Living In A Redwood Tree

there was a young woman named Bethany

who lived in a Redwood tree

her little hut was something to see

perched like a toy inside the canopy

society had caused her to flee

to the giant tree in order to be free

a friend brought supplies to the tree

and never questioned her idiosyncrasy

and she lived there like a refugee

but happy as happy can be

for she was a nature devotee

who did her best to avoid reality

A Salute to Aurora Borealis

here’s to saluting a beautiful night

with a shifting palette of colors so bright

hail, Aurora Borealis!

your show is like no others

your gas particles shoot into the night

colliding with gas atoms and admitting light

emissions from atomic oxygen flow

causing a greenish and dark red glow

the stream of particles across the sky

flow freely and are pleasing to the eye

Gonzo Poem: Sign Your Name Right Here

if you believe in UFO’s and a magic mirror

sign your name right here

if you believe Bigfoot drinks beer

sign your name right here

if you think there’s no pollution in the atmosphere

sign your name right here

if you’re into kinky sex and like to domineer

sign your name right here

if your looking for a long career

sign your name right here

in order to make your wishes crystal clear

sign your name right here

if you enjoy getting attention with a Bronx cheer

sign your name right here

do you have days when things are unclear?

sign your name right here

have you ever thought about being a volunteer?

sign your name right here

The Train Leaves at 4/20

all aboard the pot train my friend

your time is here

the demonization has come to an end

it’s really mind blowing seeing marijuana legit

to an old hippie like me

that’s as good as it can get

back in the day pot was a crime

no such thing as legal weed

with arrests going on all the time

those who smoked Mary Jane

risked their very freedom

running in the fast lane

more than half of the USA

has legalized marijuana

and more states are on the way

I really didn’t think

I’d live to see the day

Diary Reverie

the writer waited until he hit a century

before releasing the rights to his diary

while flipping through the pages one night

his still-active imagination took flight

and he was a young man again

as far as he could ascertain

and a young lady came near

and whispered in his ear

they went for a walk

and had a lovely talk

and

when the writer’s son

came to visit the next day

the old man had passed away

with a smile on his face

that showed

he was in a better place

Graffiti In High C

golden lightning bolts streaking along ghetto walls like a snake in the Garden of Babylon intent on conveying anarchistic values to the viewers who gaze upon the colorful buildings in shock and awe...

graffiti in high C playing in the neighborhood

it’s art to the homeboys who make noise while spraying their gang names and playing games and it’s all understood

graffiti in high C playing in every city

the world is crazy

about an artist called Banksy

who secretly

paints murals of damnation in every nation

but the critics don’t get it

because they think it’s about money and fame, but graffiti’s real message is not so tame, it’s a reality check warning things will not always remain the same

A Small Town’s Pride

the residents of Rogueville loved listening to their bell ring out from the town’s highest tower, the church spire

but the bell had a history

it was a thing of mystery

it’s origin hotly debated

the bell was silver plated

over brass and steel

that mighty bell did peal

three times a day

calling people to pray

until the word got out

what the bell was about

a souvenir from a war

a symbol of the horror

so the town took down

their symbol of pride

sadly setting it aside

Requiem for a Hoarder

decades of newspapers and magazines cluttered every room, silent witnesses to bygone eras, nestled alongside a lifetime of eclectic collections in the gathering gloom

when the coroner came to collect the old man, his worn-out body in his favorite chair in front of a fan, he was surrounded with trinkets and displays from his good old days

every room was piled high with one man’s treasure yet another man’s junk, standing lamps, piles of clothes from ages past that stunk worse than a skunk

boxes and crates with no labels butted against couches and tables, towers of books with subjects ranging from science to early fables, rolls of cables, and an assortment of turntables

souvenirs from other countries, plastic children’s toys that still made noise, clocks off all kinds, dried food, ancient weather vines, and assorted other sundries

missing were photos of family, a lonely man severed from humanity, living in an alternate reality, his life a mere triviality, his collections becoming his center of gravity

they said the old man had a mental disorder, a condition not unknown to many people trying to install order into their chaotic life, and turning into a hoarder

School Of Hard Knocks

when I was growing up my grandfather use to say

that boy is going to find out everything the hard way

if he comes out of his childhood alive

there’s a damn good chance he’ll survive

I was an eager student of the School of Hard Knocks

my troubles were never pebbles they were always rocks

taking the least traveled pathway had a price

I come close to losing my life twice

there was never really a choice for me

I’ve always been on the verge of tragedy

but in these later days of my life

I look back and appreciate the strife

and accept my past and my destiny

whatever that happens to be