Zen

Under Priced Life So many dieing No time to give the dead names. Numbers on a chart. Falling in the twos and threes. Mother’s swift crying Breaking silently my heart. They die in bunkers, In dirty hospital beds. In dark back alleys, In the bright midday sun. Reported on capriciously. Why, why must this be so? Our children dieing in foreign streets. In domestic brawls. In falling towers. In angry mobs. In abandoned homes. Subject to drugs And lives as whores. So many dieing, No time to feed the kids. Just enough time to plunder the poor though. Over priced homes Under priced lives. Struggling to get by. On less then six bucks an hour. With four mouths to feed And another on the way. Days so long can’t see them grow. Why, why must this be so? To live a life so long, With so few moments of joy. A battle from day one. Just to simply breath.

Doves We are swollen doves Swimming dully around life. Touching facets deep Façades of beauty we keep. Lying to ourselves, So easily crying out loud When no one’s around.

Hello folks and welcome to this, a small corner that I wish to take up in order to display some of my work.

Hello O mighty mighty pen. I humbly submit my meager writing to you. In hopes that some day I may attain the grand penmanship (pen-person-ship, that’s PC if I don’t say so myself) that you have all attained here. For to long I have sat in shadows watching you all to afraid to enter, but merely peeking through windows. I have made myself know, the shadow illuminated I bid hello to one and all. Teach me to do what I must. Write. Thank you all and have a happy holiday season.

Wistful A sudden gust, Blew by. O my o my, Someone run, I think it’s Going to be fun. The kids are away The birds in a nest. The jolly jolly fun. Of a long long day Wistful thoughts Wistful dreams. The days of old. The days if new. We live and die By these rules. (and so I enter the pen.