The Materialist's Sunday Morning Coffee

My soul is material.

My matter is temporary.

I am weary and blind on a red Sunday. 

The light from the candles changes my vision.

The children's voices change my feeling.

Cancerous dogs hold back another day.

That dandy hope has one last verse.

Listen, listen, listen, 

And try hard to forget.

What your soul demands 

Can not be thought of again.

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What is Okay?

Tell me, is it ever really "Okay?"

At times I wish I could disappear, away from the day.


Tell me, was it really all a mystery?

Or was I really something plagued by history?

Judge me, try to reason my scars,

Yet, were you there for  my unreasonable wars?


Did you ever set foot in my shoes?

Taken account of what brings the blues?


Tell me, does it really matter?

If I was any more the sadder?

Perhaps it's just my business, only my trouble.

Not another place to intrude into my bubble.

I'll solve my self alone, and myself alone only

Not for you to break my silence, maybe tonight, I'd just like to be lonely.


Blame my shortcomings for my scars if you dare.

For me, it just occurred, the past isn't something I ever chose to wear.

Never-Ending Story

I really do want to believe it's all here,

That it's real, and that it is as great as everyone thinks it is,
Strong and indestructable,

Powerful with meaning and substance,

So that I too, exist here, but why?
These objects made of wood, steel and concrete, glass and fibers,
Clawing an scratching at my spirit day and night,
Begging for my touch to make them real,
And walls, walls, walls, that separate,
Real as this figment of my own imagination
Who I call myself, the existential being I believe I am,
The objects speak in tongues,
And languages unheard of
But understood with senses forbidden
And cast away from what man has deemed to be 'real',
And objects, material objects, jumping out at me,
Talking teapots, spoons and candlesticks,
From stories out of the depths of another's inner world,
Jumping into my world! How dare they come without knocking!
What is it they want? What are they asking?
"We are here just like you", they said,
"Why do you want to be here?"
So I replied, "Why do I want? Maybe I should just be!"
And so from then on I began to just be.

In case I should ever again need a shrink,
I shall first consult the kitchen sink.


4:21 AM 4/18/2013 ©

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The illusion called life.

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Time & Dreams

Just For Fun

A realm which holds space, matter, life
A giant force that controls everything
The death of nations
The birth of children
The ageing and growing of life
The erosion of the earth
The degradation of society
The reaper of souls
And the house of love, life, youth, and happiness

The only thing that time cannot touch, is dreams
Dreams are time in no time at all
In a dream you can live a lifetime, to wake in 10 minutes
Or live just a moment, to wake up years later
Dreams are emotions
They are desires
They are our will manifested as we want it to be
They are when we play God
They are windows to timelessness
Dreams are where we see the past
Where we clarify the present
And even, where we glimpse the future
Gateways to eternity
Mirrors of our psyches
Doorway to the world

Sweet Dreams

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*Random Poems 64: Poems 6

Random Poems




Many of us are programmed
from birth
to pick up fly swatters
and smash little flies
.. as if they don't
as we widely their little
brains scatter
and on the wall
their little legs
for we see them
not as spirit
but as matter
and send their
to God
as their lives
we shatter




On our planet
made of fire and granite
after millions of years
grow dates and pomegranates.




All Creation
in every nation
sings God's
Sooner or later
to all beings
comes salvation


Jesus did not say to preach to every nation but to preach to all creation.
All paths to God are sacred




Those who can find and honor
God in all, the Deity says,
from Malcolm to Aphrodite,
from black to whitie,
from the weak to the mighty
from the stable to the flighty
further along than those who
can see God only in the Almighty.




From the forests of pandas
to Alpine verandas
From the seas of Canada
to the mountains of Uganda
all recognize
warmonger propaganda.




The 1927 flood
made the Mississippi
seventy miles wide.

Only God then
could take all the sips
from the mighty Mississip


Greg Iles spoke of the width of Mississippi

-saiom shriver-



Author's Notes/Comments: 

Flies are growing in
number around factory
farms.. because
of the concentrated
waste which rings
the concentrated suffering
.. but the solution
is not insecticides..
the insects are Godsent
to make the waste
less dangerous.
The solution is to
dismantle these
auschwitz farms.

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