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Purple Princess

My eighteen yeared daughter
living and dreaming with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome,
As she grows up and out
hopes to become

“An old princess
with long purple hair
living in a GroupHome.”

I’m not sure if this indicates
I did a shockingly good
or alarmingly bad
job as a thirteen-year dad
with positive therapeutic intent.

Until she smiles,
looks up at the blue-grey sky
with unimagined delight.

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Parents for Peace

So what sane parent
would intentionally lead their family
into internal
or external war,
right?

Well, apparently former political
and religious extremists,
neonazis,
Islamic fundamentalists,
Christian fundamentalists…

Oh, wait,
I’m not sure their Republican White Nationalist
AntiDemocratic First Amendment,
kleptocratic and oligarchical Second Amendment
LeftBrain rabidly ballistic dominant
Anti-natural/spiritual nondualistic health intentions
are yet media-conscious enough,
yet, still, these fake-Christians among us
are visible as far too comfortable
with Mammon’s military-industrial ballistic defense

So terrified of Sodom,
Parents for Terrorist Religious War
and Threat of FinalRapture Weapons
neglect to notice
their own naked butts
delightedly backing toward beastly Gomorrah.

Anyway, with or without reformed Christian NeoFascists,
Parenting for Peace
is against militarism,
possibly for the usual costly inhumane and environmental
and economic reasons,
but also because,
as mental health-recovering parents,
and grandparents,
and future great grandparents,

They see military-corporate theft
and associates
like colonialism,
and missionary zealous patriarchalism,
and sanctuary apartheid racism,
and homophobia,
and sexism,
and anthropocentrism,
and xenophobia
as corporate public health hazards.

Rabidity,
like subclimates of health,
wears both an internal, mental, spiritual face,
and an external, physical, natural Earth EcoSpace;
codependently negative, pathological,
as transectorally positive, eco/theo-logical
robust future health potential.

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Summer Hostage

Our small loop of a street
usually quiet
Today receives a loud grooming
with chain saws
and wood chippers
and diesel trucks slicing
and ruining silence
into anti-solitude.

This is my last day off
until summer school begins
in two sultry weeks.

Morning rain passed through
to breezy summer camp sun,
crisp shade tree shadows
moving slightly within lush grass
waiting for my non-motorized mower.

It feels queer…
I feel queer,
at sixes and sevens
at 67,
to trust that I need
not just more solitude
to become healthy again,
but more silence
to become vocally wealthy
again.

To go
or to stay
here
too near a State highway
trafficking toward two casinos
now more native to American economies
than Native Americans to empowerment.

This last bus
not quite upon us
while thoughts wonder
and feelings wander
about shouting sawers
and clanging chipper
banging my longing
back to a rural dirt dust-path
along side a Michigan Centennial Farm
where I knew breezy
silent
summer encampment days
of solitary
fresh freedom.

I wonder why
we can’t go home again,
Yet I can go back to childhood
solitude served up
in sacred silence
unsettling memories
of childhood freedoms lost.

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Blah Friday

I need a vacation
from vacation unbreaks.

Bad Friday
falls seven days after spring break begins,
Which is a break for some kids
and teachers without kids,
but not for grandpa parent me,
and my sociopathic daughter,
who needs the structure of small
specialized classrooms
to get through her most resilient day.

It feels healing to step outside
into softer breezy voices
green with overly optimistic promise
that Everythin gonna be aright.

Rain threatens
yet wide patches of sky blue
promise western horizon hope,
for now

Faith that tomorrow,
which feels unforgivingly far from Now,
yet stuck in Here,
I will wake to compassionate forgetfulness,
lack of memory
of nearly all black bleak Fridays
transpired,
de-valued by my owned
and negligently managed
lack of parental investment
in larger self/other care;
that old ego/eco-balancing
narrow-way game.

Tomorrow,
just another Saturday/Sunday weekend,
between BadFriday wounds
and rainy Monday
school day blues
and jazz dance in the garden
with a Great Turning shovel.

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Uncategorized

Why Ask Why?

Mommy,
why do we need Presidential Alerts
right now
before I’ve finished my ice-cream dessert?

Because he’s a scary guy
my son.

Why is he so scary?

Because he’s a bully against health
and patriotic loyalty to Earth’s future
multicultural life,
my well-nurtured daughter.

Why is he against health care?

He’s for his own wealth development.

Why is he for his own wealth care?

Because his mother never taught him
health care begins at home
and must have interdependent room
to spread out from there.

Why does health have to spread?

Because otherwise true wealth dies.

Why does wealth die?

Because Earth’s climate quickly turns
toward global degeneration.

Why is Earth going to hell?

Because we made some bad choices.

Who is We?
and why did We make bad choices?

Because We have bad habits
of settling for empty sovereignty
of a failing adult supremacy system.

Why is our system failing?

Because mature adults fail to ask enough questions
of ourselves,
and then with co-arising healthy others.

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The Perpetual Beginner Poet

This may come as large surprise,
but I did once take a beginner’s poetry class
which I often confuse with my beginner parenting class.

In which we learned good verse
and voice
have structure
pattern
imprinting rhythm
rich metaphoric content
perhaps even epic regenerative story,
assonant bouquet,
climates of hue and cry.

Who would or could a poet be
or hope to at last become
and yet unresponsively disagree?

Not me.

Even so,
if what I write
cannot resonate within your calling day,
and hopefully tomorrow
and resiliently flow on back
through all your best, not worst,
imagined yesterdays,
Then we are not yet our resonant poetry
so it is not so richly mine,
nor true poetry at disfamiliar all
of any kind
or mean spirit
natural
or unnatural.

Strong poetry cannot flow anonymously
autonomous.

My poetic muse shrinks,
like wound from salt,
from capital competing
absent co-infested resonance
resiliently wounded assonance
cooperative co-governance
restorative resilience
of integrity’s best eco-aspirations.

Poetry
with green me
grows not only rhythmic swell
and political ebb,
but also liberating healthy smell
and not so hoarding ego fell.

Poetry praises time we share
nakedly co-resonant,
resplendent as spiritual underwear
inviting nature’s brilliant subharmonies
to speak again full-voiced revival choir
without degenerate
autonomous
naked despair

In which we learn good verse
and voice
have structure
pattern
imprinting rhythm,
rich analogic content,
perhaps even revolutionary story,
assonant bouquet,
climates of secular hue
and sacred silent cry.

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Time InBetween

I seem to remember
a golden post-toddler childhood
in which each day was a journey
ecstatically timeless,
yet within bookends
of coral dawn
and bruised dusk,
between waking from true timeless sleep
and returning to my evoluting inside place
for adventurous pilgrimage,
courage in face of nightmares,
curiosity looking full-face
between inside enchantments
and outside ecstasies.
But now
I am that parent who calls to liturgical dinner,
harvests and buys the victuals,
plans the sacramental meals
on my better focused days,
administers all cleansing rituals,
defends all rights against retributive trespass
and pollution
of sand and soil and water
sacred energy…

Secular disenchantments
distract from Here we are in this inviting,
yet constantly changing,
day for just us Now,
far outweigh sacred enchantments.

Ecstasy feels like a reserve
preserved for early WinWin childhood
on a glorious summer day of liberty,

While mendacity of time’s turbulence,
downdrafts,
push-back,
competitively usual business
projects lack of time for leisurely enchantments
from unseen dawn
through vaporizing dusk,

Two moments of each outdoor day
unlikely to engage my full, ecstatic,
still-parenting old age presence
remembering enchanting golden childhood.

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