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I have heard so much talk about the soul But little evidence.   Perhaps there is no Evidence.   Evidence, by its very nature, Must exist in this world, in time and space.   Perhaps, the soul doesn’t exist in time And space.   The ego does.   The id does And so does the self.   Look at the evidence. Hunger.   We   eat day and night, if we don’t We starve.   We drink soda and booze… And coffee.   We work for money.   There’s never enough.   We spend So much time thinking about sex Which we sometimes call love. It’s Us against the world.   We’re right, You’re wrong.   Do unto others what Gets done to you.     The soul is silent.   Not really.   The soul is singing—songs Of Joy, Praise, Thankfulness, Love. We can’t hear them because of the noise Of self, the noise of the ego, the noise Of the world to which we cling like A drunken sailor.   Sons of Adam, Daughters of Eve, Do you accept responsibility For the world you created?   You
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Recent posts
  We are each A little window On a big world   Each moment A tick-tock On a big clock
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Kyiv—Ancient city on the Dnieper.  These river waters have flowed for more centuries              then are counted in history books  And will continue to flow after all the puppets have turned to dust               and new trees have grown in groves by the Dnieper.  Were these banks once paradise, before our ancient ones built                a village here?  Did an ancient shaman have visions of what would happen here?               The dance of the puppets pulled by the strings of history.  Warriors and chieftains, then kings and lords, tyrants and Czars,               Nazis and Soviets all acting out their puppet dramas—  Their strings pulled by the dark lords of power and lust, greed and fear and anger.  How many times can a city of people be a battle ground?  Kyiv—in the 1920’s, the Bolsheviks imposed the collectives. The collectives failed.               Thousands died of hunger.  Hitler’s storm troopers made Kyiv a nightmare where thousands were sent
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I Sit With The Afternoon Thoughts of an Old Poet.

  I sit with the afternoon thoughts of an old poet. I am no longer a young poet. If you’re not a young poet, you’re an old poet. Whoever heard of a middle-age poet?   Middle-age is something invented By people who don’t know how to Grow old.   To be old is to have the power of insight That having seen it all before Gives to the imagination of tomorrows Not yet known.   To be old is to be there for those Who do not have enough yesterdays To know the difference between wisdom, dreams, Reality, hopes, and fears—There isn’t any.   I recall now the old ones—many now dead, Who held my hand, or touched my shoulder, Or winked, or laughed at just the right moment To catch my youthful eye and make me pause— Or I might have gone over the edge.   The wisdom of age comes not From the power and drive of youth Creating life and building worlds.   The wisdom of age comes From those moments When you pause   Overwhelmed by the immensity Of
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Confessions of an Old Punk

  Confessions of an Old Punk.   Poets sling words, Painters sling color, Singers sling sounds, Prophets are silent, But listen—I sit and Take it all in like a Pizza, Waiting for my ride home.
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"Know Where"

"Know Where" I look at my life for a way out Of the confusion, the doubts The fear, the stupidness, anxiety And the comedy of breaking news. No where do I find an answer.   I am feeding squirrels in the park. He takes my peanut, looks up, His eyes say , “Know where.”   I realized that he “knows” And I am still looking For my peanut.  
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Blue Dog

  Blue Dog, Bark at the rabbits and Chase the squirrels back to the nest. Darkness awaits us just behind twilight. The owls and coyotes will watch us With eyes that see in the night.    
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