We Are Not Fooled

ribbons and bows

buttons and baubles

everything wrapped neatly

for the Christmas parade

rainbows painted cream

in perfect arch

says all is well

fair winds to all dwellers

hot air balloons

red white and blue

sails to the mast

bright clean and flying

across placid seas

beneath it all

lies corruption

motives of murder

plans of deceit

the dagger of betrayal

life is not a decoration

on frosted birthday cake

nor the frills

on that pretty white blouse

life is the day after Christmas

the storm that shreds our sail

while the weakness hidden

deflates our balloon

this is not bad, it just is

and the knowing

of storms lurking danger

should not stop us

from taking our flight

against all odds

it's what makes us human

and animal, and alive

defining hope on bent dreams

decorated

by illogical desire

The Non Poet

i have been accused

wrongly and unfairly

some,

maybe one, maybe two

have labeled me a poet

out of kindness

i am no poet

have never aspired to be such

and will not serve if elected

i use not the words of a poet

because my heart is a bloody muscle

that i butcher every day

then leave for the flies

poetry is an art

where words are crafted

and woven to impress

i'll not play puppet master

to paint pretty the gore

bleeding from my soul

for such small gain

i write my thoughts, just as they fall

and if poetry they somehow

ridiculously and accidentally

appear to emulate

i hereby apologize

to all poets everywhere

so please, accuse no more

lest i believe the lies

and be cursed forever

only to be found

a sham, under scrutiny

i am not a poet

i am a butcher

and a poor one, at that

*****************

susan dey was in a movie, the title eludes me.

but she was on the steps talking with a boy about fucking.

the boy said, "don't you mean making love?"

she looked at him hard, then looked away before answering.

"you make love~i fuck"

and so it is my friends. You make love. I fuck

~rick

The Haunting Waters

the morning is clear, bright, and silent

as i walk the little road to the bridge

the deaf dog of no understanding walks

by my side, that being enough

from the bridge i look upstream

to the waters roiling down

then turn, to see them roll away

and never return

some days, after a heavy rain

the stream becomes a raging torrent

other times, after endless sunshine,

it barely trickles the timeless stone

today, it is what it should be, temperate

song to my soul

this land is ancient and unmoving

unwavering, stoic and strong

the morning is big in stillness

and it's boundaries speak

of passages beyond

high up on the ridge, light bleeds

through the bulwark of leafless trees

falling slowly down the hillside

spawn to an awakening

high above me, geese circle

searching for direction and

i watch them while the hawk

who so often has wondered of me

sits perched, and wonders some more

there is much this morning has to tell me

of life, and what is, and what surely

must be as it always has been

-but it's the waters i hear

soon the light will flood the valley

stirring the sleeping reality

into the convolution

i'll carry back up the road

but just now, it's the waters

which haunt me, like the winds

upon mountains

and the cry of the lone wolf

deep in the night

these are callings spiritual

which i've chased on earthen legs

only to be left behind

with the deaf dog

the wondering hawk

and the ghosting light

upon waters that haunt

my humanity