is aligned
The presence of another, being – 
An angle we were not, quite, seeing.

Do beware of the “all seeing eye”,
A “watching” used to invade our lives.
Not only spying, buy controlling –
The tormented look, or eyes rolling.


A black sun, inside a golden sky,
The darkness of the all seeing eye,
Negative rays, and electric strays – 
Directed electrons on the way.

The “evil eye” of the dark ages,
A curse on artists and sages,
The two poles, connected by a snake – 
A double take on what is at stake.

There is an all seeing, neutral eye,
Not the one which can be seen, on signs,
Not the one looking over your shoulder – 
But the one that is never closing.

Unfocused, we can see through the matter,
Unconfused by misleading data,
The rational thought, being bypassed – 
Electromagnetic fields relaxed.

What catches our attention is a sign,
Something outside of our own design,
A signal from the soul, look, and think – 
“What could be the meaning of this?”


How we see things, makes optimistic,
A mystic dynamic system,
By taking us where fear never would – 
And hoping for what doubt never could.

Prone to a reconfiguration,
From atoms to associations.
The patterns rearranged, when concerned –
Because life changes when observed.

The eye of the world is not to mind,
The only escape people can find.
Unaffected by the electric – 
Which agitates our states to hectic.

The eye of the world is still the mind,
Universal Consciousness, sublime,
Subliminal perception, divined – 
When seeing needs to be reminded.

The seed of an “I”, born on a thought,
Landed in the “see”, where it got caught.
All that has been accomplished by Man –
Is the Idea, with which he began.

F (frequency)


The first step in faith is confidence;
Have not gone crazy, but encountered
Something satanic, and insane –
No one believes what cannot be explained.

The second step is falling apart,
Disintegration, for a new start.
Darkness will collapse into dawn – 
As daytime is being reborn.

The third step; stagger from the dole,
As faith is turning to the soul,
“Why has thou forsaken”, and taken – 
All the progress we were making?

The fourth step is in the arms of Light,
Faith is going to sleep at night,
Bedlam of the bedroom is will lost
Not caring if you wake up or not.


Faith is resignation, as well,
Down in the sixth circle of hell,
Powerless against the currents – 
Spiraling down self-assurance.

Part of faith is perseverance
Through the severe disturbance,
Believing even losing is winning –
 The right to make our own decision.

Believing in someone, is a faith,
Trust is a lifting, shifting shape,
Materializing in change – 
When the needs exceed the range.

If not before, then one will after,
Believe in a matter of factors.
But, there is no denying the writhing – 
In the throes of living and dying.

Faith in the nature of things,
A reality to make us cringe,
The vicious circle of the food chain – 
Permeating to emotional strain.


One step leads to duality,
Then on, to plurality,
Becoming quite schizophrenic – 
The extent is comprehensive.

True knowledge is hidden by false rules,
In the cliques of the mystery schools.
To access truth, one must enfold –
 And listen well, to the untold.

The brain presents inconceivable,
As totally unbelievable.
Why faith must step in, to find – 
The concealed pathways, to the mind.

With a fay (a fairy), and some faith,
One might walk alongside the waif.
They are not, really, invisible –
But we cannot see them.  Quizzical!

Seeing is not believing, but knowing
Everywhere energy is flowing,
And some is streaming straight at us – 
Bouncing off nerve and consciousness.


Violence is the death of hope.
Agitation cannot cope.
Peace is only found in release – 
The sanctuary of relief.

Persecuted, for no apparent reason,
Life seems to have lost its meaning,
When faith is but another stone hurled – 
There is no love in this world.

An infidel, to its own faith,
Religion has become an escape
From the following of one’s own heart – 
A tragic end, to a magical start.

Blind faith, in a way, obscures fears,
“Speak of the devil and he appears”,
Belief is not a thing received – 
Because we have to make believe.

The annihilation of no,
And in denial of saying so,
“The end of days”, life is but endured – 
With faith, taken at her word.


The only leap of faith expected
Is belief in bio-electric,
And the various powers connected – 
To the Nexus of the respected.

Respect is taking another look,
Did life ever give less than it took?
Could we, even, imagine – 
A universe so fantastic!

The last step will, surely, transcend,
Knowing this physical life will end.
The infernal will mock our faith, of course – 
And follows up, by unleashing “The Force”.








Earth is a great electromagnet,
A North and South Pole reenactment.
Turning, becomes a generator – 
We all get shocked, sooner or later.

Currents up the spine, and through the brain,
The beating of the heart in the twain.
We have electrical systems – 
A product of fusion and fission.

Separated rays, coursing energy,
Beaming down, incessantly,
Feeding our electric circuits – 
Shaking around, always working.

Adam and Eve made the mistake
Of using the power of the snake,
Reducing mankind to a beast – 
But got to eat an apple, at least.

All things have an energy component,
Magnetized for employment.
Not the emotional attachment – 
But the binding force of matter.

When the force has latched on,
Time locked into the gray pre-dawn,
Which has fast faded into dusk – 
Another day, decayed to dust.

The force is seeking acceptance,
Frequency needing connection.
Around any barriers erected – 
Over and over, resurrected.

Evil is the infernal force,
A deviant part of the source.
Must be channeled and insulated – 
And systematically regulated.

The curses, spells, and black magic
Are explained by electrodynamics,
Generated by the planet – 
And diverted by the satanic.

The basis of a voodoo attack;
Positive materials attract
Negative ions from the air – 
And any forces directed there.


There are some rare earth elements,
And substances which are relevant,
The composites of geology – 
A natural technology.

A positron intermediary,
Relaying to the body’s frequencies.
Even into the brain, they are fed – 
Why they say, “he has rocks in his head!”

How the brain reacts to the unknown;
With an incomprehensible tone.
What is feared is the forceful tactics – 
And our own violent reactions.

Impairs cognition, but not sentience,
And will require all of your patience,
And, a certain amount of disgrace – 
Distraught people, crying for grace.

Like with gravity, invisible,
Interaction is inevitable,
Trying to rise above the lower – 
Weight of the world on our shoulders.


Low frequencies keep us ungrounded
With the impact, and the pounding.
One would need a magic carpet – 
If wanting to go any farther.

The yellow brick road of sanction,
Is the route of constant distraction.
The witches of negativity – 
Block the way to the Emerald City.

Moving forward finds many hurtles,
The force tends to propagate circles,
Resistance meeting resistance – 
Reap the whirlwind of persistence.

A science of conjecture,
Trajectory and textures.
High frequencies cutting through fetters – 
How the devil loves sharp edges.

From brass tacks, to needles and pins,
Against the force, nobody wins.
The utter futility haunts – 
A strong defensive response.


An exercise in futility
The flexing of our abilities.
All the tasking, and close attention – 
Is energy used against us.

Moving along conductive paths,
No demon coming through the bath.
But electromagnetic vibrations – 
Embodied in the abrasive.

The first point of contact is the nose,
Hot wired to the limbic hold.
Wrenching anxiety, or seizure – 
Even switching off the breathing.

Acrobats learn to use the force,
And artists draw from it, in course.
“The Thinker” takes it on the chin – 
An “abra cudabra” to magicians.

We must learn to think, outside the box,
But not out of your mind, with the knocks.
The force crunches and punches – 
Bringing on theories, and hunches.


Wild hypotheses, with few facts,
Observing how the force enacts.
May try to quantify, but won’t – 
“If you think you know, you don’t.”

Sacred naked, beware of zippers,
The phantom force of skin rippers.
Wear cotton garments, with no static –
How one dresses, really matters.

The wireless current, concurrent
With radio frequencies, disturbing.
The short wave of the deranged – 
Outside our auditory range.

Like a dog whistle, we cannot hear,
Vibrating on the inner ear,
Instilling an off balance – 
Of capacities and talents.

Torment is silent, torture screams
By involuntary means,
Induced frenetic spasms – 
As the forces are amassing.


Locked inside a video game,
At the live target, they are aimed,
Electric bullets, from the machine – 
And from inside, ricocheting.

The cause of this mysterious action
Is the simple law of attraction.
Satan holds knowledge, beyond belief – 
For it renders the force obsolete.









G (ground)


Let the games begin, each with a name,
In them, we find reasons to explain
The playful way in which time is doled – 
Never knowing how it will unfold.

The Olympics, the grand games, of old,
But, still, are about silver and gold,
The status, who is better than who – 
When all are improved before they’re through.

Monopoly is a flat board game.
Keeps us busy, but always the same;
Playing dice with life, then cashing in – 
But, at the end, there is nothing to win.

Now, if we land on a police square,
Go to jail, and go directly there.
The sentence is for the blue collars – 
Don’t pass go, no two hundred dollars.

Most card games are played with the same deck,
Strategies, about what we expect.
Pinochle only limits choices –
And the Tarot makes them hear voices.

Poker says the gamble is enough,
Losers become winners with a bluff,
And need not expose the hand they hold – 
As long as the other people fold.

The “luck of the draw” is in the cards,
For players only choose their discards,
Calculated, when it should be felt – 
When they do not know what will be dealt.

One not to play too long; Tic, Tac, Toe,
Or then, a tick will attack a toe.
Those who win, and have solved the riddle – 
Are the ones who started in the middle.

War is a game we can do without,
Might have to shift some pieces about,
Make global analysis exact – 
And oust the middlemen, in fact.


Trivial pursuits will come attached,
When all of the questions have been asked
And have not, yet, drawn a conclusion – 
Because they were facts which are useless.

Even a con game is based on truth,
Of what does not apply, they show proof.
The end appears as means disappear – 
But it seems to make sense, what we hear.

When the hand is quicker than the eye,
We have been distracted, by a ply.
This is the old shell game, in action – 
Stealing our chance at satisfaction.

There is a night game we have daily,
A dream is played somber or gaily.
The start is the same as the finish – 
Except there are a few hours missing.

This is a game of “hide and go seek”,
The hidden, and the secrets they keep.
A search will solve the mystery kept – 
And finds the same being who had left.


Checkers on a very checkered plane,
Jump over anyone in the way.
Say, “King me”, if they are successful – 
But, victory is mere conjecture.

Pawns are falling, as fast as they came,
The game has changed, but base is the same,
Tactics to take down the other guy – 
The captured figure pushed to the side.

Chess seems like a level playing field,
But has angles only minds can yield,
Scanning the results in timeless moves –
What cannot be checked, the checkmate proves.

Some seem to be about keeping score,
A pocket full of points, nothing more,
But an air of a final tally – 
Around which, contenders rally.

A virtual reality game,
Where outrageous can replace the tame,
When a, mere, pastime seems important – 
But in the “scheme of things” is nonsense. 


A new game in town, by satellite,
Abnormal wave functions are a blight.
And this is serious, no more games – 
When it comes to the balance of the rains.

We, now, live in the world which was made,
An uncontrolled, electronic game.
Electric playground of the senses – 
Everyone succumbs to the tension.

Life feeding off itself is the game,
For no other substance can sustain
The patterns of our energy fields – 
A certain frequency to our meals.

There is never a real opponent,
A misunderstanding condones it.
We always play ourselves, in choosing – 
Why the ending is so confusing.

The endgame is what we were born for,
And played out, just as it was before.
An endeavor, not to end ever – 
To be endowed with something better.


People are left with the game of choice,
On which platform, will we find our voice.
The salvation of the human race – 
Depends on the games chosen to play.

Games have ended, no one left to play.
The last player has one thing to say,
“Never a winner or loser be” – 
And a person may live happily.

A maze with no exit, but a way in,
A game set up so no one can win.
And they will keep playing us for fools – 
Until we stop, and change all the rules!







There’s a gulf between me and the sea,
It is one we call “humanity”,
Which naturally breeds inhumane – 
Until spanning the unsettled pain.

There’s a gulf between me and the sea,
Which is also called “veracity”,
A viciousness, off the charts –
Dolphins eaten by the sharks.

There is such fishing on the pier,
Fishing for what is drawing near,
Fishing for efficient baiting –
Fishing for information.

There is a gulf between me and the sea,
Which is stocked with anxiety,
In a world of “eat or be eaten” – 
Being born is already beaten.

Unkind nature, surrounding the gulf,
Swamps infested with live “gulps”.
Alligator tears, and black snakes – 
Stuck, with little chance to escape.

Old gets older, young stays young.
The forgotten ways, of the gulf
The essence of tides and days – 
Is the hidden source, of the age.

Like a man who had lost something,
Looking for a mystic nothing,
As if he almost remembered – 
How memory had been rendered.

There’s a gulf between me and the gone,
A geo-magnetic phenomenon,
As the ground for an energy maze – 
A foundation of charges and waves.

There’s a gulf between me and the sea,
Slipping in and out, ceaselessly
Currents streaming through the deep – 
Are tied to the tide of repeat.

There is a gulf between you and me,
A force field, surrounding each,
Engulfed in a mood, of symmetry –
And maintained ethereally.


The gulf is what is seem to be,
An atrium to the open sea,
An entrance to something grander – 
A gateway to expansive.

There’s a gulf between me and the sea,
Half active, and, half tranquility,
What keeps the waters at bay – 
Is how the opposites are arrayed.

A blackness lurks over the gulf,
Sensitive people are repulsed
By the waste products clouding judgement – 
And bullies dunking our head under.

A black mass lurks under the gulf,
Spreading out and heading south.
A rig between the things we know – 
And what is going on below.

The gulf is closing in on man,
People do not seem to understand
We are but a part of nature – 
Not its master, or creator.


We are married to the water
But this bond is getting toxic,
“In sickness and in health”, desperately – 
“Until death do us part”, helplessly.

The gulf borders the Everglades,
In a perpetual exchange,
Power gliding, back and forth – 
The patterns guiding the course.

Electric flowing runs the gulf,
Sweeping in, and sweeping out,
A direct effect, but diffused –
By the various channels used.

Circulation depends on deep ends,
Sinking down, and rising up again.
Producing a choppy movement – 
Why a sailor must be prudent.

Ever changing are her eyes.
Blue sunlight, green brooding skies,
Black looming, yellow storm –
We have, certainly, been forewarned.


A storm is brewing on the gulf,
Should he stay in, or go out?
The geezer becomes a gazer – 
Scanning the scope, as he wavers.

Looking out, as if a sentry,
“See?” The void is never empty.
The gulf is the one staring –
And, almost, without caring.

There is a gulf between me and the sea,
And it is called “what life might be”.
A paradise here on Earth –
A garden of Eden, in rebirth.

The mind is moving out of bounds,
As thought becomes louder than sounds,
Voices fading into the distance –
To the silence of someone missing.

The gulf hears its own kind of sound,
The soundings of sentience abound.
Some can hear them calling, in between – 
“The devil and the deep blue sea”.


We can see forever, on the gulf,
The lost horizon of doubt,
Beginning right where it ends –
The limits of our perception.

Some will see the gulf as a cruise,
For those who have paid their dues,
Passing through the depths of sorrow – 
There is no guaranteed tomorrow.

Time passes away on the gulf,
Becoming ageless, on the couch,
Or fresh again, on the beach – 
Which is nearby, but out of reach.

Out, through the mouth of the gulf,
Hell blows hard, to turn us about
But, with the astral winds to our back – 
There will be no turning back.

A salty medium, to conduct,
Bleeding into the mangrove pulp.
Each will draw his own conclusion – 
Dissolving into the solution.

H (hover)


The “hippie” is a state of mind,
Multi-leveled, and many kinds,
With one unifying grace – 
To make the world a better place.

When young, he had “potential”,
Upwardly mobile, residential.
Age may have gained credentials,
But found ageless held the essential.

The hippie used to say “Out of sight!”
The subconscious knew he was right;
The most important is least seen – 
Heaven, hell, and the hippie dream.

Were called “freaks”; knew frequency
Ruled the airwaves, and the sea.
“On his wavelength” was consideration – 
And atomic oscillation.


Sympathetic vibrations,
Not the “bad vibes” of agitation.
An electric matrix, in action – 
Sound, the motivating factor.

Put his sneakers in overdrive,
When not walking, hitching a ride,
Leaving a small carbon footprint – 
To listen, “groovy” records of music.

“Mr. Natural” took long steps,
Knowing he was not there – yet,
A mental awakening – 
To the fact that the facts are vacant.

He dreamed of an integrated place,
No opulence and little waste.
We would be very lucky, indeed –
To be living in the hippie dream.

Believed in spiritual living,
No fundamental religion.
Lapsed Catholics, unorthodox Jews – 
Saw how the holy was abused.


“Holy Smokes!”, prays the hippie,
His altar was in the chimney.
His church; the whole planet – 
The Golden Rule; his canon.

A “sit-in”, on a powder keg,
His resistance is “counter to”.
Spark of an activist, “up against” – 
The fuse of confusions complacence.

He had it, at his fingertips,
The hippie says, “What a trip!”
Never doubting the reality – 
Of living beyond normality.

Acid trip, to another land,
Which is right here, in our stance.
A gleaming glimpse of an inner space –
The real with an ethereal base.

Life is a mass hallucination,
Seeing as solid, what is sensation,
Energy, masquerading as matter – 
From a psychedelic strata.


He lived for the moment, how time is made.
But wore sunglasses to speculate.
Eyes face forward for a reason – 
This is where the future is leading.

Eat some heat, drink from “cool”,
A thermodynamic fool,
Feeding off the sunshine voltage –
In a process of osmosis.

Some found the alpha state, inside,
One may say they were “pixified”,
Open to a new perspective – 
Relaxed, but heightened attention.

Smoke some dope and what he wrote,
The hippie was a poet of hope,
The one thing left in Pandora’s Box –
When all the rest have been lost.

Hoping to get lucky seldom works,
Using the same energy, in quirks.
One must maximize his chances –
By logical interactions.


The hippie and Zippy were crafty,
From bird houses, to salt water taffy.
To stretch the point, adding color –
A rainbow dream of wonder.

Hippies dreamed of entrepreneurship,
Calling it a cottage industry.
Whether making sandals or candles – 
Were producing something of value.

Economics are based on production
Recession, when in reduction
Imbalanced import and export –
Leads to the collapse of support.

The hippie knew what he was after,
Had no use for the “nickel-bagger”.
Throwing himself “into it” – 
Dropping out, bringing out his spirit.

Pushing through the Clean Water Acts,
Bird sanctuaries in the wetlands.
Making ecology a directive –
And legislation more effective.


Putting an end to a war, so insipid,
But, still, have not learned from the hippies
To make an enemy an ally – 
Find out, and procure what gets him high.

The hippie toted recycling,
And sustainable lumbering.
Not a “tree-hugger” to be teased –
But for the very air we breathe.

Though the question still remains;
Can we be a neutral source of change.
Or must there be formed a third force –
To put the planet back on course.

Serenity and serendipity,
Two of the precepts of the hippie.
The happenstance, and a happening – 
Happiness in any circumstance.

The first bliss of intoxication,
The birth of a greater awareness
An epiphany, came and passed –
Died trying, to get the feeling back.


Jimi, Janis, Jim, sing for us
Once you raised our consciousness,
Now, we need your voice, even more – 
They debased the movement, to the core.

The state of a culture exhibits
How complexity reaches its limits,
A cascading failure of systems –
When knowledge surpasses wisdom.

The hippie thought himself a sage,
A conviction, deepened with age.
He was old enough to know better –
But young enough not to care.

The flower child, touched space softly,
With the perennial philosophy
The hippie dream will bloom, once again – 
When mankind, finally finds “human”.





A hobo is not born, but hewn,
From the environment which loomed.
Shaped by an early beginning – 
In a manner, which would not fit in.

Looking at the lives around him,
Success and failure were unfounded.
The truth was clear, to the hobo –
“Chasing silver, won’t find any gold”.

A house is the hobo’s downfall,
The closing in comes from the wall,
Force follows him, from room to room – 
The only recourse is his doom.

Could no longer endure the before,
For time was beating down his door.
A round peg in a square hole – 
Could not be squeezed in anymore.

A nomad so he would not get mad
Or sink into the depths of being bad.
From the valley of the constant sound – 
To the quiet of higher ground.

The hobo left behind his name,
In the long run they are the same,
On a long walk along limbo – 
Trying to keep a life simple.

The hobo, he knows a good bridge,
One with a good gap in the ridge,
A place to shelter from the storm –
A niche, where he can keep warm.

His economics was basic,
For each given, he would be taking.
Kept a ledger, on account of – 
Had to learn what to do without.

The hobo was grateful for not much,
Entered a store to buy a spud.
What people thought was not his pathos – 
“A man as sad as one potato”.

A canceled construction site,
The hobo can stay put, for a while,
A hijacked electric cable – 
Underground as long as he is able.


Thoughts rumble through, like a train,
Shaking up the man-made terrain
Anything which comes attached – 
Back following the railroad track.

A journey through time and space,
The hobo with his weathered face,
Never adjusting to new modes – 
Stays with rails he already knows.

Did not make it in Manhattan,
And was hampered in the Hamptons.
Guess the field had been dampened – 
By the raining down of what happens.

His muttering seldom bothers him,
Depends what the situation is,
At times, becoming quite inspired – 
Impressing himself, with his fire.

The company he keeps is bound
For no one else is ever around
Chuckling at what is only heard – 
By the wandering mind of absurd.


Walks on is head and thinks on his feet,
Motivated by a rhythmic beat.
There is some toe tapping, and smiles – 
In the harmony of a few miles.

A street musician gets a boon,
His good fortune is for a tune,
Singing for his supper, people hear – 
How they play it by ear, far and near.

A wandering minstrel, in his mind.
A song he has long defined.
And was really, music to his ears – 
The beating of the heart he hears.

Vagabond dreams, turning nightmarish,
Driven from the village and parish
The footloose (aghast!) an outcast –
For walkabout is a trespass.

The hobo, he pleaded “nolo”,
At the mercy of going solo,
Not innocent, or guilty – 
Not a clean record, but not filthy.


What brings on the lunacy;,
Punishment with impunity,
Not allowing the natural – 
To express itself, in actual.

When asked if he was a vagrant,
Replied, “Every answer is maybe”.
When questioned if he was insane –
Retorted, “It is public domain”.

He lives on the fringes, between
The unforgiving and the extreme.
Not a very gracious place to be – 
Where it’s “dog eat dog”, and meat eat meat.

Nature tries to hide its vicious teeth.
With flowers, foliage and trees,
Wild, camouflaged as noble – 
Now we’re on the trail of the hobo.

A chain of ovens is set up.
Along abandoned railway cars 
A provision, for a balanced meal – 
On the pilgrimage through “The Ordeal”.


“Where the sidewalk ends” he starts
His long and arduous march,
The stamina hills at his legs – 
Dragging his youth to the crest.

The kid saw the hobo as a bum,
A dysfunction on the run.
But what the boy could not know –
This man was himself, getting old.

He leaves with the dawning of the day,
A step closer to farther away
The horizon, ever retreating – 
Until the Rapture of the meeting.

His composure kept him together.
Until “at the end of his tether”
Where there was nothing left, they could find.
When he gave them a piece of his mind.

A lonely grave, for the hobo,
Only a woman and a girl showed.
The ones waiting, down the road –
Died as he had lived, heading home.

I (I)


I am Jerusalem,
A hyper galactic burst,
In the mode of an abode – 
An interactive power load.

I am Jerusalem,
The soul of existence,
The birthplace of the sacred – 
From where we all were taken.

I am Jerusalem,
A small replica of Earth.
A pole of positive and negative – 
With electromagnetic extensions.

I am Lemurian, and Atlanteon,
And a wave of African, landing.
Combining into a union – 
A place which is called Jerusalem.


I am Jerusalem,
Accosted by assailants,
Violated by crusaders –
A slated victim of invaders.

I am Jerusalem’s face,
Watching churches being debased,
Holy words being deleted – 
Losing their power and meaning.

I am an artichoke,
It is on art I choke,
Eyes bulging, and breath hollow – 
For the truth is hard to swallow.

I am a bagel, and a falafel,
Both have qualities desirable,
And both have crossed the line – 
Of a rigid, ethnic confine.

Driven from the place he was born,
To a wasteland, garments torn.
From paradise, to the burning sands – 
Out of which rose – The Jerusalem Jab.


I am the Jerusalem Jab,
An “uppercut” at the gap
Between minaret and steeple – 
Bringing a code to the people.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
Against both sides of attack.
Every crime has a reason – 
This is no excuse for the bleeding.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
Spear of Destiny in my hand,
A pacifist, insisting – 
Conflict is resolved by listening.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
A critic of the Catholics,
Protestants, Moslems and Jews –
Who know, or know not, what they do.

There is no difference in rendition
Between Muslim and Presbyterian,
Both pose an imposition – 
On individual decision.


I am the Jerusalem Jab,
Blessed with the “gift of gab”,
Which always comes with a curse – 
Said is said, for better or worse.

I say this to the Muslim clans,
“We are all sons of Abraham”,
“The proverbial Divine Wind” – 
“Is to destroy the infidel within”.

And the Christians, I say, “Holy rollers!”
“The tribulation is over!”
“The process is too high a cost” – 
“And too many lives have been lost”.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
Taking back the Lamb from the sham,
Retrieving the soul from the devil – 
Arising to a higher level.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
Little Orphan Annie, and Punjab.
A series of eerie adventures – 
With Daddy Warbucks in question.


I am the Jerusalem Jab,
Here to set the scales in balance.
An inefficient give and take – 
Down in Jerusalem, of late.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
And am here to make a stand!
Opposing the mass manipulation –
The trials and the Tribulation.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
With a right cross, to clear the path.
The middle has nowhere to hide – 
In a medium of electrified.

The terror is right at our front door,
Excruciating torture,
The voltage of the “black hand” – 
Too hot for a body to withstand.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
And have arrived, not to make demands,
But to ask, “What is the problem?” – 
Which we need to be solving.


When no longer filling a function,
Religion need to be restructured.
Time moving on, with solutions –
The Jerusalem Resolution.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
Rode in on a camel, took a cab.
A cabaret approach to travel –
The bravo performance, embattled.

The tormented, down on their knees,
Silenced by secret societies.
Not that I am judging “good or bad” –
But, after all, I am – The Jerusalem Jab.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
A stake in the heart of the “vamps”,
A constant, needling annoyance –
A spearhead into avoidance.

I am the Jerusalem Jab.
All denominations have been had,
Led by fanatical packs – 
I have been ordained to bless them back.


 I am the Jerusalem Jab,
With either, or both my hands.
To “put ‘em up”, or throw down the glove –
I’m ambidextrous, when it comes to love.

“I think, therefore I am” not sure
Why we need to agree, anymore.
I bring the end of violence – 
With the graven image, of dying men.

I am the Jerusalem Jab,
Only job I have ever had;
To bring clarity to obscured – 
“All will be revealed”, in Jerusalem.

I am Jerusalem,
Both the rock and the Dome,
A rational way of proceeding – 
To see reason, more clearly.

I am Jerusalem,
A space for prophets, and Sufis,
Life speaking, through the sages – 
The Ancient Wisdom of the ages.


I am Jerusalem,
The home of Mary Magdalene,
And Mary, the Holy Mother – 
Where Jesus turned the tables, on power.

I am Jerusalem,
The correspondence of moments,
The aura of existence – 
Beginning and ending in Jerusalem.

I am Jerusalem,
The wailing wall of optimism,
Crying out!  For evil to flee –
Down the Jordan River to the Dead Sea.







Ink spots, follow dots
Anywhere you choose,
Make one, take one
Anyway we lose.
When not, got hot,
Then things start to blur – 
Cannot focus on the word.

Ink spots, set a pattern,
Or let them splatter.
Takes shape or wild escape
Or in widened pools.
Some fly, fall from  high,
Leaving an etching
Of the prevalent direction.

Ink spots, link lots
Everywhere to look,
Clearly light, out of sight,
So misunderstood.
Another dot, another thought
So we start to think
Periods are written
In invisible ink.

J (I am)


Jesse James rode upon the scene,
The Civil War made people mean,
Becoming what they fought against – 
Neither side knowing what it meant.

A victim of Eminent Domain,
A farmer who became outraged.
When his house was seized and set afire –
With his Mother still trapped inside!

Fought for the unwritten code;
The sanctity of the home.
The rights of man, above the state – 
Being bought and sold, of late.

Self-serving commerce, buys Congress,
Today, we call them “lobbyists”.
“The more we rode, the more he knowed” – 
Something was going to explode.

Jesse did not see what he was,
It was Frank who understood the cause,
To separate business from government – 
A bought democracy of obvious.

“A police state” is what he warned,
“Even freedom is against the law.”
Alone in the land of liberty – 
The James Gang rode, to be free.

Why we remember Jesse James,
Because the solutions never came,
Still waiting, for Jesse to gallop in – 
To rob the darkness of its sins.

How a good person becomes lawless;
Society and evil are partners.
Too many laws is too much structure – 
Everyone is guilty, of something.

A rebel who never surrendered,
A witness to violence, unended.
The American way, to this day – 
Why he could find no other way.

He was formed out of desperation,
A desperado, in the making,
A mania, brought on by paradox – 
Desire cannot get what it wants.

Frank was his rational side,
A sidekick who knew how to hide,
Letting Jesse call all the shots – 
Always gave better than he got.

Why we remember Jesse James,
Why not the senator, with his cane,
Or the millionaire, on the hill – 
All Jesse ever had was his will.

Forgotten are the “good citizens”,
The prim and proper of pilgrims.
But still are remembered the names –
Of the outlaws; Jesus, and Jesse James.

A life of striding and riding,
His disciples had a way of dying,
No one left to repeat his words – 
Maybe it is time he was heard.

Why we remember Jesse James,
The sound of hoof beats, across the plains,
The narrow escape, through a canyon – 
Drinking all night to the Fandango.

Jesse used the art of disguise
Each description compromised
Changing his looks into time – 
An unnoticed phantom, riding high.

The long riders needed some distance,
For all could be halted, in an instant.
The winds of change blew to the west – 
Be a hero or villain, or the rest.

Why we remember Jesse James
A man who would not play the game,
People terrorized in their own home – 
Was a routine, he could not condone.

Jesse played it close to the vest,
What is at hand is the threat
An insidious system, dug in deep –
The underbelly taking the heat.

Both the predator and the prey,
No gang can ever make him safe.
Privacy being an illusion – 
And security a delusion.

Jesse had a gang of his own,
The Apocalyptic Horsemen;
Ego, alter ego, hell bent for leather – 
Reason and sentience, forever.

“Nowadays” we have “the Bond”,
A pledge of allegiance, palmed.
But, the old ways have stayed the same – 
The “left handed gun” of Jesse James.

Not known as “the left handed gun”,
But shot over his shoulder, on the run.
Not ever shooting for a kill – 
But to discourage “the hounds of hell”.


Any amnesty was not allowed
For speaking the truth, aloud.
There would be no sanctuary – 
Be aware and beware, carefully.

The people protected Jesse James,
As time has preserved his name,
Not admiring violent attack – 
But like to see someone fight back.

He parted his hair with a bullet,
Grazing through life, to his fullest,
Never being afraid of dying – 
But not living, while he was alive.

Why we remember Jesse James,
The most wanted man of his age,
Murder and robbery his sins – 
But not half as bad as the real villains.

Why we remember Jesse James,
He fought the dragon of the trains.
First, they came from here, then from there – 
Until spewing filth everywhere.


Why we remember Jesse James,
For everybody can feel his pain,
Pushed aside by life, when useless – 
Left to fend for himself, against ruthless.

Why do we remember Jesse James,
What is this thing, being called “fame”?
Is it an opening in the fabric – 
Fulfilled by someone who takes action?

Why we remember Jesse James
The minstrels sand of how he gained 
His reputation, like Robin Hood – 
“None so bad as those who do good”.

Jesse was not any buckaroo,
Would not be roped in by “the crew”.
Did not want to be part of a pack – 
He stood out because he had the knack.

Jesse lived a life on the lam,
Woe to the man who would say “I am”,
Not running from but to – destiny – 
As he was riding into history.


Jesse was tormented to the core,
Rattlesnakes placed at his front door,
Or “sharpies”, through the window “pain” – 
Always on guard, drives a man insane.

They come swooping in, blasting,
Those sidewinding, black hatted bastards.
They want their word to be our bond – 
“Fie to you!” And the horse you rode in on!

Why we remember Jesse James;
For his mission, still remains,
To rob priorities from the past – 
And make a getaway, really fast!

Why we remember Jesse James,
He is robbing another train,
A train of thought, in subjugation – 
Locked in the vault of deprivation.

Why we remember Jesse James,
A need for more heroes, today.
With the villains, still in hot pursuit – 
No posses and no cowboy suits.


His personal war against evil,
Erupted into an upheaval.
Fought the beast till the day he died –
Staying east of the Great Divide.

We must lay his body to rest,
By outlawing the consequence
Of power running unrestrained – 
As The James Gang rides again.










Genie in the bottle,
And Jack in the box,
With a crank,
And a “tick-tock”
X-factor locked,
One in the box,
And one who watches.
Then when cocked
Will flip his  lid,
And go “pop”.

But this is what
The music taught;
It was not
When the box topped,
But anticipation
Of the “pop”! 

However when
Giving in
To evil,
What happens is – 
“Pop goes the weasel”.


K (Karma)


The key to monk is piety,
Has not abandoned society,
But is finding himself, actually – 
A seeker seeking sanctuary.

The key to the monk; he fails,
And on this hangs a tale;
Defeat each day, by the beat – 
Vow of silence, on his knees.

The key to the monkey is his tale
From out of solid earth, he hailed,
Proceeding through all the species – 
To a monk, deep in “the mysteries”.

The key to the monkey forms the tail
Where anima and animal are trailed,
Entwined with life forces, and the trees – 
Swings to and fro so naturally.


The key to the monkey is the paw,
Or, more of a hand, held in awe,
Practice for acting like “humans” – 
Manipulating mass for consuming.

We devolved to complexity,
And evolve to simplicity,
Going on, back to the jungle – 
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!”

The key to the monk is his robe,
Out of brown and tied with a rope,
A white elephant, with a trunk – 
Something they must not talk about.

The Capuchin monkey, dressed like a monk,
Sits with folded hands, in the sun,
Praying to the light, in his wild church – 
In the holy steeple, of a perch.

The key to the monastery,
Lost, adrift in his astral airs,
Gone too far, for a local parish – 
As the days become nightmarish.


The key to monk, like the monkey,
A banana, and something salted.
Electrons cross the neurons –
Those of potassium, and sodium.

The key to the monkey and the monk,
A soul, waiting to be debunked.
Both are climbing up the same tree – 
To get high enough so they can see.

The monk is revolutionary,
Seeing freedom as illusory,
What is pensive is a pretense – 
With the truth as his best defense.

The key to the monk is “me?”,
Looks about, like a chimpanzee,
A soulful bound, and the spin around –
Limb to limb, then down to the ground.

The key to the monk is “my key”,
We all have the same destiny,
A destination of the divine – 
Locked inside this heart of mine.


I am a monkey in the tree
Monkeying around incessantly,
Mystified by the out of sight – 
Gravity pulling down the dark night.

The monk and monkey, before a crowd,
Who want the truth, spoken out loud.
The wisdom of the ages, they seek – 
But will not let the monkey speak.

Monkeys have tails, and man has details,
One gets a tip, the other unveils.
One understands, the other might not –
But in the end, find what is sought.

The key to the monkey is the man,
Both are part of the same plan.
They hold the key to creation – 
Manifesting variation.

“The Keys to the Kingdom”, intrinsic,
The tumbling locks of the mystic.
What is known; fate is in spirit –
And all the rest is “monkey business”.


Life is begun, then be gone,
While always looking for a cause.
Could not see, but was listening – 
When out of the mist, came Kristin.

Kristin in the mist of blue eyes,
Where azure meets with the skies,
From deep in the heart of emotion – 
Floating in a bottomless ocean.

People permeate surroundings,
The effect on others is astounding.
Living in the mist of a mister – 
A fine distinction existing.

Kristin in the mist of September.
The crispness still remembers
A power to visualize – 
As winter blankets our sighs.

Kristin in the mist, almost kissed,
Not real unless accomplished.
The only regret is not trying – 
Felt in the echoes of quiet.

Kristin in the mist, unmissed,
But only the feeling persists
Eyes see little of what really exists – 
In the relationships of lips.

Kristin in the mist of rents,
Wants a home with a white picket fence,
The house has a very good price – 
It will only cost a whole life.

Kristin in the mist of resentment,
Ultimatums are presented,
The ultimate error of love – 
Thinking, we are able to judge.

Kristin in the mists of Venice,
The decisions of prevention,
Holding their own shape, in the haze – 
Moving on, in separate ways.

Kristin in the mist of an airplane,
Could not see her crying in the rain
But knew, destinations had been changed –
And the future rearranged.


Kristin in the midst of a change,
The beginning had been arranged.
Now, starting out, on her own – 
New vistas are being exposed.

Kristin in the mist of crying eyes,
What is found to survive?
What is wanted, or transcended – 
Years wash away an era, ended.

Kristin in the mist of “to be”,
No longer shrouded in mystery.
She met her match, with a catch – 
The unseen is revealed, at last.

Kristin in the mist of mirage,
Too much sun is supercharged,
Perceiving what was never there – 
Or a glimpse of the very rare.

Kristin in the mist of mistook
Attraction to an amorous look.
The figure in the fog has vanished – 
Have any phantoms been vanquished?


In the mist of steamy self-esteem,
Nothing “might have been” what it seemed.
Faces distorted by drag time –
The sag of gravity, on lines.

The mist dissipates from within,
After all, was but a vision.
A situation was created – 
Which became infatuated.

Kristin in the mist of remembrance.
In the embrace of tenderness.
First love lingers to the last – 
Selective memory, in a mask.

Kristin in the mist of memory,
Mostly we remember the extremes,
The warm summer of arrival – 
The cold winter of denial.

Kristin in the mist could not admit
Love lived, in the very first kiss,
And died, in too many years –
Only recalling falling tears.


Life can never be another,
Two thoughts collide with each other.
Only one had ever persisted – 
Kristin in the mist of a whisper.

Kristin in the mist, still persists,
Experience never resists,
Becoming a part of the spirit – 
Immortalized, as Kristin In The Mist.

In the days of wine and roses.
Older says the posies are over,
The bloom, no longer on the cheek – 
The buttercup of what we keep.

Does she, still, have her playfulness,
In the aging strands, of grayness?
Of what does her dear heart consist – 
The mystique of Kristin in the mist.

The seven veils of non-existence,
At each step, another is lifted.
In the distance, can you hear her call – 
Waiting for the last shoe to fall.


All are living inside a mist,
One so fine, it is called “a wish”,
Taking form, beyond our plight – 
The subtle matter, of dispersed light.

There is clarity to death, with a twist;
It was never Kristin, in the mist,
But my anima, nocturnal –
With whom love is eternal.

“The woman of your dreams” is waiting
“’Til death do us part” our mating,
Melting, into the arms of bliss – 
Why Kristin was always in the mist.






L (light)


Lavender skies, lavender skies,
Somewhere between
And above the eyes.
Lavender skies, lavender skies – 
Take a step into
The astral mind.

Lavender skies, lavender skies,
As lilacs bud
The aromas rise.
Lavender skies, lavender skies – 
The finer air.

Lavender skies, lavender skies,
Essence of purple
Lavender skies, lavender skies –
Senses will not
Be compromised.


Lavender skies, lavender skies,
Through the Ether
Of blue eyes.
Lavender skies, lavender skies – 
Where intellect
Turns, and Flies.

Lavender skies, lavender skies,
To deliver
A word to the wise.
Lavender skies, lavender skies –
With, both, the lows
And the highs.

Lavender skies, lavender skies,
What the azure
And indigo dyes.
Lavender skies, lavender skies – 
Where the grand vision



Lavender skies, lavender skies,
Leaving a person
Lavender skies, lavender skies –
Makes us think
Outside the box.

Lavender skies, lavender skies,
Into time
The Piper Cub dives.
Lavender skies, lavender skies – 
Up against
“The black and grays”.

Lavender skies, lavender skies,
Everyone is
Asking me why.
Lavender skies, lavender skies – 
A mystical
Noble prize.

Lavender skies, lavender skies,
The flowers rise
As a man dies.
Lavender skies, lavender skies –
To “hello”, from the “good-byes”.

The planet is coursing with force,
A virtual electric concourse,
Alive with currents, and deterrents –
Without a shield, the “snake” is surging.

Much has been said about the snake,
Temptation, or a deadly fate.
Casting a spell, over pity – 
Is bio-electricity.

Lament the tormented of lost shields,
Who shrink from the strain power wields.
Some can feel the force, so to buffer – 
The rest, unknowingly, suffer.

The voltage is part of creation,
Powering the web of sensation.
Unidentified chronic pain – 
An alien feeling in the twain.

The hardwire, running up the spine,
With the circuits of the brain, combine
To an electromagnetic field – 
Reverberation of how we feel.

Loss of magnetic cohesion,
Impulse control is rearing,
With no closure to personal space – 
Reactions are “all over the place”.

Lack of tracking, and stability,
Loss of cognitive abilities,
Cannot hold a thought in the head – 
Nervous system being overfed.

Automatic breathing is ceasing,
Except when unconscious, or sleeping.
A deprived supply of oxygen – 
Makes brains start to panic, “Not again!”

A shocking story of the lost,
The involuntary response,
Triggers pulled, on the main frame –
No self-control can be maintained.

The weakening of morphic fields
Our composure is coming unsealed.
Used to be the few, now the many –
A growing populace, in a frenzy.


This excited grid is closed in,
By our “second skin” of surface tension.
Negatively charged, for repelling – 
Electrons, ions, and propellants.

A nervous breakdown, of the shield.
From now on, this is how we feel;
Jittery as a June bug in June – 
Ending anytime in a swoon.

Helpless now, the egg is hatched,
The will to survive meets its match,
Shell shocked, and filled with unrest –
The fledgling flies from the nest.

At the mercy of more than the rain,
A constant infliction of pain,
Once the attractors have been placed –
Force is perpetually relayed.

Lament the tormented, of lost shields,
The encircling, protective force field.
Left open to electrocution –
Or the slow death of persecution.


They have no one to speak for them,
The lost shields of “mental” mayhem.
But there is an empowerment, to yield – 
If we learn from the term of “Lost Shields”.

We must know what they have lost;
Insulation from constant shock
To the circuitry of the nerves – 
A “paranormal” disturbance.

Electrodynamics can explain
Curses, voodoo, spells, and insane.
And what sets it all into action – 
Is the simple law of attraction.

Attracted to our positive points,
The polar opposite of choice,
Negativity pulled in by the plus – 
“No good deed goes unpunished”.

Without a shield comes the attack,
The armies of black magic.
Helpless, we must stand our ground – 
Until the last trumpet sounds.


The persecution of the Saints,
A pathetic picture this paints.
A midst your “dis-ease”, and mumbling –
Remember, “you are in good company”.

A compromised integrity of states,
A weary will facilitates
The total collapse of the shield – 
Why psychotherapy cannot heal.

Much of today’s mental illness
Cannot be cured by “the pill mills”.
Mania, depression, even catatonic – 
Are electrical disorders.

And this same “bipolarized field”
Separates the ego, from alter-ego,
Intermingled and disheveled – 
The man is “dancing with the devil”.

The dilemma of the lost shield,
The duel nature of ethereal.
But, the genie is out of the bottle –
Pretty as you please, walking about.


And, “the cat is out of the bag”,
The black one, with the old hag.
Reasons screaming like a banshee – 
Legions seizing all sanity.

To each one who has lost the shield,
These words breathe hope:  “This is real”,
And nothing will ever be the same – 
We must go crazy, to remain sane.

When shields come down, as mentioned,
One may gain a deeper perception,
A startle, a sparkle of vision –
“The stars in his eyes” of dizzying.

It was not a chink in his armor,
But completely lost, to Karma.
The Achilles heel could not be healed –
And he was carried off, on his lost shield.

Prometheus brought mankind fire,
Someone will bring “the fine wire”
To connect us to esoteric –
Patching science into Etheric.


Striding forth, holding a broken shield,
Prays to the Lord, for all to be sealed.
“Unlock the inner shield, from the heart –
So the lost shields can find a new start!”

Lament the tormented of lost shields,
I will stand beside my people,
Suffering, and unprotected –
Waiting for the Resurrection.









M (mass)


The men in black, they come around,
Wearing a masonic “crown”,
That “superior look” they have got – 
“I know something, you do not”.

Oh, the men in black, they come around,
With an arrogance to astound
Any liberty loving person – 
When things go bad, they only worsen.

Yes, the men in black, they come around,
But not about aliens, we found,
For people who have had an insight –
 To the hidden dimensions of life.

The men in black, they come around,
And do not like what has been found,
Not extraterrestrials, landed –
But Earth’s invisible inhabitants.


An electromagnetic lock
Is engaged to form a block
From seeing ghosts, or other beings –
The black abyss of secretive.

Oh, the men in black, they come around,
No black, sunglassed, suit, but dressed down.
Maybe, a someone, well known – 
Either serious, or jovial.

Censorship has a motley crew,
Government, business, mystery schools.
“Knowledge is power” and they have it – 
The deprivation of the masses.

They believe in suppression,
Not in freedom of expression,
Not even in freedom of speech – 
Sanctity of the home, breached.

They come around, the intrusive “them”,
Not with an “Amen”, but an “ahem”.
Perception is blurred, by attack – 
The smokescreen, of the men in black.


How to see through a magician,
Not to be taught, in catechism
Or, any of our public schools –
Why men in black make their own rules.

They teach metaphysical courses,
So, know about planetary forces,
Circulating, waiting to be used –
But now, being mostly abused.

The men in black, they come around,
Spike a house with positrons,
To send vibrations to the brain – 
The mind control of the profane.

Yes, the men in black, they come around,
With weapons of silent sound,
Through the ears signals are fed –
And then say, “It is all in your head.”

From warlock cave to masonic lodge
Evolves electronic assault,
An electromagnetic pounding – 
All the bells and whistles are sounding.


Oh, the men in black, they come around
With either a saw or a pound.
Putting the screws to anyone – 
Looking for a place in the sun.

Black is well hidden at night,
No semblance to seeing things right.
But when a bright light is cast – 
Their dark shadow is seen, at last.

Running the gauntlet of the brotherhood,
Never hitting quite as hard as they could,
Always holding a little back – 
For the escalation of the flack.

The men in black, they come around,
Until their prey is, tightly, wound,
Screaming at the top of his lungs – 
But no one sees what is being done.

Turn over any rock and find a creep,
The vicious infliction of “hell week”,
The violations of hazing –
Shows clearly who is, really, crazy.


Washington washed his hands of them,
Said, “They must be kept out of government”.
Now, weighing heavily on the state –
Is the profit from war that they make.

The blue men said, “We cannot go there”.
The “blues” foresee constant warfare,
Such unnecessary violence – 
Generations bound by silence.

They are not what they say they are,
Not even what they think they are.
They are what they do:  terrorize – 
Terrorists in civic disguise.

They like to expose what they have caused,
As victim becomes villain, with a pause.
A self-appointed secret police – 
Enforcing their own laws of deceit!

On, the men in black, they come around,
All the flowers fall to their rounds,
The shrubbery, lawn and crops – 
Deteriorating as we watch.


The “new world order” is obvious,
Only those who are one of them,
An elite, comprised of themselves – 
And to hell with everyone else.

Yes, the men in black, they come around,
And by an oath, they are binded,
To keep their “black ops” secret – 
Because their means are indecent.

Negativity, meant for balancing,
Has become an overused fallacy,
Infiltrative and invasive – 
Why their answers are evasive.

Each person has a “man in black”,
The alter-ego, in the back.
Insidious is inside of us – 
How people really get messed up.

This “man in black” is at odds with the self,
He is better known as the devil,
In league with Satan, and the soul – 
What to do?  Who could ever know?


They are the ultimate villains,
Turn pacifists into killers,
Practicioners of black magic – 
Turning comedy into tragic.

Ruthless pirates, of the air waves,
Transmissions one cannot escape.
Until we strike down the skull and bones –
No one will be safe in their own home.

Growing fear, and feeding off it,
They are farmers of the toxic,
While other people are starving – 
Grim reapers of the black harvest.

A matter of economics,
Cannot offer what nobody wants.
Blow by blow, beat their stock to death – 
A waste of resources, and breath.

Fault lines divide the sections,
With no holistic perspective,
Removing the lubricant from the Earth –
All factions will quake, with the hurt.


The world is ganged up to its teeth,
Tribal values with a pedigree,
Mob mentality, spreading the curse –
And must be wiped from the face of the Earth!

Not the governments, or organizations,
But, their black operations,
Illegal, immoral, and abhorrent – 
To, even, some members of the order.

Gone from function to dysfunction,
We have reached a critical junction,
Power gone mad, and malevolent –
Neglecting the original intent.

The waters of truth are rising,
Too late for retention walls, or dikes.
But still, they adhere to the hardline – 
“Change with the times, or be left behind”.

The men in black, they come around,
But this time, wearing a frown.
Arrogance gains a heavy fate – 
Being brought down, by its own weight.


The mockingbird is about balance,
Opposing wings, and talons,
Singing sweetly about life – 
Piercing shrills during a strife.

A wave of truth is “tweet, tweet”,
In their air space, sound and light meet,
Life manifesting in a whistle – 
Staying in line, with a bristle.

An admirable profession,
Gives aerodynamic lessons,
Doing the work she was assigned – 
Saving the world, one day at a time.

Mockingbirds are not really mocking,
It is but their way of talking,
Thinking we want to play the game – 
When sending an alarm to the brain.

Is she attempting to help,
Or another tool of the devil,
A sound to keep us unsound – 
With a frequency to unground.

The echo of an imposter,
These little wisps are not mocking,
Attracting attention to point out – 
The force which ricochets about.

Now, for sure, she is not mocking,
Saying, “Tuck it under your wing”.
She would like to lend us hand – 
But cannot reach out to man.

There is no such thing as a bad bird,
But syllables of silly bills,
A glossolalia maneuver – 
A tongue twister, over and over.

Called a “bird brain”, but is not mocked,
A greater capacity has she got,
Miniaturized, and polarized – 
An acuity, not to be downsized.

The mockingbird is a talking bird,
But the message must be inferred,
An indication of angles –
A veritable guardian angel.


Making a mockery of humans
Who do not know what they are doing,
Gazing out at a living nature – 
Thinking they are separated.

Birds take the brunt of the toxins,
Kill the crawling, kill the walking,
Watching, as we poison mankind – 
Trying to remind, but not to mind.

Circling the perimeter,
Receiver and deliverer,
Calling the cause of incursion –
Looking for another diversion.

The mockingbird is not mocking, see?
Mocked by everything we perceive,
Standing uninformed against the sky –
Having no idea of the why.

Fine feathered friends, watch them fly,
Between the green, and the blue good-bye.
See them braving the weather – 
As if today was forever.


The empty wind, needs to be filled,
Comes the mockingbird, full of will.
The breeze is born of exertion – 
And is borne on the same thing.

Mockingbirds are not only birds,
They are every little thing on Earth,
Insinuating all the rest – 
Simply by being themselves.

Atomic and symbiotic,
While riding the waves of sonic
Springing eternal, flying hope –
Encouragement from the throat.

Town criers of the human forest,
Interlopers have a watcher,
Gauging any disturbance – 
Aiding in equilibrium.

Outward sight can lead to insight,
The possibility of flight,
The odds of probabilities –
Extending to innate abilities.


Her “nom de plume” is Mockingbird,
But the real name is Unspoken Word.
Using some musings to write –
An energy signature, outright.

The creature is not generic,
Snowflakes of the organic,
Individual expression, of beak –
Mock bird ain’t bird, if not unique.

The mockingbird flies into the wind,
Against all the resistance,
Strengthening her winds, until –
The planet bends them to her will.

Teetering on the brink, of a limb,
Soaring above the stone, of the brim,
Pushing off, to a beam of light – 
Magnetized, as a field of flight.

With multileveled intentions,
She passes through dimensions,
The airs, the waters, and the lands – 
Height, width, and length at her command.


The state bird of Florida, 
Mocking retirees with “more to come”,
Reminding the old with the young – 
“Will to survive” will be undone.

Reactions get stranger and stranger,
Applied stimuli, and the danger,
A devious process, and agenda – 
“To kill a mockingbird”, and messenger.

The mockingbird does what she can,
A whistleblower no one understands,
A close association with pain – 
Becomes the target of disdain.

Not mocking, but sympathizing,
The energy of empathizing.
But attempting to tell us how – 
Is like trying to land on a cloud.

A constant companion, not unheard,
The proximity of the mockingbird,
As the crow flies is so near – 
One cannot help but to hear.


Passing on their lofty traits,
A conduit for the Fates,
An egg of consciousness, laid –
Nestled in the pockets of space.

A mock-up, of what we are knowing,
What is the big picture, showing?
What could be the motivation –
“Mock bird ain’t bird” is the saying.

The black and white, fading away,
The mockingbird streaks into gray.
An implicate kind of cunning –
“Do not let them see you coming”.

Locked in a mock battle, with ourself,
Not even the mockingbird can help.
The doppelganger topples peace sought – 
Never has a victory been fought.

The truth becomes self-evident,
We mock ourselves with irreverence.
The mockingbird, as she dies – 
Is exclaiming, “My, how time flies!”


N (neutral)


Light reduced to color and vision,
Focused by electromagnetism.
Sound manifests as motion, and form – 
A living universe, being born.

Space is pushing, and time is pulling,
Caught in the space-time continuum,
The matter being gathered around us – 
Drawn to the center of consciousness.

All matter has a negative charge,
The bonded electrons make things hard.
A positive act causes static – 
The reaction is automatic.

What solidifies substance to reason
Is a magnificent cohesion.
A force field with electric surges – 
Rotating our world with blind urges.


Magnets can arrange iron filings,
Similar courses arrange smiling,
The pattern of a current of force – 
Set up by the power of the source.

The opposites of magnets attract,
And like seeks like, a well-known fact.
This world is too attractive a place – 
Opposition keeps us in our place.

Opposites hold the world together,
An electromagnetic texture,
Even beyond embodied levels – 
Bound by the Angels versus devils.

Enough negative to be effective,
Not so much, as to be defective.
Immersed in a hot wired quantum field – 
How it is disturbed is what we feel.

The dark side is always there, waiting,
Connection to the web of latent.
What makes one do evil, and blatant –
Negative attraction to Satan.


Negative in motion, is power,
Electrons surge through wire, and flower.
What starts them moving on, to their goal –
Attraction to a positive pole.

The magnetism of allurement,
Being drawn to our own deterrent.
One by one, they all lose their charms –
The unfolding, and folding of arms.

She has magnetic arms, attraction,
Blindly seeks her own satisfaction.
A prospect which is ever pending – 
A process which is never ending.

Within an atomic magnetism,
One goes hither, and one goes thither.
Negativity is inherent – 
The backward spin of “grin and bear it”.

The negative sticks to the positive,
Like glue, there is a whiff and a “tiff”.
The pluses are stuck with minuses – 
Until bonds are dissolved, when and if.


A theory of relativity;
“Get rid of some negativity”,
So the forces can be well balanced – 
A hypothesis of challenge.

Expectation tries to find a base
In a magnetic field which has changed.
But with unfixed configurations – 
Can adapt to any occasion.

A negative charge is protection,
Deflects electrical convection,
The repelling force of existence – 
Resistance resisting resistance.

Resistance resisting resistance.
Negative attraction, in remission.
Collision buffered by repulsion –
To eliminate the compulsion.

Dissension into mass extinction,
Encounters a state of resistance.
With a regression, careening down – 
Takes quite a jolt, to turn it around.


Only anger is working, when caught,
A negative attraction runs hot,
Back against the wall of “fight or flight” – 
Survival sees no exit, to right.

A type of attraction, distraction,
Stealing attention, to inaction.
But cannot let it hold dominion – 
For negative is less than nothing.

Magnetic man is autonomic,
Without forethought or consequences,
The root of routing, in any case – 
Completing a sequence, like a wraith.

A magnetic pull on the oceans,
Speeds, and impedes mystic motion.
The movement must come from deep inside – 
Like a seahorse, reaching for the tide.

Memory, organized attractors,
Associations by character,
Magnetically encrypted, we find – 
All can be recalled, keep this in mind.


Empathetic is not always good,
But is life responding as it should,
Emotions, vibrating in accord – 
With what is closest, or most adored.

Look across the room and meet her eye,
A contact spark, we cannot deny.
Compatible systems operate – 
At similar electrical rates.

The attraction of the familiar,
The wave pattern of the similar
Overrides the magnetic response – 
For sympathetic is what life wants.

Our lives are electromagnetic,
What is accepted, or rejected,
What is well loved, or what is hated – 
What we are drawn to, as if fated.

The magnetic deed of what we need,
Supplied attraction, on which it feeds.
A lack enacts the motivation – 
Riding on a wave of sensation.


Charisma holds a wide attraction,
A kind of magnetic expansion,
Weaving webs, stretching, reaching out – 
And drawing our attention about.

Flying attraction, in a winding,
An electromagnetic binding.
Opposites defined by each other – 
And come together, in a hover.

Fission has split us to explosion,
But fusion can bring about closure,
A little unifying factor – 
The enactor in the reactor.

This whirling world should twirl us away,
Centrifugal forces disengaged.
So what is it, holding us in place – 
The negative attraction of space.

This sphere depends upon attraction,
Not completion, but interaction,
For when the two halves totally meet –
The energy between is brief heat.


The attractions are so appealing,
High frequencies send senses reeling.
Becoming accustomed to this pace –
Is negative attraction to hast.

We are, inherently, negative,
Attraction to original sin,
Until positive attitudes win – 
The spirit to “inherit the wind”.

The intense complexities of life,
The mysteries, hidden in the light,
The unexplained dissatisfaction – 
Are the simple law of attraction.

A perpetual exchange of charge,
Held in magnetic traction, at large.
Be unbound by fusing with the bond – 
And take negative attraction beyond!





Never can never understand
The love of Never, Never Land,
For never never did better
What could have been forever.

Never was a sky so red
As towering above the dead.
Never was a sky so orange
As of the first outpouring.
Never was a sky so yellow
As the intellect of mellow.
Never was a sky so green
As reflected off the stream.
Never was a sky so blue
As the memory of loving you.
Never was a sky so lavender
As here and the hereafter.
Never was a sky so violet
As when the world became silent.

Never was a sky so gray
As the gossamer wings
Flying away.


O (of)


It began in a pixie niche,
A little place we could talk, a bit,
And then became the picnic – 
Pick a nice spot; for the fun of it.

We walk on the shoulders of midgets,
Tottering as she fidgets.
A balancing act, of tension – 
Trying to get our attention.

Destiny is of the tiny,
The soul being, descended to briny
To see what deeds may be achieved –
And how much people will believe.

The Dutch boy, or the little prince,
The better half of the hijinks,
Leprechaun, they leapt to the “con” – 
Fairies flying into the dawn.


Munchies are a lot who never shirk,
Sugar levels drop, they go to work,
Bringing many suggestions –
From starchy to confection.

A tale of folklore is no joke,
The real deal of the “wee folk”,
Laughs, crafts, and crafty – 
From nefarious to daffy.

Laughed in half is more than half a laugh,
But half losing yourself in daft,
The “child-like”, which comes build in – 
“Come unto me as little children”.

They possess hidden talents,
A perfect center of balance,
Gymnastic and fantastic –
An impression which is lasting.

They have a special knowledge,
And like to be acknowledged,
The cherubim of possible – 
Although left out of the gospels.


“Angels and demons”, what is their meaning,
Which is witch, and who is “hooey”?
The answer is plurality – 
And the question is; morality.

An angel amidst the rubbish
Of an unclean environment.
Let the heart dictate intention – 
Of a divine intervention.

A finger of light, pointing,
“I must be dreaming!”, or anointed,
“Swing low, sweet chariot”, take me home – 
No, from now on, never be alone.

What is really important;
The imp, or tantamount to
The valley rising to the mount – 
The Holy Trinity will surmount.

One attribute is “scrappy”,
Mixing things up, makes her happy,
When matters become confused – 
A rearrangement might be used.


Pixie “mean” is what they mean
The truth can make us want to scream.
Not meant to keep people deranged – 
But to bring about dreaded change.

Pixie “profit” is a prophet,
Who can see the value of it;
Saying the words to set us free –
From what might have come to be.

Pixie “fortunes”, do it for tunes
Melodies by the light of the moon,
An accompaniment to song – 
With a rousing tempo, but not for long.

A “mistake” is a miss take,
Take advantage of the space
To insert a new idea – 
Into a brain which does not hear.

Imp “lying” is implying,
A trade off, she is plying.
It is wisdom, but left unsaid – 
Though come to know, in our head.


Pixie “courage” is to encourage,
A story, telling, and stirring,
To correct a bad impulse – 
To embolden against doubt.

Pixies like to push it, a bit,
A coup, like the comeback kid,
Getting in, just under the wire – 
The nick of time is required.

Be pixie serious, about this;
They are a part of existence,
In our hearts, where no one sees – 
Or walking around, pretty as you please.

Used to watch pixies do the jig,
All cultures had a form of it.
But when the dancing waves erupt – 
Resistance says, “The jig is up”.

“They won’t let me play with Annie,
Say she is imaginary,
But is, more, imaginative – 
Than I would have imagined.


Only an infant can see the truth,
The vision fades away with youth.
Tried to stay young with Tinker Belle – 
But did not pan out; not to tell.

Aging for aeons, having their fun,
The definition of staying young.
Time stands still.  As they pass through – 
Not being subject to its rule.

Not allowed, or aloud, at least,
A man talking, to the pixies.
The risk is over amplified – 
When becoming “pixified”.

Purse the lips, persecution,
Cutting through any delusion.
Cry, “Sis!”, when in a crisis – 
Tribulation of apocalypse.

A “neuro-sis”, and a “psycho –sis”,
A near miss is this sister.
Not illness, but mysterious – 
A condition of consciousness.


The force field of Pandora’s box,
Barrier against the hard knocks.
An electromagnetic bubble – 
What holds the genie in the bottle.

Hope is a phantom, time has taught,
The one virtue, left in the box,
And something, one can never have –
Disappearing, as it is grasped.

Part of the psyche, seeing,
A rational kind of being,
With reason and intellect, the mind – 
Is comprised of all, intertwined.

The peanut gallery is complete,
With Charlie Brown, and Snoopy,
Lucy, and Peppermint Patty – 
And Linus with his blue blanket.

The pixie transcends to sentience,
The afterlife answers questions,
Revisits a life, not too exciting – 
But her reactions may be priceless.


The pixie end, “follow your star”,
The speed of light, “be who you are”.
Ashes to ashes, pixie dust to gold dust – 
The relinking is a must.

He believed in the blue light,
A glow to hold with all your might.
To illuminate the dark night – 
Is bringing the Pixie back to life.










We are born, ready to shout,
One clenched fist, with thumb in mouth,
Crying out, the first chance we get – 
“You ain’t finished with me yet”.

We have a free hand, moving forward
For knocking on Heaven’s door.
The soul reaches out to the seeker – 
The one clenched fist of the preacher.

Live by, and die by the sword,
A tempered will, marching onward,
Hand closing in on what exists – 
Within the grasp, of one clenched fist.

Fight or flight syndrome, repeated,
Two clenched fists, or two running feet.
When is the time to “stand your ground” – 
When our rights are infringed upon.

Churchill said, “We’ve had enough!”
“This isle stands against gangs of thugs”.
“By any other name”, they are fascists – 
He shook the world, with one clenched fist.

When pretending to be friendly,
An unassuming enemy
With the assumption of almighty – 
None so wrong as the self-righteous.

Coiling without wires, serpentine,
Through the walls, living in between,
Letting off steam, the snake “hissed” –
Cannot be caught without; one clenched fist.

The Guevara raised one clenched fist
Up a flagpole, so not to be missed.
The spirit of independence, proving – 
The revolution of evolution.

The soap box rebel is raving,
Wild is the way he is behaving,
Liberty clutched in his mitt – 
While waving his one clenched fist!

(pixie chorus)One clenched fist,
One clenched fist.
What is lost
Is what was missed
One clenched fist,
One clenched fist – away.

One clenched fist for composure,
The other for exposure.
Both are being held by the wrist – 
The steady hand, of one clenched fist.

The silver bullet is a ruse,
Against the force, is of no use,
After all the totems and crystals – 
Is an A.O.K. and a fist full.

The magic starts open handed,
Quicker than the eye is brandished.
The trick is in what was missed – 
Hidden in the hand, of one clenched fist.

One potato, two potato, three potato, four,
A game which can give nothing more.
The players have all but given up – 
To one clenched fist, and a thumbs up.

The Lincoln Memorial is a symbol,
One clenched fist, and one nimble,
Civil War and emancipation – 
One clenched fist, and participation.


To aid in the fight against tension,
To support the troops of defense,
When real time stories are gripping – 
Use one clenched fist and a ribbon.

Defending the nation, or home,
The whole truth must be made known.
Between war and peace is an abyss – 
More treaties need one clenched fist.

A march to the sea put a halt
To the tyranny of salt.
Gandhi plied passive resistance – 
The full lotus, and one clenched fist.

We are fingers of the divine,
Drawn together, to hold the line.
Self-defense for a pacifist – 
Is a wish, and one clenched fist.

We have two hands for a reason,
The right and left of interceding,
One helping hand, for the people – 
And one clenched fist for evil!


One clenched fist,
One clenched fist
What we have
Is what was risked
One clenched fist,
One clenched fist, away.

We must stand up for what is right
To win, the meek might have the might,
With the Spirit and mortal mixed – 
Palm of the hand, and one clenched fist.

A gesture is a point to be made,
A visceral, or visual aid.
Shake a fist and a challenge is hurled – 
Shake a hand and touch the world.

We are the strength of the world,
And want to live undisturbed.
The United Way has slipped – 
Through the cracks of one clenched fist.

A grip, to help get a grip,
Negative repelling negative.
I think that you get the gist – 
We can save the Earth, with one clenched fist.

P (power)


Quest for fire, born on a thunder bolt,
Brought man out of his cave, with a jolt.
Heated, he sang of something higher – 
A primitive hymn, but the same choir.

Prehistoric poets were like priests,
Talked to spirits, learned in their sleep,
When awakened, told fantastic tales – 
Teaching what the afterlife entails.

They were agents of inner healing,
By giving a name to the demons;
Anger, fear and doubt, and ignorance – 
Are the sins from which we need defense.

A thought to take where we want to go,
Driven by an impetus to know,
Given enough force to spin around – 
A hot idea, riding on a sound.


They were the keepers, of the forest,
Preaching religion, in its rawest
Brought reincarnation down to Earth – 
“Spring is but a natural rebirth”.

Poets reel in zones, once forbidden,
On the waves of the graven image,
For imagination transcends time – 
And opens new vistas of the mind.

The poet dreams of something better,
He learned by wrote, and by the letter,
Each one with a meaning of its own – 
The unknown deciphered, by the known.

From nibble to dribble to scribble,
Of his virtue we will not quibble.
He maintains his poetic license – 
With licentiousness, and some vices.

Poets write what cannot be proven,
Trying to make the verses moving.
Offering up a new perception – 
To take effect upon reception.


The poet is speaking evermore,
A universal image, implored,
In his language of only one word – 
The emotional content transferred.

Everyone is a work in progress,
An individual to be addressed.
The task is; to complete his function – 
Each is a majority of one.

The term “normal” means not good nor bad,
Natural insulation intact,
Untouched by angels or demons – 
The word is hidden by the meaning.

He opted for pensive, not pension,
Traded in his calm for intensive,
Preparing the future of mankind – 
A deeper connection to the mind.

He must make lucid, and transparent
What is not, readily, apparent 
The invisible air, we all breathe – 
Is not so difficult to believe.


He sees existence in an apple,
Trees bear the truth, which has us baffled.
The fruits of his labors is the thing – 
The golden pears, to bring to the King.

The poet tends to be sensitive,
Though is hesitant, to mention it,
Rarely getting by, sharp vibrations –
Skin worn thin, by too many close shaves.

Reading, writing and the rhythmic ticks,
His education of the matrix
Applying his time for one good line – 
In every text, “caught in a bind”.

He did not even have an inkling
What it was he would be up linking.
No cognitive function could they find – 
When he gave them a piece of his mind.

The poet has seen the light of lights,
What he knows he learns by what he writes.
Not a master of metaphysics – 
But is a “witness” to the mystic.


Considered a fool by the adept,
Incomprehensible to the rest,
The poet is stuck between two planes – 
Both resisting what he has to say.

Reading light and writing in the dark,
The poet’s intention is a lark.
The reason he is dropping vague hints –
Because he has had only a glimpse.

Divining frequencies of pages
The Planet is the book of ages.
Nothing forbidden can be hidden – 
Akashic Records being written.

The poet, appealing to the soul
Is trying to reach his highest goal;
“To win the hearts and minds” is his gain – 
In a place, where we are all the same.

Inspiration comes at a high price,
Ruination of physical life,
“What poets go through!”, the Muses tell – 
Is, literally, a living hell.


Hard to wax poetic about evil,
There is no “rhyme or reason” to it.
A blind impulse, against advancement – 
To everybody’s disadvantage.

Spells are cast on those who spell it out,
What the mystical is all about.
Withheld knowledge, from the populace – 
Is but a spiritual censorship.

Electric coursings curse the poet,
He is being locked up, for knowing,
Enlightenment killed by black magic – 
Why the classics are filled with tragic.

“Fine line between genius and madness”,
Dividing the screaming from sadness
The wild eyed poet is living proof – 
Must be crazy to believe the truth.

Train of thought, sometimes a runaway,
The engine needs no stoking, today,
Holding on until the wheels bust loose –
The last one to go is the caboose.


Become a part of evolution!
A rotation and revolution.
The possibilities are boundless – 
Leave the world better than you found it.

The spring of life, collapsed from his step,
A powered down electromagnet.
The old poet is taking one last look – 
At the perilous journey he took.

Everything seems to be factual,
But what is finished is actual,
And everyone has his own deadline – 
The body of work, we leave behind.

“Half of it is knowing when to stop,
The other half is never stopping”.
What was said and how it came to pass – 
All he wrote was his own epitaph.





A hulking skeleton, on open water,
Good times, gone by, but still wanting.
Looming as a symbol of change – 
What is burned down, leaves the remains.

A ghostly presence, defying time
For a short while, to make us smile,
And to reminisce, a bit – 
About an age we have missed.

Ballroom dancing, in a glitter,
Scary fairy rides, in a jitter,
Eating treats and beating the games – 
With an overlook of Sunset Bay.

Within reach, take a breather,
The park has entered the ether,
The spectacle has gone astral – 
From the ruins of the castle.

Pacific Ocean Park, city of lights,
A population for the night.
Popular is never aging –
Constant is ever changing.

Away from the heat, and the beat,
Lies the strip of Venice Beach,
A paved, boardwalk of the soul – 
Contemplating “young and old”.

Shooting the pier, on bright surf boards,
In between the columns of support.
A collision causes concussions – 
And the concerned discussions.

The innocence of blissful days
Consequences thrown away.
But are coming back, to haunt us – 
As the gray wraith sits, taunting.

A grand celebration of life.
Amusement is the point, and our right.
On New Year’s Eve, champagne will pop – 
But for the last time, at this spot.

The rollercoaster of going over,
Like a personal supernova,
Rising up, for a thrilling drop – 
When in the had we hear a charged

Q (question)

The question puts it all in play,
“What if my life was not this way?”
The causal factor of existence – 
The unanswered are still listening.

An inborn interrogative,
A method, being cognitive.
More often than we imagine – 
Being wrong is the right answer.

The clause is a kind of question,
Written down in the fine print,
Difficult to read, and to think – 
There is an exception to most things.

A germ of truth hides inside lies,
Reality relies on the whys,
Not the who, how, where, what was said – 
But the motivation, in their head.

Evil is what blocks the truth
When involved in worldly pursuits,
Questions not worth an answer – 
Give way to casual banter.

The trauma of rejection,
The stresses in a question,
Would rather not ask, look like a fool – 
But are fooling yourself, when confused.

“Doth the wind blow”, was established,
“Through the air of the vanished”?
At the beginning of each age –
The answer is given by the sage.

People have become alienated
From knowledge too understated.
If you see a U.F.O., zooming – 
Know we are the aliens, they are human.

A question is not impairment,
An opening to a new awareness,
The light at the end of the tunnel – 
Through which the answer is funneled.

Mystery grows with the task
Of resolving what is lacked,
For, after all, we are the question – 
And the matter should be rested.


The question and answer are linked,
One needs the other to exist,
For, when one of them is solved –
The other is, surely, involved.

The answer is the question
What makes life interesting,
A drama of ever pending – 
And never knowing the ending.

We know which is cause or effect,
Which came first and which came next,
Which was reason, which was function – 
Which appeared, which was summoned.

Fire, water, earth and air,
But, a fifth essence is there
The quintessence of what is known – 
The question of the soul.

The question is the process,
And the answer is no, or yes.
But, at last, we take the final step – 
Unquestioning, into the abyss.
















Young Harry seemed simple, or dumb,
Wanting to fly into the sun.
A vivid imagination – 
Leads to creation, and ruination.

One could call it an epiphany,
Trading one life for the many,
Giving up business for the beach –
Where the waves were within reach.

Ambition was bleached by the beach,
There is so much nature can teach.
He was not looking for a career – 
But a purpose, for being here.

Working on a basic premise;
Hearts need to be replenished.
If he could touch them, could reach them –
On the quest, of Harry Beacham.

Harry, he was slow on the go,
Smartest thing he said was, “I don’t know”.
Watching his driftwood dwindle – 
While trying to solve the riddle.

Keeping one busy, on the quest,
Trying to explain random events,
Being a mental material – 
Seen as unreal, surreal, or real.

The down side for an explorer,
Conditions are deplorable,
The natives, always restless – 
When the stranger is progressing.

A case of arrested development,
An infrastructure, settling,
The highway of the disowned – 
Broken bridges of flesh and bone.

The vision quest wants to see
What our lives could really, be.
Only recognizing who we know –
Makes it, exceedingly, hard to grow.

The flow of life comes with the rain,
Liquid energy, in exchange.
One can have it, but not keep it – 
On the quest, of Harry Beacham.


He moved towards self-discovery,
What kind of mine is hovering?
If he knew how his own system worked – 
Would hold the secrets of the universe.

Behold the immaculate conception,
The birth of a consciousness,
In a world, made up, physical – 
On the quest of the quizzical.

The quest is for understanding
The question, and the answer,
While seeking an exit, in a daze –
The maze, keeping us amazed.

On the quest, terrain gets rougher,
The better the way, the tougher.
Getting lost, needs a confession – 
Maybe the curse is the blessing.

On the deathbed of the quest,
Even then, one can only guess
How defeated is unbeaten – 
The legacy of Harry Beacham.

R (rational, reason, ray)


Reaching, reaching across the gaps,
Reaching, from both sides of the synapse,
Reaching, for what will make him think – 
Reaching for the missing link.

Reaching, for what resides inside,
Reaching, for what has crystalized,
The essence of truffles and peaches –
Curling in her inner reaches.

It is a natural instinct to grasp,
Babies grab a finger at first glance.
To forage, to eat, to use a tool – 
Life closes in on what we do.

Reaching, reaching for the Pan,
Reaching, for what we cannot understand,
Reaching, to minimize the pain – 
And the sound which is not restrained.



Reaching, reaching at a goal,
Reaching, to the young, from the old.
Reaching, for what has always been – 
Reaching beyond your ken.

Reaching, reaching for the key,
Reaching, for what is received,
Reaching, for what might set him free – 
Reaching for Eternity.

Reaching, reaching out to a thing,
Reaching, and becoming unhinged.
Reaching, the problem with attachment – 
Slip away gasping, but still grasping.

Reaching, with a withered hand,
Reaching, a feeble old man,
Reaching, the clutch he does not hide – 
Reaching up to the other side.




Rip and tear, rip and tear,
How the plants can get some air.
Rip and tear, rip and tear – 
Away the old growth.

Push and pull, push and pull,
What he saw is what was willed,
Push and pull, push and pull – 
For cutting through.

Cut and dried, cut and dried,
How the low can get high,
Cut and dried, cut and dried – 
Cannot be denied.

Bob and weave, bob and weave,
Gyroscopic, how to be,
Bob and weave, bob and weave – 
Weaving a web.

Leaps and bounds, leaps and bounds,
How to get across the grounds,
Leaps and bounds, leaps and bounds – 
So to get ahead.

Time and place, time and place,
Wonder which one is the base,
Time and place, time and place – 
Wound up in a face.

Heel and toe, heel and toe,
How they keep one on the go,
Heel and toe, heel and toe – 
What we do not know.

Us and them, us and them,
Must we visit this again?
Us and them, us and them – 
Are both the same thing.

On and off, on and off,
Sometimes signals do get crossed,
On and off, on and off – 
A glitch in the switch.

Hit and miss, hit and miss,
Is how we have to deal with this,
Hit and miss, hit and miss – 
Ideas in the air.


Give and take, give and take,
How atomic waves will break,
Give and take, give and take – 
In the ebb and flow.

Back and forth, back and forth,
How the tides adjust our course,
Back and forth, back and forth – 
The pendulum of pending.

No and yes, no and yes,
What is asked, we might have guessed.
No and yes, no and yes – 
But do not forget “maybe”.

Up and down, up and down,
What makes the world spin around,
Up and down, up and down – 
Vibrations are what is found.




The journey begins, we’re on our way,
In the travelogue of a new day,
The Path, widening for the masses – 
Where the plane of time and space, passes.

Oncoming traffic for the driver,
Aware is the only survivor,
When traveling across the distance – 
Beware of a head-on collision.

The highway reaches out for the dead,
But pathways go where others were led.
Road signs have been laid along the side – 
Pointing out the needs of “the long ride”.

Yield is the entrance to the freeway,
The road sign taking us “all the way”,
When driving due west, and fast enough – 
Sunset lasts forever, in the dust.

There is a map of what is to come,
Flat road signs, for a man on the run,
Not like someone escaping his past – 
But bringing on the future, at last.

The “U-TURN” being an exception,
A radical change of direction,
“Don’t panic”, misjudging the surface – 
Mistaking the shoulder for purpose.

A soft shoulder, keep tires on the road,
Treacherous for a heavy load,
A sudden shift and bound to flip – 
Or at least, slipping into the ditch.

Some travelers need to be misled,
When proceeding the wrong way, instead.
Of the safe itinerary, planned – 
Veering off, trying to understand.

We do not read a stop sign, and say,
“This is a pretty good place to stay”.
What would keep us from starting anew – 
No road signs, to tell us what to do.

A vision no wider than the eye
Cannot see his life is passing by,
A blank stare, fixed on one solid line – 
Takes to heart, arrows pointing ONE WAY.


A green light signifies we can go,
The red light is power, stop means no.
A yellow alert, slow down, or rush – 
A hospital zone demands a hush.

The signal is a sign, homeward bound,
So mesmerized by the sights and sounds,
Sometimes forget about the driving –
Only the passenger is riding.

The crosswalk is a road sign, well laid,
The pedestrian has the right of way.
The chicken crossed to the other side – 
Because everybody asked him why.

Can’t turn left without crossing traffic,
Changing lanes, and taking your chances.
The signpost can be informative – 
Keep making right turns is too careful.

The road is heading up, not below,
The incline has changed, so gear it low,
Accelerating, now, is a must – 
Or the climbing up will be too much.


Going downhill, things, really, go down,
Gravity escalates slope of ground,
The weight, adding to the momentum – 
Or applying brakes, to the tension.

We have reached the point of no return,
There is only one thing to be learned;
No service or exit for a while – 
They call it, “going that extra mile”.

The railroad crossing sign is an “X”,
Black, on white, for what it represents;
An unrelenting force in motion – 
And driven by a “loco-motive”.

Defensive replaces daredevil,
A crash course in being more careful.
From fender benders to flattened mass – 
Maneuvers described as “a mad dash”.

Heavy traffic works upon our head,
Like the road rage, of winding up dead.
The rush hour, overload has no clock – 
Better timing will avoid gridlock.


To “all the poor wayfaring strangers”,
Trying to dodge inherent dangers,
Flying by the seat of their pants – 
Lost, with a landmark as their last chance.

Crossing a bridge, in midst of collapse,
The last thing we need is to turn back,
Collect yourself, and continue on – 
This will be one calamity, gone.

Energy is motion on the go,
The trails of taillights, and the eye’s glow,
An after image, produced by zeal – 
Streaming to the web of hyper-real.

You take the high road, and I’ll take the low,
And get to Heaven before you know,
If only the road signs tell me true – 
Both of us are going to get through.

There is no road sign for the high road,
This is one, one must find, on his own,
Off the beaten path, or scenic route –
Is an upgrade, rising to the Truth.


We must walk upon the Golden Path,
Merging all the lanes, into one swath,
Humanity’s surge, down the middle – 
No more road signs, and no more riddles!

The approach will determine the path,
Along the uphill of happenstance,
A rugged climb, or a trail to hop – 
All sides of the hill lead to the top.

When winding to the crest of the hill,
At each turn, the view seems the same, still,
There comes a time we hear the ears “pop” – 
And know the direction is the top.






S (sentience, sentient)


The satanic method is multi-pronged,
A pitchfork of sound and wrong,
Abuse of the power at hand – 
To lambaste the truth out of Man.

The first step is electrical feed,
A slight adjustment, and it bleeds
Static energy, fills the spaces – 
Nervous exhaustion on their faces.

Then, the stalking and surveillance,
An open tail, for intimidation.
Then the aversion technique – 
Anything can make a person freak.

The aversion technique is standard,
The sharp frequency of anger.
Accompanied by any sounding – 
This noise sets the heart to pounding.


A substance, positively charged,
Attracts all the negative at large,
A voodoo tactic reenacted – 
Cursed by an electromagnet.

The second step is placing these “positrons”
Outside relayed to inside, the house
Once spiked, with the teeth of the dragon – 
The electric system will drag on.

The thirds step is the witches’ cauldron,
Redirecting electrical force,
Piggybacking mixed frequencies – 
On a broomstick of the obscene.

This is an invisible attack,
But as real as the back breaking rack,
Or any torturing components – 
Although operated remotely.

Like casting stones, casting a spell
Is electricity, propelled.
Curses, spells and black magic tricks – 
Explained by electrodynamics.


Voodoo uses power of the earth,
But others cast a manufactured curse.
The amps are more than ample – 
To set a very bad example.

Not mind control but brain control,
Stimulus, response, and behold
An application of shock treatment – 
Nerve circuitry, easily tweaked.

Evil is organized, and ready,
While the good are separate, but steady.
Let us brainstorm for protection – 
With refined devices of detection.

High frequency sound, unappeared,
Vibrate the tiny bones in the ear,
Upsetting the sense of balance – 
Irritating strain, unchallenged.

The flying, mythical serpent,
Is being reproduced in current.
They are trying to keep a lid on it – 
But, conversely, make you flip your lid.


An unknown force can move unopposed,
Why the villains need to be exposed;
The neighborhood watch and freemasons – 
Are “the boots on the ground” for Satan.

Those who “protect” the community,
Are sending out waves of lunacy,
Revving genitals to a frenzy –
They are the sexual offenders.

The sisterhood and brotherhood,
Witches and warlocks, of neighborhoods
They are the bullies and busybodies – 
Assaulting people with impunity.

Electronics in assault
Is a future which must be stopped.
What is allowed is what happens – 
When protectors become the captors.

Disguised as a chastisement,
But is persecution, and spiteful.
The arrogance of the entitled – 
Has led to corruption, unbridled.


When glimpsing another dimension,
One is surrounded by henchmen,
And, only, one sure thing is known – 
Being terrorized in his own home.

When the deeds catch up to the name
Their identities may be changed,
But the motif is foreseeable – 
Trying to hold power over people.

Marking a good guy as the villain,
The satanic method is distilling,
Drive them insane and call them crazy –
In entrapment, the truth is hazy.

The elusive is confusing,
Easy to be delusional;
Brains trying to explain something “new” – 
By what it already “knew”.

Difficult to differentiate,
Between the devil, and Satan
From the inner, or the outside – 
The same electric hell is implied.


Satan sets us at odds with ourselves,
What is misrepresented tells
The biggest ruse is in our thinking – 
He does not, even, exist.

There is no Satan, as a being,
But a conglomeration of meanness,
Looming, and dooming each of us – 
Saved, when we have raised consciousness.

Large groups are a liability,
Take no personal responsibility,
Doing what they, otherwise, would not – 
The “mentality” of the mob.

They have professional bad neighbors,
Sick losers, of annoyance,
Destroying what is good, or pleasing –
Displaced facts, supporting bad reasons.

Putting a hold in the roof,
Mess with plumbing, for the spew,
The plague of pestilence, and rot – 
Causing boils, and losing all you’ve got.


A pretense of initiation,
Or enlightened visitations,
Or a high mission, falling down – 
But is only “the ole runaround”.

Invasive and infiltrative,
The temptation of the waiting,
Not the apple, but the red peeling – 
What got us thrown out of Eden.

The scales of justice are forever,
The same weight for each measure.
The gravity of intention – 
To equalize all of this tension.

There are methods, way beyond detection,
Like that of astral projection,
Remote viewing, mental eavesdropping – 
Always know what we are plotting.

If there is no defense, take offense,
For doing nothing is complicit.
Charging, into the jaws of hell – 
Raises a point, where the facts fell.


The rites of passage have been ravaged,
And must be returned to passive.
So there is but one conclusion – 
The reign of Satan must be concluded.

The end comes too late, and too soon,
When looking for brighter rooms.
By our spirit, time has been tossed –
And it is Satan hanging on the cross.










The clay model of a man,
A talent, meant to expand.
Spirit is the fire, which is fanned – 
“With the whole world in his hands”.

The sculptor can see his duty,
Breaking new ground for the future,
Polishing the energy of mass – 
A spitting image of the cast.

His presence was clear, and well-seasoned,
He cut quite a figure in his region,
Chiseled features, well-built frame – 
He and the stone seemed much the same.

All of us are sculpting, in our home,
“Just chipping away at the stone”,
Looking for some recognition – 
Trying to hold on, to cognition.

Magnetic racks, holding position,
The loadstone of omission,
Locked up force, the sculptor frees – 
The “philosopher’s stone” of energy.

After he had been around the block,
Looking for the life within the rock,
The posture which must be taken – 
On the cutting edge of creation.

The marble, harder than the bone,
Unique in texture, and in tone.
Carving out the nose, to face –
The finishing touches, unerased.

The sculpture has an unveiling,
An engraved invitation
To an initial viewing – 
With apprehension of approval.

First, he does the “chizzle-whizzle”,
A little pixie dust, in the middle,
And looks, deep into the grain –
Seeing the patterns, already there.

How the sculpture is attained;
A single blow will show no change,
But repeated, time after time – 
Now, we can start to see, the lines.


Kinetic energy, in a “whack!”
Wearing down, at points of impact.
Strains of contours are the result – 
Of how lives are battered about.

He has his work cut out for him,
The quandary of the quarry,
Seeking the saw, winch and crane –
And the correspondence of the same.

The sculptor works in three dimension,
The solid matter of the length,
The more etheric width – 
The astral depths of a wish.

The sculptor embodies life-size,
Makes what he can visualize.
But when using what he has seen – 
What is perceived is a figurine.

Being bolder than the boulder,
“In the eye of the beholder”,
Reinventing the stance –
Understood, with only a glance.


Totem poles start as a “hatchet job”
What is not needed, from the log.
The shaman points out the beings –
At the various levels, of meaning.

The arm and hammer of the wield,
Impetus to make the earth yield
The idea, for which he was born – 
Return the truth to where it was torn.

Ice sculptures, for a fine dine,
In geological time,
Life melting, before our eyes – 
But the sharp image never dies.

The excess must be stripped away,
“Let the chips fall where they may”.
He pulls out features, in reverse – 
As motion sculpts the universe.

Not a mason, but a real artist,
The “graven image” is part of him,
His visions, like a Visitation – 
Have a special dispensation.


Freezing history, sculptors hone
The pages, written in stone, 
The ages, held in a relief –
A message, from out of the deep.

An implied movement, of the psyche,
The terra forming of the likely,
But when the statues walk and talk – 
The spectators can only gawk.

It is not out of stone, we are cast,
There is a chance to change the past,
By giving it meaning, in the future – 
There is always room for improvement.

A physical expression of thought,
He carved his place into the rock,
And could see, before very long – 
The sculptor, himself, was being formed.

His craft rose from critical
To the metaphysical.
By brimstone the way was paved –
Until the last sculpture, on his grave.

T (truth)


Percolating through the veins,
Bubbling up to the brain,
Coffee may be light, or murky –
The reason is the same; perky.

The coffee goes from plant, to plant,
Where it is processed, or canned.
Sipping on the dark brown nectar – 
Is the journey of the senses.

The “jack me up” phenomenon,
People have a lot going on,
Plugged into the entire planet – 
Better connected to abandon.

The café, seats some wired persons,
The exotic, or the house blend.
Too much coffee, and information – 
With not enough time left, to think.


Up for days, to hallucinate,
We continue to percolate,
Seeing double, and the ghosts appear – 
“From out of the woodwork” to here.

Stayed up all night, for a good night’s sleep,
Have not seen morning for a week,
And never seen a mourning like this – 
Going through hell, to get the first sip.

Around the world they drink the brew
With impulse control gone askew,
Magnetic fields, wildly shaking – 
From the magic beans, to awaken.

The jitters are decaffeinated
But are, increasingly, happening.
Sharp vibrations, of electronics – 
Cannot be blamed on too much coffee.

The past is led by the pastry,
The memory of a bakery.
A favorite pastime, naughty – 
Combining with too much coffee.


They used to say “dollars for doughnuts”,
The future, with a hole in it,
Inflation of money and time – 
“I take milk and sugar in mine”.

The sweet, the bitter, and neutral,
Before and after the strudel, 
Each fixed to his own taste – 
Not to be prejudged, in haste.

Donuts lose their holes, when eaten,
Or are they still there, in the medium,
A whole world, made of strange air – 
With the essence of shape, bared.

“The dough nut” is a spherical line,
All and nothing at the same time,
Out of the Pan, and into the Fire – 
Being finished, under the wire.

A doughnut shape is helium,
Containing itself in the meaning.
Radiating all around – 
Reproduced as solid sound.


The polarity of confections,
Positive and negative sections,
And one attracts the other –
Circling the center, in a hover.

Light around a solar doughnut,
Emanations of the corona,
From the focal point, of the riddle –
Life, with a hole in the middle.

Without the hold, donuts are undone,
Then the Earth would have only buns.
The emptiness of definition –
Not what it is, but what it isn’t.

The doughnut is not a “do not”,
Not a “do nut” or a “don’t nut”,
Maybe a crazy recharging –
When washed down, with too much coffee.

Excited, high frequency waves,
Is how the coffee fiend behaves
Bobbing, and grinding of the teeth – 
Disconnected tales of release. 


Too many brash vibrations
Are produced by innovations,
Nervous systems being jolted – 
Electric brains overloaded.

Power prospers on our suffering,
Until there is no more buffering,
“Enough is enough!  Too much is too much!” –
Too much coffee in the cup.

The perking is the beginning
Of the morning, or the evening,
The grounds, never getting older – 
Too much coffee on my shoulders.

Coffee coughs up the toxins
An herbal cleanse, inner washing.
Essential oils, softening the skin – 
Until the caffeine starts to kick in.

Time makes coffee, brewing restless,
“When do we get a break?”, is the question.
The answer is in the offing –
Too much coffee, to the coffin.


In destruction, we might wonder “why?”;
“It takes a typhoon to make things fly”.
Sometimes we need a blow to quiver – 
Life is always glad to deliver.

The tornado is engaged by change,
Charging across the magnetic plains,
Inducing rotation of the wind – 
With the generation of a spin.

There is truth to the tornado,
Gain more power, the faster we go,
But soon, the form will peter out – 
Leaving scenery strewn all about.

The fox in the wind is never blown,
Conceived belief, before he was grown,
To fix his mind on one certain goal – 
The rest is sorted out by the soul.

The way it is, the way it should be,
The time to bow to our destiny,
Crisis, opportunity; the same word – 
There must be a reason this occurred.

The waterspout gushes a warning,
Spouting the wisdom of the dawning,
Funneling the power, down to earth – 
How excess energy is dispersed.

Cyclones are popping up, anywhere,
Appearing here, and disappearing there.
They are all torn from one Tornado – 
The Earth has its own alter-ego.

The land of the twister and sister,
Where the whining starts as a whisper,
When the “valve of a tornado” falls – 
From breaking through the etheric walls.

A ventriloquist, of awesome sound,
Who can throw his voice across the ground,
Never knowing from where it was sent – 
No direction to bewilderment.

On the edge, it’s not easy to tell
Which side is heaven, and which is hell,
The true nature of the universe – 
Seems to be what we think, in reverse.


The march of progress leaves us behind,
The route of a tornado is blind.
Conflict demands its own insistence –
Then, takes the “path of least resistance”.

A twist of fate can bring on magic,
Just as quick, a life can turn tragic,
A twisted version of existence –
Where persistence leads to extinction.

A whirling dervish, objectified,
Seems a demon, to the traumatized,
A curious sight to observers – 
Until rearing up, on returning.

Angular momentum disasters,
As contracting, becoming ghastly.
Anyone who gets within its swath – 
Is at the mercy of random wrath.

There is but one way to stop their course,
With an equal, and opposite force,
Where the mass and energy will meet –
The two tornados dropped at her feet.


The tornado does not writhe, hell bent,
More of a purgatorial event,
Purging sins which cannot be reckoned – 
A kind of monsoon which was beckoned.

Funnels are as funny as funerals,
A fundamental bi-lateral,
With the vortex, still, in a shifting – 
One is sinking, and one uplifted.

Dorothy’s tornado will soon come,
Blowing one by one to Kingdom Come,
Through the deepest forests of lost dreams – 
Where nothing is really as it seems.

A strong storm blows against the empire,
A hurricane, of what is required,
A tornado, to knock down debris – 
There’s no wind yet, but I feel a breeze!

Roving tunnels harness rogue forces,
And plow new pathways, in wild courses,
To land in the whirl of a moment –
From the eye of a Tornado, Spent.


U (united)


The space of a life span is narrow,
Seven and seven, and an arrow.
Riding upon a beam of light – 
The moment stands still, at the sight.

Time is a farce, the joke is on us,
A comic link to consciousness,
Easily severed from forever – 
With the flat punchline of “never”.

A different time is a different place,
The relationship of life and space,
The continuance and the change – 
As the matter is rearranged.

Mankind moving at the speed of time,
Slowing down to get behind,
Speeding up to get ahead –
Going fast, and waiting, to be dead.


Time takes its toll on the heart,
Why the days are split apart,
Between awakening, and sleep –
Is the timetable we must keep.

People passing through what matters,
The air, of decomposing tatters.
Keeping up appearances, we fall – 
For time makes fools of us all.

Under gross physical time,
Where, naturally, we draw the line
Through what must be crossing over –
The curve of unknowing, and knowing.

Tunnels of time, through which we drive,
From the sunshine, the way will hide,
A wormhole, to a new place – 
On the other side of outer space.

One can only justify time going by
Accomplishing something, fine,
Or enjoying what sunsets are left – 
Until “better off dead” is best.


One thinks “there is time”, but there is not.
It is the reality of thought,
A mental embrace, only felt – 
By the separation of Self.

Time discloses what is possible,
When the effects, are optimal,
And the action is optional – 
When the subject is topical.

The aeon of the ions,
Positive and negative vie on,
With a neutral soul on the go – 
We have time to guess how this is so.

We could say, “It magically appeared”,
Or, “was programed for each year”,
Unwinding into our would lives – 
Where only good timing survives.

The present, quickly becomes unreal,
Waiting for the future to congeal,
Or break apart, from a neglect – 
Never knowing what to expect.


Under the spell of cursed time
Mental faculties in a bind.
Savor what has not passed over, yet – 
Sometimes a moment is all we get.

The truth about time and torment,
The Spirit has become dormant 
For the regeneration process – 
Where the grapes of wrath are pressed.

Unimpressed by the compression,
To allow natural expression,
With an explosion of emotion – 
A movement posed, as a notion.

Time is an excellent filter
To sift the truth from the filler.
An apparatus, so transparent –
We can see through what is apparent.

The future contains the past,
Ties it up, and holding fast,
Lasso of a lesson, taken to task – 
Bundled in the questions we ask.


Conduct ourselves in the present
To send descendants a message,
Like showing kindness to animals –
Making the future more amicable.

Time can be seen, as  utility,
Underneath the futility,
An engaging theory will prevail – 
Exploring beyond the veil.

We think of time, in a line, straight,
But, maybe, is a “figure eight”,
Moving forward is a fact – 
And simultaneously sliding back.

Movie time is quite flexible,
A single day, or epic spectacle,
Compressed into a few hours – 
Gazing at visual flowers.

Everything happens all at once,
Time slows, life down, to have some fun,
And to make difficult decisions –
To become more efficient.


The present is the past in the making,
Looking back, change is forsaken,
But, now, we can have no regrets –
With an overview which makes sense.

Personal time, and time as a whole,
A roundabout, each with a goal,
A whale of a story, for example – 
How we came to be mammals.

The freezing and thawing of fissures,
A liquid creation of fission,
The freefall of a water fountain – 
The monument of a mountain.

The Earth is reborn around the sun,
Each year conceives a new one,
A revolution of thought – 
The resolution we sought.

Time is transmitted, in waves,
Resonance is how a man behaves.
Speaking in frequencies – 
We can only get what is received.


Desperation finds the later years,
“After fifty”, end of a career.
The signal is growing weaker – 
But stronger in effect, for the seeker.

The “time of our lives” is the now,
There is no guaranteed tomorrow.
The good die young, maybe finish first – 
Reached their goal, or their limit.

Time will not tell, all her secrets,
Maybe half, for a happy medium.
The temple of the temporal – 
From mortality to Immortal!

Buried, in what was left behind,
Under the ground of the divine,
Time is seen as discontinuity –
But is where the years bear a Unity.





Duality, the land of the duel,
Sunrise eyes see more neutral,
The altercation causing havoc – 
Is not as desperate as such action.

A world, divided, by attraction,
The dark desire well enacted.
What the lover must, one day, face –
He is looking in the wrong place.

The sphere of unity, shattered,
Separated and fragmented,
Becoming heated in the turning – 
The halls of Babylon are burning!

Division is a sharp earthquake,
A crack in the world we make,
The destruction of any goal – 
Fault lines running through the whole.

The wobble is from the white noise,
Reeling from the explosion,
From plant, to man and planet – 
Is the recoil of the atoms.

Parts working independently,
Compensating constantly,
Is an exercise in lunacy – 
Until attaining unity.

Union is the very basis,
Everything came from the same place
And returning, even as we speak – 
What has always been is what will be.

A universe of one verse,
The choir of Earth should rehearse.
Harmony, a union of voices –
Making the same vocal choices.

We are aiming at compassion,
Tolerance as the last bastion,
Looking for what is similar – 
And what is unequivocal.

What we all want is quite the same,
Peaceful enjoyment of domain,
The sanctity of the dome – 
Which all humans call their home.


Each neighborhood is divided
Vigilantes are overriding
Any semblance to unity –
Or sense, of community.

A unitive experience,
Body and soul, in correspondence.
“Through fire and blood” is undone – 
By the Salvation Army of Love.

Electric charges, flowing singly,
A chain of power, intermingling.
But, held in a negative unit – 
The impulse is to undo it.

For the world is interactive,
Satisfaction of both factors.
The pendulum is stuck, on one side –
And time is trying to survive.

How much pain must be dispensed
To bring an end to violence?
When the arms are neutralized –
Neither side can be brutalized.


True justice is not blind, but sighted,
To see beyond the indicted,
To set an example, for rational – 
By not executing the natural.

Unity is a transcendent state,
Combining to individuate.
When the distinction is minimal – 
The message is subliminal.

The separation of existence,
A balancing act of distance,
From complexity, to confusion – 
“Gone fission”, when is should be fusion.

The fuse of fusion has been lit,
The time it takes for ignition,
Consuming itself with conducive – 
Destruction is not exclusive.

Vengeance is why we battle on,
Let us, now, “forget the Alamo!”
The “numero uno” of advancement – 
The union of humanity.


Light is integral, and true,
Polarity united for the view,
Both the subject, and the object – 
The logo for innate logic.

No one can escape their Karma,
Arriving as we departed,
Heaven and hell, right here on Earth – 
Mind spreading across the rebirths.

United are the divisions,
By their very existence.
Two halves of a hole, and the poles – 
One rocks, while the other rolls.

There is freedom in unity,
No us and them, only we.
No conflict, only resolution – 
“No problems”, only solutions.

Each has a functional mode,
An integral part of the whole.
But unity can never exist –
As long as there, still, are victims.


V (existence)


“Bio-energy”, off the charts,
Seeing a positive charge,
The story of life, on this planet – 
Pending good times, ending badly.

A natural victim of death,
Truth is beating in the breast,
Loving, while the heart is breaking –
Hoping, as we are forsaken.

We are victims of violence,
Unnecessary nonsense.
Whatever pains are inflicted – 
The one screaming is the victim.

The victim is always in danger,
Pushing his buttons, to anger,
He cannot help but panic –
Because when shocked, we spasm.


They yell bloody murder, with cause;
Electromagnetic assault.
A victim of blind speculation – 
All are right, but, mostly, mistaken.

The evil will bring out the worst,
At the weakest point, starts to hurt,
Putting negatives at the head –
Get them “dead to rights”, but not dead.

Battling away every day,
Running the gauntlet, the narrow way,
Pray if you like, but be forewarned –
Satan is a part of God.

He prayed, and was preyed upon,
Some victims cannot last too long,
Having been reduced, to livid –
Seems life is, no longer, worth living.

Pull the bullet from the head!
Hell goes on, alive or dead.
There is no escape, from the trigger –
Or the infernal signal.


The wreck of the Reckoning,
The victim’s grave is beckoning,
Better the person, the worse the curse –
Cause and effect, in reverse.

The offenders are pretenders,
The ones on the offensive,
Offensive to sensibilities –
Their, misdirected, abilities.

In descent, we needed the stern,
Hot and sharp to make us learn.
Now, nothing can be accomplished –
Until “the process” is abolished.

Brains are linked, magnetically,
A gridiron, of mob “mentality”,
A base connection, but strong – 
“Might makes right” and might makes wrong.

What must be fought; wrong thinking,
A false premise is insidious,
Makes falsity seem logical –
The sign of the diabolical.


The prevalence of ignorance,
Even doctors cannot give guidance.
The diagnosis and the dictum – 
Must remember, they too, are victims.

A plague of complacency,
“This is not happening to me”,
Who might be the next to fall –
What happens to one, happens to all.

“It takes a village” to raise a villain,
For citizens must be willing
To foster such an existence –
Choosing Barabbas over Jesus.

The Earth is a victim of “unreal”,
Disrupting our magnetic field.
Why everything is falling apart – 
And cannot finish what we start.

We must stop the block on the masses,
Keeping mankind from advancing.
The need for release is foreboding –
To save the world, from exploding!


Hoarding a wealth of knowledge,
The power, giving them the edge.
The perpetrators, of the lies – 
Clouding our eyes, and the skies.

We are victims of satanic fore,
War and division, their resource.
The basest element of society –
Enforcing our priorities.

We need a new device, for stunning,
As the hunter becomes the hunted.
Currents returned to their source –
To stunt the evil use of the force.

The guilty like to play “the crazy card”,
“He rants and raves and hollers, hard!”
You know these losers are winning –
When the victims are seen as the villains.

There are two kinds of people, altogether,
The ones who know what afflicts us,
And the vast majority, unsplit –
Who will not believe a word of it.


They have no one to speak for the,
The lost shields of Jerusalem.
The conflicted are not insane –
But the unheard victims, of Satan.

Pestilence, brought down on heads,
Cares not how far the rot will spread,
Until the infliction reaches them –
Will they come to understand the victim.

Prisoners of what we have not,
The locking up, of, even, thought.
I scream, as Moses did to Pharaoh – 
“Out of bondage, let my people go!”

The past has had enough torture,
Now the dark side wants the future.
We are making a new history – 
When victims march off, in victory.





Hearing voices is not psychotic,
A sensitivity to sonic.
Our reaction is the gauge –
How to behave, or be afraid.

The psyche has its own voices,
The inner urge to make choices.
Even though “silence is golden” – 
The “silver tongue” has spoken.

The problem with psychology
Is lack to understand the psyche.
They can practice their psychiatry – 
But are not going to practice on me!

The “little voice”, mostly unheard,
Conscience would like to have a word,
“Is this what you really want to do –
As a symbol of gratitude”?

When the living daylights are gone,
And the sights have moved beyond,
All is left is what was yearned – 
And the voices which were heard.

W (waves)


The first one said, “Let there be light”.
The second one added, “And a sentient “1””.
The third one stated, after the flood – 
“Let there be mud”.
Space is iced, for cold fusion,
A stellar generator, of human.
With molten metal, under our feet – 
Circulating waves of cold and heat.
Form and motion on a sound,
Time riding along a song,
A melody, and a beat – 
The waves of “in tune”, when they meet.
Constantly receding, like moments,
Cannot catch a wave going out,
Interference patterns, incoming – 
Show how the future is summoned.


Mood is the barometer,
Up and down like a thermometer,
Running hot, or not, sense the change – 
The equilibrium of sustained.
Hanging on for dear life,
As we move from side to side,
Like a vine across a swamp –
To know when to let go, of want.
A speedboat on a tranquil lake,
Of a setting too complacent,
Living fast and leaving wakes – 
The nature of existence, in waves.
Not all waves are lazy days;
Frenetic beaches in a rage,
A tsunami, of raw emotion – 
Electrical charge, of commotion.
A hover, like a mother, sees
A set of responsibilities,
A pilot wave, through our lives – 
Leading everyone toward the light.


Sliding down, riding on happy,
Climbing back up, on what happens.
The pinnacle is the altitude – 
On the waves of an attitude.
Motivation is the solution,
And the means of execution.
The wave of time, we are biding – 
Is not waiting, for deciding.
We like what we are most like,
Sympathetic vibrations of right,
The major C, or a minor key – 
The wave of an identity.
In a negative world, do we live,
Electrons streaming in a loose fit.
For positive charges to proceed – 
Must “make some waves” to where they lead.
The only way for right thinking
Is to believe what you are seeing,
And not what is only heard – 
Unverified, and mostly, absurd.


Out on the cutting edge of thought
Are electronic waves of salt
And potassium, crossing the gaps –
Of the questions we want to ask.
The crossroads, of the intellect,
The ley lines of the intersect,
Where the invisible might be seen – 
At the junction, of what this might mean.
Points of reference, combined,
With points of consciousness, aligned
In points of view, pointing at who – 
Get the point, of a star, and  you.
The star is generating waves,
An electromagnetic haze,
Mixing and matching in a maze – 
The trial and error of our days.
There is no way life can be bent,
Without leaving a scar, or a dent
Force forming, and looking for a vent – 
The wave of where it came, and went.


There is a wrinkle, of wave patterns,
Imprinted on the face and caverns,
Written, on the surface, and inside –
Sketchy lines leading to our guide.
From Netherland to the Everafter
Is the core of the matter,
And what surround Earth, and man – 
A multilayered wave of hands.
The photo-electric effect,
Which cannot be deflected.
We are perception, although blind – 
A complex, in the waves of design.
If ever we lived
Then never did die
A deep impression
Does not subside.




X (The Ether)


Helene of Troy launched a thousand ships,
Bows protruding, to free her lips.
Elysian yearn for a Grecian urn – 
This is why the Trojans would soon burn.

Hell and Helene went hand in hand,
Upon an etheric land.
Then, across the waves, was the task – 
Of bringing the missing back.

Her eyes were flashing the oceans,
From green, to blue, and telling.
From aquamarine to turquoise – 
From willing to “I have no choice”.

This myth is not about “Helen of Troy”,
But, representative of a ploy.
An ancient warning about Satan – 
Trojan horse of infiltration.


Achilles, carried off on his shield,
No longer could maintain his heel,
The field was pushed to its limit –
Those land maneuvers were finished.

The prominent son of Darius,
Young Xerxes was nefarious,
The “Persian flaw” of giving in – 
To the evil which dwells within.

Xerxes, like a method actor,
Had become the “X-factor”
Which always has a tragic end – 
So, as not to impose on other men.

Xerxes saw quickened as victims,
Plundering the heart of the kingdoms,
A fleeting elite of the beaten – 
People, cowering at their feet.

His wrath was cast at the west,
Like a wraith, holding on, after death,
A stubborn bundle of force – 
Legions approaching the Green shores.


To lure them into the shallows,
Restricting their modes of action,
With Greek fire, and a narrow channel –
Tipped the tide of the battle.

The Greeks stopped Xerxes with attitude,
Would not give up refined, to crude.
“What art has such power?”, the King cried –
“Beauty for its own sake”, they replied.

Alexander brought Greek to its peak
But went beyond of what we speak.
His conquest of the Earth led to naught – 
Possession is “to have and have not”.

Won the battles, but lost the war,
For the world was, soon, Roman.
But, the Spartans did not die in vain – 
On their graves, effort is sustained.

Odysseus returned from the Sea,
Where visions outlined his destiny,
To clear the halls, of false suitors –
And regain what is undisputed.


Minerva, the soul of wisdom,
On whom, the mystery hinges,
The “talking in tongues”, of agony – 
Is saying, “It’s all Greek to me”.

The temples, the ruins, and lost pages,
The broken years of dark ages,
The amnesia of a race – 
Still trying, to find a small trace.

The Golden Age of Greece never died,
Walls fell on the heads of those who tried
To control the fate of human lives – 
Their heart of love, forever survives.







There were three, in the singularity
Sound and light, explosively!
The third might be called, “Cosmic Us” – 
What is known as consciousness.

Yes, the big bang is still around
The background noise, of each sound, 
White noise, ever vibrating –
The xylophone is radiating.

Sound is the original motion,
Riding radio waves of notions.
Taking form, “only in our heads” – 
Transformed, to what is being said.

Waves of pressure, formative sound,
Leaving an impression all around
Setting in motion a series –
Of moving shapes, and queries.

The tone of a mood or a tune,
The reception of attitude.
We walk upon hollow sound – 
When treading on the hallowed ground.

Volume is a link of sound and space,
Amplitude and the size it takes,
How much there is going to be – 
Is equal to the energy.

Acoustics affect the xylophone,
There is a time and a place for echoes,
Somewhere outside, or well aligned – 
For the repercussions of design.

Percussion is the underlying theme,
The backdrop to a melody,
Where we, extremely, feel the heat – 
The downbeat, and the upbeat.

Acting upon our energy centers,
The excitement of the senses,
Rearranging neural patterns – 
The power of sound, in action.

Percussion is a sound of choice
“Yes!”.  With the intonation of voice,
From the primitive, tribal drum – 
To the tapping of the fingers, “hum-drum”.


The xylophone of being alone,
No one wants to hear the sharp tone,
The hammering out of an idea – 
Which needs to ring out, very clear!

Feeding disharmony, and discord
Noise seems to be evil’s “theme song”.
The value of sounding out depends – 
On if it is used as a weapon.

Sonic movements are prevailing
And carry us to our failings
Under comes the undulating – 
The cumbersome of vibrations.

The xylophone starts with the bass,
Going up, as to increase the range,
To accompany the other side – 
The right sequences must be applied.

Like dog whistles, the silent scream,
Unheard, this high frequency,
Until received, and taken effect – 
As a nervous system defect.


Sound in consciousness is churning,
Eternal turning and turning,
Cycles and rounds and rings – 
A circular, expanding thing.

Some believe the Word is song,
We send it out, but is never gone,
Reverberating through all things –
Rising up again, when we sing.

The plucking of light on sound,
The rhythm of dancing around,
A glass harp of fine force fields – 
The music of the spheres on your heels.

All melodies are from one song,
Which can only play for so long.
The lyrics are the words we spoke – 
And the music stops, on the last note.




Y (soul)


The slender thread made us wise,
By putting a twist to the fiber,
Strengthening the potential –
And the rest was consequential.

Rays of light power up the Earth,
Yellow, stringing through the dirt,
A current of thread is fed – 
Growing hair, right out of our head.

Strains of force, crossed for strength,
An electromagnetic net,
A grid, around Man and planet – 
The yellow strings of understanding.

Philosophers expound on the “why?”,
Some say a way to make us try,
Sometimes seems we grasp at straws – 
The subtle yellow strings of because.


In need, indeed, of a yellow string,
To form a continuous link,
For tying up the ends, of discord –
Affliction of the untethered force.

In the sewing of the two seams,
The stitch is stronger than it seems,
Instead of the weak point, of never – 
The future of the suture is forever.

The string looms large in textiles,
Weaving civilization, meanwhile,
A twine for binding together – 
The fabric of something better.

Science is stringing us along,
“Unexplained data must be wrong”.
But time has a tale to tattle – 
Pull on one string, the whole thing unravels.

The yellow strings of a daisy,
Within the morphic fields of maybe,
Raw feed, flowing from the center – 
And the circuits of roots are entered.


Moveable roots, as we walk around,
What is keeping us touched down,
Creeping up the spine, and limbs –
Exertion, bringing it all in.

The nose is a bundle of restraint,
Hardwired to the base of the brain,
Soft wired to the baser urges – 
Reining in as the power surges.

The spiral of the emphasized,
A spring is a string, solidified,
With energy patterns attached –
To cushion the jolt of the flat.

Musical strings, through all things,
Atoms, dancing to vibrations.
This world is a tone, to implement – 
And we are but the instrument.

Played by the piper we have payed.
In the timbre of which each is made.
The wind, the stringed, or percussion – 
All can add a little something.


The texture of life takes many forms,
The yellow strings of being worn,
Look for the common thread, it is there – 
And will lay the truth threadbare.

The strand is difficult to grasp,
Through the eye of a needle, tasked,
To finesse, will take quite a knack – 
But can always, follow it back.

The quantum entanglement of space
Ties us to a puppetry place,
Pulling our strings, wrapping around – 
Any object within its bounds.

Vocal cords, tied up in a knot,
A tightrope of how to talk,
Dangling, at the end of our rope – 
Waiting for the yellow strings of hope.

Fine wires carry the force to feel,
Strangers strung out on the surreal.
When tapping etherical strings –
This will change everything.


We live in an air of yellow strings,
The thrilling of an attainment,
The reasonable part of mystical – 
Bringing awareness, to physical.

They elect to have some “intel”,
The intellect, and the tell,
An astral communication – 
Yellow strings of information.

The devil is in league with Satan,
But answers to the soul, in waiting.
Salome has the secrets of matter – 
And Saint John’s head, on a platter.

Pulling time, the burden of beast,
Wearing a harness or a leash.
But when, running out of strength – 
The lifeline has reached its length.

The silver thread is fixed fast,
Until reaching critical mass,
And fling the cling to all things –
On the wings of Yellow Strings.


A ball of light unfolded, and stood up,
A brain inspired by a walnut,
An outside formed from the inside –
An implication to decide.

The Uncertainty Principle at work
The physical sciences of quirks,
A chaos theory of mayhem – 
With no unifying system, yet.

“Yet” so implies a future,
On a pathway of truisms,
Yet, feet are falling for falsity –
When trail signs are clear to see.

Sometimes, yet is upon us,
“I’m not ready yet”, he sputters,
Yet, the moments did collide –
And, late found he was denied.

Memory stays, mostly forgotten,
An etheric function, the recalling,
Maybe, because we must forget – 
Certain things, not remembered, yet.

Yet implies there is something more,
Setting up a pattern of force,
So increasing the chances –
Such a situation will happen.

All through our lives, companions
Live a life of utter abandon,
Other dimensions, on the go – 
But what they do, we do not know, yet.

The fall of angels, end of paradise,
Some say they jumped, to some surprise,
Yet, why did they descend to disgrace –
Perhaps to feel the breeze on their face.

There is a crack in the world, of faith,
An earthquake on a frozen lake,
An image, dropping down to hell – 
Melting, sinking into our self.

The suffering of September,
A suicidal dilemma,
Foliage, looking forward to death –
But remember, “It ain’t over, yet”.


Explanations are for confusing,
A Tower of Babel, in delusion.
Action is the same in any language – 
And no one is being challenged, yet.

“Tear down the wall!”  To abide
With the east and the west side,
Between faith, and ancient knowledge –
Misery with little solace, yet.

The gamble of never knowing
How cards fall, or dice are rolling,
Not seeing the reality yet – 
Hope can only make The Alpha Bet.

They are split personalities,
Venus, and Venus in blue jeans.
Living souls, sliced hearts of gold – 
But do not want to be whole – yet.

The soul radiates all directions,
Dissension and Ascension,
Until encompassing it all – 
Into one serendipitous ball.


Z (zone)


Zero, zero, nobody wins,
Zero, zero, in a counter spin.
Zero, zero, tail end of the dollar – 
Zero, zero, becoming hollow.

Zero, zero, how we are born,
Two nothings, being something,
Through the infusion of life – 
Twirling, little circles of light.

Drawing in, all we can hold,
The organizing factor of soul,
The ions of mass, invitro – 
The dynamo of zero-zero.

Zero, zero, before the binary,
Both are the same, primarily,
Though occupying separate places –
Amidst what is the basis.


Both sides want the other to change,
A dangerous rearrangement,
And neither will be satisfied – 
With zero, zero in override.

The binary system is distraught,
Either as we want, or not.
Zero, one, an infinite dance – 
With zero, zero as the last chance.

Zero, zero, the days are unfolding,
Bonded together by their motion,
Turning away from each other – 
For the function of the Hover.

Zero, zero are interlocked,
By the force of the rock,
Turning, and returning into shape –
The perpetual motion of fate.

Zero, zero can be a symbol
Of a mutual disapproval,
One spinning forward, for movement – 
While the other goes back, for removal.

Nature needs the compensation
To balance the equation.
With addition comes subtraction –
The zero, zero of mathematics.

Zero, zero is mathematical proof,
One cannot lie to the truth.
Zero, zero, false begets false –
And the solution comes to a halt.

Zero, zero is “fifty-fifty”, too,
Having nothing and nothing has you,
Nothing holding us in suspense –
Needs zero, zero, for a hundred percent.

“All things are equal to themselves”,
Is zero, zero in a nutshell,
The two hemispheres of life –
In the conservation of light.

Two for you, and only one for me,
The counting, making both uneasy.
Cannot take too much from the gaps – 
Or the whole will go into collapse.


When the hoarders have taken all,
They have insured their own downfall,
The sun setting into the evening –
Is zero, zero, getting even.

Revenge is not getting even,
But an escalation of evil,
“One-upping” until there is no more –
Raise the bar, until there is a war.

Zero, zero, what a pair of losers,
The choosers versus the bruisers.
Tolerant of the intolerance – 
What zero, and zero have in common.

Zero, zero, a happy medium,
Unattached and unimpeded,
Both existing at the same time – 
The point is where they draw the line.

Zero, zero is an attitude,
Without disruption to the mood,
With no impulsive behavior – 
How nothing can be a savior.


Time is zero, zero, better hurry,
Late is not the same as early,
But neither is too punctual –
The zero hour, of functional.

Add as many zeros as you like,
Zero, zero always turns out right.
Cannot be reduced to any number – 
A solution to be remembered.

Zero, zero, split the difference
Into something consistent,
With a total advantage – 
For both mankind, and the planet.

Ten to ten, could be zero, zero,
The differences are equal,
And the sameness is exact – 
Everything alike, except the facts.

We win or lose, as it sails,
A flipped coin, heads or tails.
Time will wager, “won or lost” – 
But is zero, zero, during the toss.


Zero, zero, one is allowed to choose,
Any combination of the two,
To take up space, but transcendent – 
Carried over, and over, again.

Zero, zero, the end of letters,
An even bet, or even better,
The odds are astronomical –
On either one being dominant.

The figures lose their deep meaning,
When either way we are leaning,
Time and space interrupts –
And says “Zero, zero, your number is up”.

Evil is no longer viable,
Destroying goodness, in reprisal.
For the villain, and the hero – 
The finish will be zero, zero.

Each is a whole, in and of itself,
A hydrogen molecule, propelled.
Zero, zero, fused into one –
Inside the circle of the sun.


Like the sun, our nature is one,
A shared awareness, on the run.
The singularity is complete –
But zero, zero still has two feet.

The numbers change, and the faces,
Erased, and leaving few traces
Of the lives they have comprised –
But zero, zero never dies.

Zero, zero, everybody wins,
For nobody loses a thing,
Except the weight, and pressure –
As zero, zero rises to forever.








To be in the zone
And not alone.

To be in despair
And not to care.

In gratitude
Is how we try – 

With one finger
Pointing to the sky!


© Copyright 2018 jc carey. All rights reserved.