Meditation

I love the way clouds stampede
across blue prairie of Oklahoma sky
stretching to the horizon
an infinite vaporous herd
individual pale bison
kicking up swirling white miasma
that obscures lumbering
surreal behemoths within
I am a speck of dust
beneath their hooves
crushed by imaginary creatures
substantial beyond imagination
I am a wraith clinging frantically
to a feral soundless steed
composed of delicate
undulating wisps of mist
and no ascetic holy man
has ever known such trance

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Talking Dog Syndrome

Imagine a talking dog, but with a twist. The dog asks questions and acts interested. But, its’ grasp of your reply is the same as a normal non-verbal canine. This is essentially what happens in many meetings. It doesn’t matter what you say. You might as well be talkin’ to a dog.

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Ode to Oklahoma

What rhymes with Oklahoma?
Thinking about it puts me in a coma.
Laying in the sun with a melanoma
until I start givin’ off a bad aroma.
I don’t really understand the definition of soma,
even though I got me a college diploma.
Starin’ at a picture hangin’ in The MOMA
that was painted by a dude with a bad case of glaucoma.
Makin’ long distance calls to my momma in Tacoma
and munchin’ on a pile of tomatoes roma.
Close but no cigar for Manitoba and Arizona.
I think I’ll write a poem about Tennessee.
O!
I think I’ll write a poem about Tennessee.

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Ballad of My Coffeehouse Days

Got the idea from a TV show.
Or was it pictures in a magazine,
some kinda racket on the radio,
or singing stories on a movie screen?

I grew my hair until my parents screamed,
and wore my jeans as tight as I could stand.
I wrote some bad songs because how I dreamed
of playing loud in a rock and roll band.

It turned out I was never a joiner,
and I wound up where the folksinger plays.
At little cafes down on the corner
is where I started my coffeehouse days.

With a cheap dreadnaught guitar from Japan,
my ass alone on a line where it lays.
Somewhere between the fire and a pan
is how I live out my coffeehouse days.

Son, would you play for a tuna sandwich?
Sing to a small crowd recently deceased?
Yes! I’m your guy when I get a grand itch,
and my coffeehouse jones requires a grease.

These days they think I’m just an old stoner.
The payment never exceeds my outlays.
Existence has been just one big boner,
wasting my time with these coffeehouse days

Decades pass and I am never a star,
but that was never a reason to stay.
From inert hands they will snatch my guitar
before I wind up my coffeehouse days.

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Question About The Creator

The chaotic nature of life leaves me seriously doubting there is a supreme being involved in the day to day activities of each individual human. But looking at my life in retrospect, it does seem somebody knew what they were doing. I feel I never got to where I was going, but landed just where I’m supposed to be. Maybe, it was just dumb luck. Or perhaps, somebody up there really does like me.

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The Good Son

I can still see my father
standing by the open door.
Through the fire and the brimstone
you can hear the organ roar.
And the choir they are singing
songs of joy and peace.
No one was excluded
from that sweet release.

Come on in. The door is open.
Leave behind your worried mind.
There are no locks on heaven’s door
and the folks there treat you kind.
Through all your fear and sorrow,
and all the battles you should have won.
Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

Since I saw the elephant
I’ve been a refugee
from small town Oklahoma
and a different century.
But I remember innocence
and all that I believed
in small town Oklahoma
before the elephant found me.

Come on in. The door is open.
Leave behind your worried mind.
There are no locks on heaven’s door
and the folks there treat you kind.
Through all your fear and sorrow,
and all the battles you should have won.
Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

To me you are a stranger,
though I know you from my youth
when I went off to fight the war
and I learned about the truth.
The people that I met
were vicious and unkind.
And if they could not kill you,
they’d surely try to break your mind.

Come on in. The door is open.
Leave behind your worried mind.
There are no locks on heaven’s door
and the folks there treat you kind.
Through all your fear and sorrow,
and all the battles you should have won.
Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

As I awoke
to the slamming of the door,
I knew that it was gone for good,
the place I was before.
To me you are my brother,
though I just met you today.
I know what you would give
just to hear somebody say:

Come on in. The door is open.
Leave behind your worried mind.
There are no locks on heaven’s door
and the folks there treat you kind.
Through all your fear and sorrow,
and all the battles you should have won.
Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

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