day of peace

Peace will Come – International Day of Peace

In honor of the International Day of Peace, making a special post for this.
I wrote these words as part of my contribution to La Familia:

Peace will come the day we forget how to drop the bombs or make the guns,
When we get along underneath the same old sun,
Singing songs in holy unison no matter where we’re from,
Yes, peace will come. Peace will come. Pray before the day is done.

My friend, Fred Ross-Perry was inspired by them and expanded it into these lyrics, and the song:

Peace will come, and it won’t be long
When we forget how to drop the bombs
When we forget how to make the guns
That’s when peace will come

Peace will come when we get along
When we get along underneath the sun
All together under that same old sun
That’s when peace will come

Peace will come when we’re singing songs
Singing in holy unison
Singing no matter where we’re from
That’s when peace will come

Yes, Peace will come, and it won’t be long
We’ll help each other to be strong
And we’ll work until the day is done,
That’s when peace will come.

Oh My Chameleon Perceptions

Oh, my Chameleon Perceptions

Grey, with fellow Enid musicians Steven Harwood and Mike Harbour, turned four of my poems (Perceptions, Chameleon, Unexnon, My My) from my first book Tea & Sprockets into this song which will appear on Grey’s forthcoming album, Booze & Psychedelics due out in the fall. Click here to listen if the embed doesn’t appear.

Below are the four poems that make up the lyrics to the song.

Perceptions

Lying in the leaves,
Music flowing through her bones,
Thoughts, ideas swell inside,
Visual creation.
It needs no explanation.
Springtime day at noon,
Life begins to bloom,
Kicking stones straight down,
Laughing now.
She’s such a clown.
World is ending.
She cares not.
Life blooms on.
That’s her sole thought.
Drumming on,
Marching on,
They shoot.
She feels not.
They’ve died.
She knows not.
They’re in pain.
Alone. Forgot.

Chameleon

In a new world
devoid of devotion
to tradition and song
lost in illusion
forgetting the wrongs
of a generation’s past.

Into the night
we step into darkness
seeking the light
of the sun and the moon
forgiving the world
for it’s only doomed.

Sadly awaking
I look to my left
seeing the dragons
breathing fire at dawn
clutching my chest
beginnings are gone.

Strong evolution
revolutions gone past
escaping the prison
of timing and space
into the reasons
we all leave this place.

Nonsensical murmurs
of the front porch light
piercing mosquitoes
illuminating misdeeds
from men who seek evil
but play good in the light.

My My

My my.
What do I actually care?
Because I don’t!
Not in this vast darkness
in the infinite corridors
of my mind.

I cannot care.
For when I cease
to care, my
my head is free!
Yes, freedom
slowly cut out
surgically removed
from
the national
conscience.

Subconscious are my,
my thoughts.
Silent protest on
the lawn
picketing—fences.

The dull ache.
The notion.
Yearning.
Screaming.
SHUT UP!

Alas, refrain!
Impolite.
Innocence.
There is no right
to silence.

Silence your pain.
Memories.
Screaming.
Aching.
Nervous breaking.
Flood.

Unexnon

I am uncertain.
Day to day.
Are you true?
Why do I ponder?
No importance.
I trust your words.
Your actions confuse me.
Sanity is but a dream.
Nonexistent. Labeled.
Tell me who I am.
Who are you?
I cannot say what I want for I do not know.
I walk among earthquakes,
pondering the purpose, but not seeing one.
Joy is fleeting.
Why do you use me so?
No, I like it. Overwhelmed. No time.
Have I misjudged everyone?
Or is the world more skeptical than I?
I am a fool.
Damn my inhibitions.
They lead me into a cage.
Trapped for no reasons.
Destined for a lonely world.
Thousands walking.
Paths collide. We are blind.
I fear what you’d think.
Do you know?
I retract my harsh words.
You were right.

open book of family story

Dining with your Skeleton, an Enid, Oklahoma poem

If you grew up in Enid, Oklahoma as I did, and have studied the town’s history, mythology, and artists, you’ll understand the cultural references in this poem that appears in Abundant Sparks & Personal Archeology. This poem also appears on the spoken word album Happy Accidents recorded in Enid in March 2015. (This is a repost, as I noticed there was a broken link on the old post.)

Dining with your Skeleton

From the sweet simplicity of wooden sidewalks of yore
Words intricately woven by that judicious James
Your sweet wheat blows
Through the fields where dreamers lay.
The gentle serenade of Hedges
Waltzes with the soulful Mitchell,
carrying me beyond those rough days
Spent struggling for survival.
How I admire your modern day bards,
As they fly on pegasys wings,
Igniting my soul. I study your myths,
From George to Holden to Roye.
You build the statues of my heart,
Painting the dreams unending,
That carry me onward, a rooted rose rock.
I’ve walked your hallowed halls in exile,
With infamous grey evangelicals,
Amid the Roman columns of values,
Silhouetted in skies once inspiring
The likes of Cessna and Woodring, that Musketeer.
Placed my feet solid in red dirt
That may hold not the mummy of that rascal George,
But the Union Patriot turned messiah gopher, Corbett.
They like me never saw your Victory ships,
Nor your Carnegie. Though these days
My eyes oft admire mountains and palm trees,
The faint train whistle carries my heart,
Whispering “Remember your history.”

social media

Real Life Interaction Trumps Social Distraction

Real Life Interaction Trumps Social Distraction

How sweet it is
not to let thoughts of checking an app
immediately turn to action
to habit to addiction.

How sweet it is
to only use social networks
to only share your own original content.

How sweet it is not to mistake an algorithm
for how much your friends truly care about you,
and you know that they really do
in spite of all their personal posts being hidden from you
by a website in favor of advertising and rehashed news.

How sweet it is
to remain in real life,
to put the duties of friend and wife
above the societal false priorities of websites.

How sweet it is
to read the news only when you choose
in solitude without ever having to debate about it.

How sweet it is
to hold tight to your own viewpoints
and not have to explain yourself.

How sweet it is
not having to see vulgar memes
and gory death photographs.

How sweet it is
to not have to see the same topic
reshared two hundred times.

How sweet it is
never to be tagged
when it is not a photo of you.

How sweet it is
to keep your life to yourself
and be in the moment.

How sweet it is
not to know every detail
about everyone else’s life
to the point of never asking in person.

How sweet it is
to not have to explain your posts
in real life long after you forgot what you said
because a person confronts you, but never commented.

How sweet it is
to only purposefully enter conversations
when you feel like talking
instead of chatting on a screen when you’re winding down.

How sweet it is
to hold a real one on one in person conversation
and see your friend’s faces
instead of their Facebooks.

How sweet it is
not to compare your hit count
to that of other people’s posts.

How sweet it is
to not be invited to twenty impersonal events
that ignore your previous health and finance related announcements,
and to not feel the guilt trip of not supporting them.

How sweet it is
to be allowed to be an introvert
and only enter the world when you so choose.

How sweet life was
when we did things just because
and not to hold up an image of ourselves.

How sweet life was before
social media became a newspaper,
and we really used it to stay in touch
instead of spy and complain about the world so much.

How sweet it is
to stare at miraculous sunsets, soaring birds, and ocean waves
instead of a tiny screen for days and days.

quill_pen_book_scroll

Fountain (1935)

I wrote this about 12 years ago while attending The University of Oklahoma. Outside the Student Union is a fountain from the class of 1935. Pausing between classes at that fountain inspired this poem which appears in my first book, Tea & Sprockets. I’ve noticed that while there are several poems on my Instagram, a few appear on my album Happy Accidentsand you can download some in the book samples, I hadn’t ever posted any poems from that book directly on this blog, so I’ll be sharing a few on occasion, starting with “Fountain (1935).”

 

Fountain (1935)

Life drips from the fountain of youth,
Streaming from a distant future.
The well of a never ending past.
Peaceful, glistening drops hurry to their end.
Continuous life streams pass.
Simultaneous origins of origin.
Soft ripples of pain and pleasure
Spread beyond memory.
Recycled dreams and history
Soon to be forgotten,
But to those who stop inquiry
Receive a peace in rhythm
Seldom discovered today.