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Acted Upon

I open myself, so the door can enter in.
It has a keyhole in the shape of a key.

I go home, let my shoes kick me off
That I may allow my couch to rest,
Then talk relentlessly to the TV.

But wait, what is that noise?
The fridge growls at my stomach,
So I allow it to eat me;
I am a tasty snack.

The couch returns,
The TV continues to stare.
For the rest of the evening,
The hands on the clock spin me around.

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Angels Are Here

The bitter cold burns us to our bones,
But angels are here.
We drag heavy loads across endless wilderness,
But angels are here.
Our feet bleed, we walk on numbing ice,
But angels are here.
We face blinding blizzards, relentless winds,
But angels are here.

Strength is failing,
Hell wants to consume us,
Darkness gathers to every corner,
We want death to end it,
We can’t persevere!
But angels run,
Flaming chariots fly to our aid.
Faith, my friend, angels are here.

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Broken Heart

Every tear shed
For the grief of sin
Is a diamond,
Oozing from the soul,
Manifesting the beauty
Beneath the stone surface.

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The caterpillar has an insatiable appetite,
An alimentary canal that crawls,
Eating the wings of the butterfly in my hand

As it says, “Pay no attention to what you see.
For I’ll be a bigger, better butterfly.”

I know it’s lying, but I stand paralyzed
And the lactic acid burns.

A tumor expands which I pretend
Is just another appendage.

In the meantime,
Not a thread of a cocoon is made.
The caterpillar eats, eats, eats,
And pacifies with lies.

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Candy Store

I’m but a lad.
I press my hand against the glass,
Peering into the candy store.

Red and white peppermint ribbons
Do their dance, twirling,
Dizzying the eyes.
Translucent lollies,
Every shape, size, and vibrant color:
Oranges, lime green, grape purple.
A chocolate fountain gurgles
And oozes inviting warmth.

Wind cuts to my bones.
My hand grows numb on the glass,
fogged from my breath.

Why won’t they let me in?

I walked many miles
Only to feast eyes
And nothing more.
Souls wore from my shoes,
Feet now bleeding,
Toes turning black.

Then I make the endless journey back home.
That’s when irony strikes:
There’s a candy store just across my street,
Doors wide open.
My eyes water as the candy-man beckons.

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Christmas Season

Christmas is salt to flavor the world,
Oh how delicious is the season!

But what good is salt that lost its savor,
But to be trodden upon,
Or to become a jingling bell
That lost its melodic sound?

The Grinch may not steal Christmas,
But perhaps a politician can?

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Do I Proceed?

I’m a dog, soaking in the rain,
So my Master opens the door
That I may come in from the cold.
But do I proceed?

As I hesitate, He says,
“Come in child or you’ll be ill.”
But do I proceed?
Do I open my door to let Him in?
But how do I proceed?

Progression is integrated fire,
Fire is integrated love.
This is my algorithm
And a lifetime it will last.

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Dragon Within

In twilight, I die,
In dawn, I’m born.
I die again,
I’m born again.
But something lingers,
It lives through it all.

Buried in the chambers,
Hidden somewhere in windy caverns,
A dragon from hell slumbers.

A harp plays a lullaby
To keep the beast in remission.
The music must never stop.

In dawn, I’m born.
I renew the melody,
Until the day comes
That in its sleep, the dragon

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Mind if we discuss the elephant in the room?
Let’s do so before it
Stomps through our couches,
Knocks over lamps,
Shatters fine china,
Drinks from the toilet, splashing water about,
Plows through walls,
Sounds its trumpet,
And provokes the neighbors to call the police.
We need a solution–now!

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I close my eyes to open them in spirit,
anticipating windows of heaven breaking,
realizing–they already have?

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Lyric of the Phoenix

The gun smoke leaves your barrel,
I feel the bullet burn through my heart.
Blood drips down the front of my coat;
Thanks to you, I’m a ghost.
I now have the chance to show you
I’ll be the ghost with the most.
You can’t hear me, you can’t see me,
But I’ll haunt you from the dust.

I burn my bridges behind me,
Let them go up in flames,
Let them crumble into the abyss.

All the hate, the bitterness,
All the guilt, the self pity,
All the betrayal, the lies,
All the druggy numbness
Substituted for peace,
All desires for self destruction…

Let it burn, let it all burn.
Purge the past from every inch of hell,
Let it crumble into the abyss.

Then the ashes, I spread across the ground
Makes the soil rich and fertile.
Oh what eternal garden shall grow.

A Phoenix rises from the ashes.
She outstretches wings of fire,
Soaring over mountain peaks,
Singing a song, quiet but sharp,
“I am free, I am free,
So soar the skies with me.”

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To be masochistic is human. What wicked inflictors we are
Of our worst pains.
Ravening wolves to our own flesh,
Relentless taskmasters, lashing,
Fury surpassing an angry drunk.

Day after day, we add to our weight
By chains lengthened link by link.
The key’s well within our grasp,
But across an endless chasm
Dug by pride.

Stab the drill in your ear and scream,
“Oh wretched dissonant sound!
Of the song of redeeming love
I swear I don’t deserve to hear.”

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Mother Ship of Love

It spans its wings across the room.
With laser precision, it makes the stitch
To weld geometry of technicolor.

The end result, an object of aesthetics,
And of warmth and comfort for friends.
This is how she wraps them in her loving arms.

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We speak on the phone each night;
One’s the joker, one’s the thief.
The roles interchange,
But oh so very real.

Working together, hand in hand,
We seek behind the sheetrock
A steady place to hammer in a nail.

As rock climbers work two by two,
The one higher lifts up the other.
Bruised, scratched, broken
From our many falls,
But the ascent continues.

At our destination,
We’ll enter our rest.
Slip off our shoes.
For we’ll stand on sacred ground,
But for now, the hour is getting late.

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Phone Call to God

I dial 9-1-1
To speak to Father above,
And say, “My spirit is dying.
Wilt Thou revive me…


I’m losing too much blood,
So I need Thy Son’s

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S. A. D.

Farewell, February,
And good riddance
To freezing in the hell
Of groundhog shadow.

Bring on spring
To thaw my stone heart,
And turn it Irish green.

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Seam Ripper

Various colors, shapes, patterns
We sow together.
A dream we strive to make of life,
A dream so perfect.

But sabotage by our follied hands,
Pieces sown on backward,
Or wrongly arranged, ruins.

Stitches crooked,
Woefully past the seam allowance.
Nothing can match,
No matter how we stretch it to fit.

We cry in bitterness,
At the abomination live’s become.
So ugly! So ugly!

But then the Teacher comes,
Places wounded hand on our shoulder,
Reassuring us.

The Teacher takes from our hands,
The crooked square,
And says, “I’ll fix this,
Continue to sew the others.
All I ask is that you keep learning.”

It hurts when the Teacher picks,
Ripping, tearing, yanking, breaking,
Like a lion digging in claws!
But soothing as mistakes are erased.

We make more mistakes,
And bashfully hand them over,
And keep working in the meantime.

When all is said and done,
In the end, we find a quilt,
More beautiful than we imagined.

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Weak Wordplay

Warning: The sarcasm of the following poem is not for the faint of heart.

“I hate your wordplay,
WFT? It’s da gay,”
Is what my critics say.

Wanna eat some hay?
Down by the bay?
Doesn’t this poetry…suck?
Ooops! Doesn’t rhyme.
Neither does suck.

Now we’re getting dumber
From da weak wordplay.


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The old wise eagle listened
As the young fledging said,
“I did a stupid thing and listened
To what the garden snake said.

“He told me with slithering tongue,
‘Drop bricks on your wing,
It’ll be so much fun.’
When I did, it sure did sting.”

The eagle looked and pitied.
He said, “Yes, stupid indeed,
But we all make mistakes.
Must not listen to slithering snakes.”

The young one glanced up with a sigh,
“Do I still have permission to fly?”

The old eagle sorrowed and said,
“One thing to stuff in your head,
It’s not that you may not,
Rather you simple cannot;
Not with broken wings.

“You see, when you pick up things
You pick up both the ends.
But soon you’ll fly again, promise,
In due time when the wing mends.

“But one thing you must promise,
Promise me this for heaven’s sake,
Don’t go listening to garden snakes.”

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