Category: Uncategorized

The circle of Politics is
a flat ring that
curves from the Center
all the way to
Far Right or Far Left.

At the end of the curve
white-hooded klans
black-masked pinkos
meet and merge in
a mean extreme.

What they have in sight
is all the same
except that one sees from
the left eye and
the other the right.

Each side is filled
with hate and anger
desiring to control
longing to rule
the subservient other.

The good concept is
that they represent
no-one and nothing
between themselves and
the rest of the ring.

John Lawrence Darretta

Normally forgotten
And rarely brought up
Random stories
About fun
We tend to recall
Only the good
Unless the bad memories
Rotten your childhood

there’s a different kind of connection that
you have with your mom
I know i wouldn’t be here without my
mom
I love my mom so much
I would do anything for her
with no regret
having a mom
is like having a best friend
but better
one who is always there no matter what
and can’t leave

He sits there on the stoop
with a somber look in his eyes,
with tears streaming down his face,
holding the poem he wrote for him—
the man he fell in love with,
A man he began to envision life with—
his head resting on his knees as he weeps.
He wonders what he did wrong,
why his outpour of love wasn’t appreciated,
his romantic gestures were not cherished.
He sits there questioning love—
Why can’t he find it?
Is he even deserving of it?
Did he love him wrong?
Was it too much?

He sits, ready to give up hope,
desperate for any chance at happiness.
All he ever wanted was to be loved,
to feel the warmth of one’s embrace.
For he has the biggest heart and loves purely,
giving his all to show his devotion.
But he knows, there may never be another like him,
not another soul that can love him the way he loves.
For he comes to realize that such shall be life— alone.
He laments, for he must live with a broken heart.

In the greenhouse, in the shed
the petals blacken that once bloomed
the weathervane has a broken coo
the garden lacks it’s nutrition
the butterflies are there, your favorite
animals, that desperately flutter and twirl
to try and replicate your performance,
though it’s dark in their cages,
the sun is out of the sky,
the sun is down on earth

It’s a ballet recital that never concludes
you twirl and you spin, shining light over all
your heels trace the steps of serendipity
your footwork tells the story of a thousand songs
and your butterflies study your every move,
and memorize your every note,
to translate into flutters, across language,
and you lock yourself in parnassus,
where they follow, seeking your company
as their final dying wish,
and you kiss them over their chipped wings

you’re the black swan, wanting arms
to nestle in, where you could swim
unapologetically and let the sun infiltrate
you, inside, instead of always extent beyond
because you’re a spectacle to be looking at
But you’re aging, in your mind, rotting,
and you want to die with beautiful things,
prisms and pools of colorless ink

It’s a sadness fluttering within the
final moments of a dying butterfly
You dance until your feet are tarnished
ballroom heels crackle and cheapen,
Your cheeks go red and yellow
From bruises years of rejection gave
You die to give your feet a rest
In a nest where your feathers can splay

never speak of me easily,
say my name across a conversation
like it could be anyone’s. No,
offer it the soft of your stomach
as to my finger pads, palms
in the still of our bed at first sun.

Rows of
serrated teeth
glint,
platinum,
sharp as
a jack knife’s
edge
A single shock
of crimson
for an eye,
leering in the
wet cavern
as the jagged
ceiling
drip
drip
drips.
ivory animal
carcasses crunch
underneath
the soles of
beat up sneakers.
Where am I?
The tantalizing scent
of cannabis leaves
splinter the geode,
an abstract mind
splattering its
rainbow colored
entrails
until
drawings of pen and ink
grow in detail
and dimension
etched in vivid
color, more avatar
than fiction.

I am present
In my devision.

I have
A place
Up Above
And a part of
Me remains below.

My speech
Is the echo
Of my thoughts.

I am a dead
Thing decorated.

She told us, she warned us,
repeatedly through story,
through song and finally,
she showed us.

Even with the showing,
we did not listen.
Even when chaos reigned down
on us from above.

When fiery rockets of molten lava
spewed from below.
When oceans rose and deserts disappeared,
still we did not listen.

We forced her hand
and being who she is,
she could not, would not back down.
We became the enemy.

We became the infestation.
We who had been given this paradise
of greenery, of sustenance, of life,
repeated our own history.

We did not garner one single learned moment
from the eons and eons of quiet pleas,
the unheard cries, the high decibel screams
she issued.

The animals could hear, the flowers and the plants
could hear. The mountains, the seas, the deserts
and the trees could hear.
But we could not hear.

We did not hear. We would not hear. Some did.
Some heard and tried to rally around the flowers
and trees. The oceans and deserts,
but they weren’t enough. They were too late.