He loves immersing himself in solitude —
a place far from the madding multitude.

Not alone, he cavorts with writers galore
and experiences diverse thoughts to explore

in articles, poetry, fiction and non-fiction books,
essays and wandering other literary nooks.

He’ll set the writers aside anytime he wants,
(they aren’t offended)
reflecting on their thoughts hoping to ensconce

wisdom, from up-and-comers to old masters.
Such rumination evokes tears and laughter.

Sometimes in a crowd he can be quite lonely
but in reading and contemplation,
his is a solitude that feels almost holy.

And so I wake to comforting,
inspiring, challenging, wise
words in meditations and poetry,
words with honesty about life
and reality from the writer’s
perspective and it is wonderful
to read such thoughts. Some-
times my mind wanders and I
go back and pick up the read-
ing approximately from where
I began to lose concentration,
sometimes re-reading a line or
two, which I don’t mind because
it is all good. I do this because
such attention is for my benefit
and I believe the writers want me
to benefit, otherwise why would
they have written what they did?
Then I catch up on the news of
the day and as one poet put it, in
a poem I read just this morning,
“the shamelessness of men….,”
and I am grateful for all the care
in helping me to sort things out
and not drop into despair.

A guy I really respect
said, “I’m queer,” and
I had known he was gay,
so, what could I say?
That’s A-okay.
Then he looked at
me and said, “You’re
queer, too.”
What could I,
a straight guy, do?
He followed that with,
“We are all queer here.”
and for a second,
I thought to steer clear
of where
he might go with that.
But it turns out he had us there.
The Rev. stood in the pulpit
and quickly explained,
“I’m queer as in gay,
but we are all queer
as in peculiar people
along Christ’s way —
peculiar in a way
that counters the world’s way.
Where there is hate,
we are to love.
Where there is injustice,
we are to rise above.
Where the world is judgmental,
we cry mercy, mercy.
Where the world suppresses rights,
our non-violent protests create controversy.
Where there is violence,
we are to live in peace.
Where there is exclusion,
we make inclusion the centerpiece.”
So, even though I’m not gay,
please feel free to call me queer.
For, in Christ, I’m proud to be
particularly peculiar.

He’s a pip-squeak of a guy,
maybe with a “Napoleon
complex” — for sure a white
guy susceptible to and

influenced by white supremacy
hate speech, incited from quite
a distance — the distance from
the U.S. to New Zealand. From

his internet diatribe one can
ascertain that he is a fan of
the occupant of the White House,
someone who has fooled so many

with his viral, tough, white guy
talk inciting violence here, there
and apparently everywhere. How
has the occupant fooled the racist

base? He’s pretty much a racist
himself, but he doesn’t identify
with that base at all. He despises
them; they are all beneath him in

his distorted mind; they are have-
nots; he thinks he is all in all and
has it all; except down, down,
deep, deep, he’s hollow and needy;

he panders to those he despises to
get the adoration, the money, and
the votes, and that’s what makes him
so dangerous, dangerous enough to

unleash the hate-filled violence
of a Napoleon wanna-be all the way
away, down under New Zealand way.
And the stats just keep going up

and up and up and getting worse
— fifty Muslim worshipers dead
in two Mosques in peaceful
neighborhoods. And the hate

goes on and grows on as the fear
and violence go on and on with
the screeching tweets of the
orange-topped mocking-bird.

She dreams that bad dreams
will cease and desist
and now she’s told to hope
these dreams persist.
Why?
It turns out these dreams
have the purpose of
helping her work out things
keeping her from love.
How?
During the day, filters keep us going
to act appropriately and sanely
even without our knowing
or working painstakingly.
Ah!
During the night, work unresolved
and unfiltered goes on
helping us with troubles to solve
eventually laughing and having fun.
We hope.
She has yet for the fun to arrive
but takes comfort in the sense
that bad dreams keep us alive,
and from committing daytime violence.

He happened on a death one day
and didn’t know what to say
so he just sat and started to bray.

Someone said, “You should pray.”
He said, “My cry is my prayer today.
I just don’t have anything to say.”

The grieving family said, “It’s okay,
if you don’t have anything to say.”
So, together they cried the day away.

For years they would wail and bray
wherever they would wander or stray.
Patience is to suffer come what may.

So they sat in wait of the day
when tears and cries would allay.
That would be a joy filled day.

So, in hope, for that blessed day,
wherever they were along life’s way,
they did constantly pray.

And then one sun filled day
they spotted the shining ray
for which they waited day after day.

Yes, they waited patiently for the day
when nature’s colors came out to play.
“Life is good,” they could finally say.

He’s so sick of news show hosts
interrupting their guests. Every
day it

(Are you sure you want to
start this poem that way?
It’s pretty prosaic. Oh,
you are going for free
verse.)

gets worse and worse. Guests

(Isn’t it time for a rhyme?)

can’t get a full sentence

(How about a little meter here?)

out of their mouths before the host

(I know it’s a little corny but this
might be a good time for “the
host with the most” to get the
rhyme thing going.)

barges in and answers the question
the host just asked

(Beginning with “and” that line is a
nice start to what could be an iambic
tetrameter couplet.)

without blinking an eye.

(And here’s mud in your eye
and pie in the sky
by and by.
Oh, why do I
even try?)

And that’s all before the show
ends and off camera the guests
just sigh.

(Okay, that could be a start.)

The end.

(Seriously?)

Even as a kid, he had a sense that
something was askew, something
ajar, something not quite right in

nature. He would run and play
along a creek in the neighborhood
and would stop and look down at

the life in the crystal clear water.
Then he would go to the beach with
the family and his mother would tell

him to be careful in the water and
look out for rusty cans. Once, not
so careful, he cut his foot on the

sharp lid of one of those rusty cans
and had to be rushed off to the
hospital for a tetanus shot. That

was the beginning of what he
would later come to understand
as human hubris and carelessness.

Yesterday he took a walk along a
nature preserve; he looked down
from the newly constructed bridge

to see the wild life — a few pop cans
and a styrofoam cup. He thought of
the TV commercial where the punch

line is “That’s not right,” and thought
to himself and when he got back to the
car and closed the door shouted,

That’s not right!

I can’t deal with the lies anymore
and while I don’t know what is in store,
I know that I am able to think
and back off from being on the brink
of losing my emotional equilibrium
and going catatonically numb
or breaking out in a severe manic
because we are all in such a panic,
and so I’ll take it quite easy
not paying attention to all that is so sleazy.
I’ll breathe my breaths so deep
and get eight hours sleep.
Then I will go for a nice run
praying the serenity prayer be done
and then I’ll pray the Lord’s Prayer
hoping this time will pass in a blur.

By the lakeside so serene
he is glad to be where he has been —
in the sand.
While the winds of March march on,
beyond the clouds there is the promised sun —
skyline scanned.

They walk over icy mounds
knowing there is a big lake to be found —
beyond sand.
He reaches down and holds her tight
and pulls her up with all his strength and might.
They do stand

and look west to that sun,
which tries to hide and then outrun for fun —
those who watch.
But they have arrived in time;
the snow and icy mounds have been climbed
— the sun caught

before it declines
ever so sublime.