I’d rather not waste the ink
To try and tell you what I think
There’s other poets that can write
The truths that I will never know
The words much better for the show
GoodBye
The endgame
No good moves left
No discussions
Worth having
No more lunches
With the brilliant
Or the famous
Only the final steps
Of the last cold trail.
Silence
There is silence
In my heart.
Not love
Not fear
Only silence.
Generational Ideals
My grandfather was a share-cropper
Working someone else’s land
My father and uncles worked in industry
Making machines run for corporations
My brothers are tradesmen
Creating things of wood and stone and metal and plastic
I was and am a servant of the state
A manager of programs and a leader of troops
Making plans and enforcing policies that are not my own
I’m also an academic
Writing papers to influence others
Or to teach them the things I know
But I can not shake the feeling that
Despite better compensation
Each of the generations
Have moved farther from truth
For thought it may not carry much honor
In this modern age we live in
There is something honest and basic
That can only be found
Through working in the soil.
Morning Sun
The morning sun rises
Over the Lake of the Ozarks
On a family vacation
In a Post-COVID age
Nearly the Fourth of July
Bass boats and jet skis
Compete with the starlings
Singing the song
Of summertime bliss
From the banks I skip stones
Contemplating the future
Along with the past
The warmth of the sun
And the dark brooding water
Under the surface
Embraced in the cool waves
Lies a sweet respite
From the heat of the sun
And the memories of the desert.