Cactus, bloom again in these thorny times

Still they are fighting—it’s hard to watch.

Accept the fulsome

As what is due,

The infused vein blackens.

The shallow breath falters.

It is time for the third civil war.

Is silence the only choice—

The answer that begs vain question?

Cactus, come bloom past these hard times.

As the desert awakens,

Can freshened health be far behind?

To write again and find there peace,

Lost in the search that words do pull,

Pushing their way out of myself.

Another thought rushes to fill.

Its transient truth lasts until

We fish the past off of its shelf.

In the Maison above the town,

The revelers wandered up and down.

The Castle beckoned, its aspect sheer.

The paths were lit but for some unclear.

The Poet’s Grant is quite simple:

To focus the most probing light

On the ruin here before us

In a Home that’s woeful tonight.

All hope is in the countenance,

In moderation’s calming glint.

Write for myself, not for others,

Risk dialogue of the spirit,

Find in myself other brothers,

That my inner judge might acquit.

In the wicker chest:

socks for two,

underwear that switches sides,

tee shirts that migrate 

whenever it is wise.

Sound, the Saboteur,

Noise, the battleground,

What’s out comes quickly within

While what’s within tries vainly to rebound.

Pretend you are the lead tonight