Tag Archives: stories

Bird Stories

These stories
Tell themselves
Between crows and ravens
In songs their forebears told,
Before murders made malice
For farmers rowing food
For their families,
Birds bid their broods sleep
With tales of
Favored feathers and fanciful flights.

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Hope – NaPoWriMo #20

Story peddler, word merchant,
everywhere I turn there’s a tale to be told, all urgent:
There’s an old man urchin with the same duct tape shoes
that rode the bus with me earlier today –
I guess we all must pay our dues.

Every clue, every missile,
every residual epistle,
every mountain we yet conquer,
every stone we over-turn
earns us scars and earns us badges,
every dart and all our baggage,
it is not too much to manage if we only listen true:

There is hope yet in the world still
and love when others have not e’en a morsel,
how to be so self-ensorceled and only see what’s brute,
if you’d see yourself astutely, and not think yourself minutely,
which is your sacred duty, and the only thing that’s true:

“Love your neighbor as you love yourself,”
gives you the dharma to love yourself!
And whatever’s on your shelf there is always this to think –
“I love myself.”

T’is neither selfish nor narcissitic,
because if you cannot stand yourself
why should others think your company distinguished?

And for all the damage that I’ve done, beating up this heart of mine,
With just a brief self-assurance I find I’m fine,
Sublime, in the love that is Self-Given,
a spark set within Myself pinpointed through a prism.

Protected: Public Transit – NaPoWriMo #16

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Six Billion Stories: A Small Sliver – NaPoWriMo #15

There are six billion individual stories in this world and I saw but a sliver this Sunday morning walking off a sole beer insobriety downtown Las Vegas.

I saw Santa Claus, lean in the springtime months, smoking a cigarette on the corner sidewalk.

So many drunk girls swaying to a country band on Fremont, short skirts and indiscretion, clustered in cloisters throughout the congregation.

There was a walking Asian pharmacy and a bottle of water, glasses, trekking back to his hotel room where his wife had some malady he had ventured out to cure.

I saw a man that walked like a meat market lumbering through a crowd that gave him a wide berth: he had a neck like two ham hocks half-eaten, a gait like a porterhouse – wholesome and bloody, each footstep a whole roost of chickens clucking cacophony.

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