When I bring children into this world,

I will teach them to treasure this Earth.

I will not let them roam, blindly

through these sacred hills and valleys

without knowledge of the feet that tread first.


They will help reap the harvest,

and I promise to speak in honest terms.

My children will not be slaves,

but they will know the truth about the world.


When it is time to slaughter,

my children will all come.

We will give thanks to the life ending for us,

We will streak our cheeks in blood.

For how dare we

Forget the lamb upon our plate?

How dare we eat as mush as we want

when we know his tortured fate?

My children will hold the knife

and they will know the gush of the slit.

Call it what you will

my children will know of it.


Then when we lose a loved one

I hope my children will understand-

that is just the way of life.

Ashes to ashes, dirt, and sand.

We will dig the grave deep-

sometimes six feet is not deep enough.

There is something for grief in digging,

the last act that you can perform.


There upon the hillside,

as the sun slowly touches down,

they will have turned up some beautiful Earth,

They will not have paid a thousand a plot

stuffed next to strangers,

in a mud hole dug by ex cons- no


they will have a crude crust of land

dug deep enough to hug my bones

long after my hair has turned to precious


and my heart returned to Earth

my blood mingled with the blood

of all the lambs

before us.


I leave my children








This Is Not A Love Poem

It has been, obviously, a very very long time since I have put pen to paper, and then fingers to keyboard :p Alas,  here is something from my recessed caves of creativity. This is not a promise for more, just a hope that my creations will crawl forth again.

Anyways, enjoy


This Is Not A Love Poem




This used to be my journey,

the pen was my hope-

the sacrifice of inner truth flowing-

the slow unfurling


a rose  .  .  .


I bled blue ink from the marrow of my bones.


Now the ink nips

as the quill quickly writes,

black bubbles blooming

in persistent spite.

The truth that spills

are things better left without light.


As the ivy snakes

and comes to close around my throat,

the pen still scribes

finding substance in my ghosts.

I’ll be swallowed by very garden

from which we all arose.


As the world fills with sorrow,

terror reigning near and far,

the grey shades of these frightening days

have left fear stains

a shade too dark.


This used to my freedom,

I used to write in blood,

but now my heart is haunted

though I write nothing

about love.