“Just Smile And Go Shrimpin’ . . . “

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How I wish I was simple,
Like the character
“Forrest Gump.”
How I dream that
I just didn’t “get it,”
That I didn’t “know”
What I think I know.
How would it be
To be so blissfully
Superficial,
To be untroubled by
Any deeper thought?
“Have you found Jesus?” . . .
“I didn’t know we were
Supposed to be looking
For Him.”
Indeed.
Everything is just a
“Yes”
Or a
“No,”
Why analyze?
We must enjoy headaches.
We have no peace
Because everything has to mean
Something more than just
What it is.
It is the simpleton
That understands . . .
And the rest of us
Have shit all over it.

Keep Soaring,
Rising hawk

“Backwards (Triolet) . . . “

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Evil men can do what they want,
Those who would do good can do what’s allowed,
So rotten makes faces and laughs to taunt.
Evil men can do what they want
Until they’re caught and beg for détente,
And the good may grant it from the snare of fair vowed.
Evil men can do what they want,
Those who would do good can do what’s allowed.

 

Keep Soaring,
Rising Hawk

“Flash Cards . . . “

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She was only ancient
In the history of man,
She had always been . . .
Eternal.
A small following at first,
A tribal Goddess
Of the jungle;
Wild,
Passionate,
Loving.
Then man arrived at new names
And new imagery
For gods and goddesses
And She fell out of favor,
But some teams kept Her
On the roster.
That was OK,
Because She was a He was an It
Was a void,
Ever Supreme,
And the fickle, confused
Machinations of man
Just window dressing,
Flash cards to aid
Human comprehension,
A float to keep
The infant’s head above water
On the vast sea
Of inexplicability,
Never once altering
I AM.

 

Keep Soaring,
Rising Hawk

“Ruthless Rites . . . “

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It is a ruthless
Rite of Spring,
Where we gather them up
In the back of the truck
And take them home
To slit ‘em open
and drain them,
Throwing away the hide -
The meat’s what we need.
What we harvest will
Last us through Winter.
Such is the destiny
Of a bag of mulch.

 

Keep Soaring,
Rising Hawk

“Very Short Story #4 . . . “

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She dug her toes into the sand,
warmed by the tropical sun
and caressed by the ocean breeze.
“Ah, sweet success,” she thought, “My hard work has paid off.”
And as she climbed into her empty bed she dreamed of the playground
and all of the friends she used to have.

 

Keep Soaring,
Rising Hawk

“Steady . . . “

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The juke joint floor,
Sticky as the duct tape
Covering the hole
In the men’s room door,
And the genius on the stage,
He’s just as poor
But he’s playing for booze
So he’s smilin’
For sure . . .
Until Sunday morn
When he’s kicked in the head
By that bootleg corn.
But it don’t matter
If his head is sore,
‘Cause he’ll be back Friday
To do it some more.
It’s right as rain
And he does it well,
And he’ll keep doing it
Until his arrival
In Heaven or Hell.
And the crowd will clap
And sweat
And bump
And grind
In the acrid smoke,
And that’s just fine
In forgotten Mississippi hills
Where life is defined,
And refined,
Against that steady groove.

 

 

Keep Soaring,
Rising Hawk