Crying Every Day

The following poem was written by hand in a motel
Due to evacuation during the Oregon wildfires;
The first time I wrote by hand in many moons

Crying Every Day


So when does the crying every day stop?

When does the party
On every street with music
And dancing celebration
Magic food and recreation

When the sunny summer
Picnic family reunion
Billows through the trees
On the lake
Running like a child
Or did it ever really happen

When does the violence in the street stop?
When do the poor and the hungry
And the broken
And the reviled
And the nothings
And the less than nothings dismantled
Disremembered disrememberings

Or is there anything the matter at all?


You once called me a great man

I don’t get the feeling
You’re so proud of me anymore
Held with nature’s sacred implements
To grind the ego down
For a song
In chimes of freedom ringing
Evil into good
Agony into love
Lust into enlightenment

You blew the dust from your palm
Into the night

A stampede of blue butterflies
Garlanded the sun


If there was a truth to tell
From where all the lonesome truth’s reside
If there was a word to say
That would make her broken spirit fly
If there was a song to sing
That made the bells of heaven ring
If there was a touch to touch
Within the swirling hurricane
If there was a walk to walk
If there was a stand to stand
If there was a kiss to kiss
Or just when we are holding hands

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