On Helping Humans - a poem

Human nature, what is human nature,
some deem it bad, some deem it good,
that there is one switch to another
that's it, no other course of action to take.

You witness it considerably more when tragedy
strikes that a majority can get behind, how able
hands give freely their work, or their time
to build, muse, give, to contemplate our collective
messes. We do it continually around our world,
each and every day.

We also see carnage sweep about and decimate,
we see awful around world and in our own backyards.
We pain to witness it, deviant actions, and ideas,
and what could muster a human being to damage
another human being.

Human nature is fickle, but it is not created in vacuum.
It is one part innate, one part learned, one part chemical,
but the terror of humanity is a learned terror,
it is not the basis of who we are. Somehow our most
basic instinct compels us to freely lend a hand,
to recognize the need, the hurt, the want in others
and reach out.

We do not always reach out, we sometimes see the sole
man on a street corner begging for scraps
and dismiss him as nuisance but more often
than not, when a need is apparent, people want to give.
They want to lend hands. As it concerns children,
who did nothing to warrant an inquiry to their
person, we tend to rush to aid of them, especially those
in our own backyard.

On My Musings - a sort of poem

I tend to think about things a lot, and in turn I share maybe one too many remarks as to what that thinking entails, I assume some will be taken lightly, and others may be taken heavy.

That if I start to state some universal truths, some may nod their heads, and admit these facts, but then my muddled opinions may shine abrupt and cause an irritable bowel sensation of those that hear them, and cause them to lash out at me.

There is a fine line to walk when you write about life, because there are many things we mostly accept for all of  us, and there are those that are personal to me.

These personal things go from my personal experiences, and my brand of thinking, which includes a plethora of topics that can be touchy, or taboo, but on that other hand there are those declarations of love that we can all understand, remarks upon tragedy, on loss, and on the other end of the spectrum, on hope.

Is it fit to wave away the entirety of an individual thought if part of it is un-liked, or ill-taken? Is it fit that we should label a person a this, or a that, based on one line of thought that we disagree with? Is it fit to diminish talent, or creativity because one part irked us?

In my opinion it doesn't always matter to the whole, if we take into account that once in awhile someone may say something that we do not like, may use words we do not agree with, may have beliefs that will seep into the wordplay.

We do not have to buy every line, we do not have to take the bite, but I think there is a way to appreciate an artists voice without adopting their stance.

For I may speak upon love that I feel, and a readership may ooo and aww at my statements, but I may bemoan a state of political affairs and a readership may boo and hiss. They can take my generalities, and my appreciations as they will, and they can disregard my views as they will.

I do not claim to be inline to some perfect audience, I share thoughts that are for all ages, I share thoughts that are for adults, I share thoughts that comment on beauty, and thoughts that express irritability.

It is fair to avoid art, it is a choice to partake, it is a choice to latch onto my evidence, or to disregard it.

Take the pieces that mean something for you, and ignore the rest, and find someone who can give you guidance in those views that you yourself cherish, that I do not, but do not think it black and white, I operate in gray, and will continue to do so.

For Madeline - a poem

Hey you,
I heard you like unicorns,
and princesses too. Like Elsa,
from Frozen, singing songs, a girl too,
strong, like you. Katie-bug says you have a lot
of energy, heard she cooked breakfast
for you. She was happy too. Katie-bug
cooked breakfast for me before too,
cooked me crepes, which is a funny word,
looks like creeps, but our-bug doesn't creep,,
and the crepes were great. What'd she make
for you? Probably whatever you wanted?
She might have made you ice cream
and cake if you had really wanted it, or some pie,
any kind of pie, pie that was big, pie
that towered high.

Hey you,
I know bug wanted to be there for you
she told me every day when she found
out you had to go to the doctors.
I held her phone up so you could see her
scar. I heard your voice while
I drove her to see my niece and nephew
in the play they were in. They got to sing
some songs. My nephews name is Lyric,
like the words that make up a song,
my nieces name is Aurora, like the princess
from Sleeping Beauty. I figured you'd probably
know her, since you love princesses so much.

Hey you,
Katie-bug probably wishes she could fly,
would have flown down yesterday
to get to you. Would have put her body
there beside you. Would have tried on your
nail polish with you, and played with all
your stuffed animals. Heard you got a lot of them.
I hope its okay that I hugged her
when she couldn't get to you. But only until,
she does, because bug is coming,
heard you used to call her Miss Katie.

Hey you,
you don't know me, and I don't have magic
powers or anything but if I did
I would have made a unicorn to give Katie-bug
a lift to you. The kind you'd probably like,
maybe it could fly, and then you could keep it,
name it, I'd gift that to you. My name is Aaron,
but you can call me that guy,
sometimes Katie-bug calls me baby boy,
but I am not a baby, I don't wear diapers,
or drink out of bottles, but I like to read
books, and write stories. So,
I thought I'd write this story to you.

Hey you,
this story is about you. Cheering for your favorite team,
and then your team came to cheer on you,
silly probably that the wrestlers are cheerleaders too,
but they don't mind. You must be a hero to so many,
I think that's pretty neat. I heard about you,
after Katie-bug came for Christmas time and cooked
you breakfast. Must be special if she cooked for you,
that means your special to me too,
and so many others.

This is for you.

Bullshit! - a poem

it is bullshit!

when tsunami waves strike strike shores
or innocent people end up as collateral damage
or when children are found to have tumors in their brains
some of these things are out of our control

and that is bullshit!

that these creeping things come in and attack and claw about with winter claws
and strip our bones, ripping skin from skin, and we can't get out of the way
because it is directly in our pathways, seeking to devour us, all of this
sense of uselessness.

it is bullshit!

that cancer exists, that it should exist, that we truly haven't found
a way to to combat it, as we pour all of our resources into combat
scenarios, and murdering people, so much more to be done if we could
just simply give our resources for things that could save our sons
and our daughters.

that is bullshit!

Family Business - a poem

There's something strange as we sit and eat our breakfast, lunch
and dinner. Strange that our thoughts are not on our taste buds
not on the flavors, but on the thoughts that are collectively
being thought on similar circumstances. As we go through motions
of existence, knowing that anticipation is stuck on our lungs
and in truth our breathing is falsified, and we attempt to laugh
and smile, to be genuine to ourselves before the waiting had begun.

This is typical of the days that follow news, personal news, family
news, that we are to contemplate tomorrow when we know very little
for today, and the flashbulbs of questioning cause us to go back
in our minds to our personal memories because we have been somewhere
resembling this place, before. As our food lands on our tongues,
we know we have had silent meals like this once upon a time, and it felt
as though the exiting of those events was the last word on all that business.

That it did not end there, that the period was only an ellipsis is perhaps
the hardest part of difficult times, that they tend to come around again,
and poke at us, and prod us, and we are forced to pay attention. Yet, the hardest
part of all of it is going about the normal day to day, knowing that normality
is going to be there. We want to send normality away, but somehow
we are unforfortunately accustomed to this news, and so we function
somehow when all we want is the world to stop so this, this can be found
out, and sorted, and to get to the point, but we wait, and wait, and wait.

Thinking on loved ones is toughest to do, wondering who needs
to be stronger, who needs to relinquish their floodgates to freedom,
and who has no need to fall apart. When we care for one another,
we cannot help but hurt for those who hurt, to fear when others fear,
to be consumed with rage again, and again at the unfairness of life.
Yet, we hope, and we continue to hope, battle weary, and driven
to see tomorrow back to its true state so that we may eat breakfast, lunch
and dinner in the peace we always did, but for now, we chew our food
with contemplation, and we recite our mantras in our head, and compel
ourselves to function, for we know a truth: we are fragile, flesh and bones,
human. So let us feel human, even though it hurts.

Machines of Rage - a poem

Thrash about thrash about thrash about
hyper sensitive to rage, rageful, full of rage,
seething hands, fisted, raised, bargaining,
inferno raising, boiling, lifted to peak
penetrative laser beams exploding fuel
trucks, taking no need to temper these feelings
because the feelings are fire, pure fire, fire.

Wonders in abrasiveness of suffering of children
wonders about pained children, hurting children,
always children, leave wonders amass in anger,
thrashes, seething, leaves hands wringing out necks
of grief. Children suffering in treatments, or wars,
always children, skin to ribs, tubes where they shouldn't
go, and smallest of all of us, strongest of all of us,
smiling on, reciting nicknames, playing with toys,
passing jokes, dealing better than adults in charge,
but this does not diminish inferno building.

Smoke bellows, it blocks, it corrodes insides,
as we, we not suffering, for now, wonder how
to communicate our rage, and we rage, rage
till sun disappears, rage when sun is appeared,
and anger permeates conversations
that we scorn, and burn into ourselves, fiery
brands of curse words, accompanied by debates,
bargains, as we face skyward, and say fuck,
why, dammit, why, please, oh please, and please,
how do we unseat ourselves as we are strapped
in by this glue, cementing us in this bellowing
smoke stacked intimidation of ourselves,
as we search dark questions, for darker answers.

And children, always children who listen to us ponder
the universe, and who see it clearer, with better vision
and we wonder why us, we, adults, the older, the foolish,
can't be gone in place of those who spy skies with innocence,
and we rage, and throw our tantrums as children did,
but we are not children, we are just machines of rage,
rage that we can do nothing but wait, and wait, and wait,
and then once we've waited, we will know no more then,
than we did before, what to do with our rage at the fuckery
of it all, and it is fuckery, for children are purest souls,
prior in existence to the picking of crows
that has caused the rest of us to inquire, inquire further,
inquire on why, with rage.

Happy Birthday Mom, January 21st 2020 - a birthday poem for my mother

To what do I owe my mother, beside that I am alive
and that I breathe because she brought me into this world
messy and screaming and angry that I had to be invited
out to this big old mess. That I plant my own two feet
is a testament to those early lessons of walking and talking,
and taking a moment to appreciate each others voices,
that is, all of us, all around us, to view things through a lens
of hopeful understanding. Coming to terms that these lessons
come with much hurt, for like her, I trust too hard, too much,
too soon, and the rewards, like for her, have always seldom
been worth the pain. I owe my mother much, as I walk my walks
and talk my talks. That I can even form coherent sentences,
that I can form flowery patterns at all with language,
is because of her particular undertaking to personally teach
me to read. I know that not everyone saw her embraces
as helpful, as though she were smothering me with understanding
and affections, and saving me too often from uncomfortable
places. But, I like to think I learned a lot, and learned a lot of love,
and what it means to truly care about someone, so that I do not,
and will not see any fault in how she's done it, brought me up,
and sent me out, and held me close.

My  mother, who today, January 21st, 2020, turns sixty-years
of age, and who took the time to choose to raise us, exclusively,
focusing on us as her duty, her occupation and her joy. Washing
our laundry, changing our diapers, defending our attitudes,
addressing our wounds, as she dressed them with band-aids,
and kisses.Who does not care much if you slip up, only that you apologize,
show love, and return love that she so selfishly gives. My mother
who put her children before herself, and sometimes that breaks my heart
but she would never say it as a burdensome task, she would never claim
us to be something that held her back in this life. For she speaks
wholeheartedly and earnestly and honestly about a need to approach
motherhood, to having always wanted to raise babies, good little children,
who loved her and appreciated her, that she could treat with a fondness
she may have felt absent at times in her own life. To this charge,
and hope, I can say with great certainty, that my mother did just fine,
gave us life, nurtured us, and raised us to be loving and considerate people.

On January 21st, she was born, in the year 1960. A baby just like me,
and I never forget she experienced this world with all the faulty wiring
that makes up our human selves, she a host of a lot of hurt, a lot of hope,
and mountains of love and affection. Selfless, beautiful with a heart as bottomless
as the universe is expansive. She has room for me, and hers, and mine, and yours,
happy birthday mommy, my greatest role model, and my shiniest guiding star.