They say
You have to fill your own cup
Before you can pour for another
But I
Am already full
Too full
And what my cup holds
Nobody should drink

No
I seek always
To be less full
To be more empty
So I can accept
What others must pour out
Because
If it hits the ground
Sinks into the water table
It will poison all the wells
And the waters are already bitter enough

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My heart is hot within me now as I
But look about and see how matters lie,
But look about and see lifted on high
What should be low, see how they it exult
Who, gleeful, join the Stupid God’s foul cult,
And see with no great insight the result
That must proceed from out their worship’s course.
I scream into the wind until I, hoarse,
Am blown away by all the gathered force
That thronging fools all rushing in exert,
Not at all caring that they themselves hurt
So long as they inflict their held desert
On those they have been told that they should hate.
To fend them off…it is now far too late.

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She does not often deal in verse
Says she finds it indulgent and obtuse
As must who write it write it
So when she wrote a poem for our girl
Three iambic tetrameter couplets
I marked it

She said
The Muse spoke to her
Even if her ears were clogged with wax
But I think she was worried
That I might too ineptly handle
A fresh cotton swab

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As this old month comes to its end,
And we’re encouraged not to spend,
I wonder who will buck the trend
And throw their paychecks away.

I can well guess at who’ll do so,
Can guess well where their cash will go;
It takes no genius such to know.
Might as well throw us away.

An echo of an older voice
Truer in the hearing again than in the first speaking
Called out once again
Asking for help
Just a few words of praise
To help find fulfillment
And such safety as the world offers anymore
But not where she is
Not where I am

How could I say no?
I never did before
Even when the voice doing the asking
Was not the voice that truly was
And should not the greater honesty
Now find the greater reward?

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Now turgid grows the Stupid God once more.
It bloats, and seeks to make the world its whore.
Who prostitute themselves thus, I abhor.
Now, if they wish to sell themselves, they may,
And peddle themselves for their pimp each day,
For otherwise, of course, I would not say.
What I will rail against is how their deeds
Force me to bend to their cult leader’s needs,
Force me the citrus avatar to heed
Whose hands are far too small to hold to all
That Stupid God through sphinct’ring lips will call
Into its own domain. I’m not its thrall,
Not yet; I hope that I will never be,
Despite the legions of such thralls I see.

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That time of year
Is nearly here
When folks do things
For those held dear,
And every year,
It’s long been clear,
Some will struggle,
Wracked with fear
That they, through sheer
Folly, near
Will miss their mark
And bring forth tears.

I know it well,
And I can tell
Who find themselves
In that small hell;
I hear them yell
In fear. I sell
At least one way
To ring the bell,
Escape that hell
And the death-knell
Relationship’s;
I do it well.

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The temperature is mild
A few clouds are in the sky
There is a gentle breeze
And yet I stand as if
The thunderstorm broke upon me
And the August sun has sat in my skin
Struggling against a northern gale

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