In a spotlight every facial expression looks deep. Bring it!
I can count three minutes off in my sleep. Bring it!

Give me a place to stand, and I’ll stand there.
As I sow, so shall ye out there reap. Bring it!

What I have to say needs to be said.
It’s mine to offer, yours to keep. Bring it!

If I move you, you’ll tell me so.
This is the moment: I breathe before I leap. Bring it!

I lay the words out faster than I thought I could.
Every moment of my life is at your feet. Bring it!

Numbers mean nothing beyond the moment.
I am the only poet I need to beat. Bring it!

This is the truth I was born to tell.
I am the vessel for the change I seek. Bring it!

I am the only thing I know perfectly.
I wrote this poem because I can no longer weep. Bring it!

When the moment’s over, I breathe again.
Somewhere, but not here, evil still sleeps. Bring it!

Poetry’s the point, but not the only point.
Any poem may slay the strong, save the weak. Bring it!

Next poet come up and does it all again.
This is the staff of our lives; come and eat. Bring it!

——————————————-

and now, back to the stuff I write for money…

Water cuts rock all the way downhill
with no strain on itself.

Wind turns leaves all at once,
or do the leaves turn themselves?

When the moon moves the ocean
the earth changes without troubling itself.

Wool grows long. We feel the need to shear it.
Before we saw them, sheep governed themselves.

Walls and bridges rise and obscure the fact
that there was no need for them till we troubled ourselves.

What does the tree feel as it grows?
Nothing, it tells us. Is there a truth it keeps for itself?

When I imagine peace in the center of this
I am happy enough until I notice myself.

When I dream, I break a sweat. Water
runs down my face. Wind cools me. I reproach myself.

Willing as I am to be still at the core, I cannot be
the wind and wave without rejecting myself.

Why not, then? Why not turn my face from working
toward the path of no effort? Why not be myself?

When I sit with that, I feel unloved.
I will not enjoy myself.

When I work, I feel removed.
All day, I remove myself.

Tobacco in a god’s broad hand. What does it matter?
He dies a little from each drag’s demands, but what does it matter?

He looks out his door, imagining his last words. What does it matter?
He’s not caring to understand, and what does it matter?

Abraham nearly shed his own blood. What does it matter?
That knife in his outstretched hand — what does it matter?

Stars prick the sky as dusk deepens. What does it matter?
Each light’s more than he can stand, and what does it matter?

War’s got more meaning for him than peace. What does it matter
that he lives each day all unmanned — what does it matter?

He draws the rich smoke in, blows it back out. What does it matter
that he seeks death, something grand — what does it matter?

American-eyed, haunted, unwelcome, and what does it matter
that he rules the stolen land — what does it matter?

He draws again on the fire he’s chosen. What does it matter
if he dies? The future’s best when unplanned — what does it matter?

A king smokes his way toward his own death. What does it matter
how many others he kills by command? What does it matter?

~~~

…ok, a loose ghazal at best, I know…just experimenting with the form…