New World (Part 8) – A Poetry Journal

4-25-22 – 1:19 p.m.

There needs to be divine justice for the world to make sense. Otherwise, our lives are meaningless, and the wicked get away with everything. I saw glimpses of redemption in my father’s face before he died. There were shards of light in his dark eyes that shined amid the hazy, drug-induced stupor.

There’s a part of me I don’t recognize. It’s the part I repress and push down; it comes bursting forth sometimes. The collective unconscious is very real, no matter what you may think. We are not blank slates, and we’ve lived many lifetimes before this one. Each soul is reincarnated and recycled.

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Let Me Have This Final Dance (a poem)

The smell of your fragrance ignites me
Pulls me closer to your secret self
Those inner energies you keep
From the eyes of the visible world
The energy swirls around inside you
It has me locked in an ecstatic trance
Come, take my weather-beaten hands
And let me have this final dance

We’ll dance for the moon and stars
We’ll kiss under rays of light
We’ll dance and hide our scars
We’ll agree to never take flight
From each other, you’re like no other
I’ve ever seen or been with

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Shadow Footsteps (a poem)

Underneath the cold, hard ground
I found the key to my soul
And I praised the gods of winter
Who enjoy the dead trees
And fallen leaves that rustle
Like shadow footsteps

In dark nights of lore
The high priests were astounded
By the teenage Jesus
No one believed us
When we saw him heal the blind men
In the sticky subway station

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We are Met with Silence (a poem)

I. Relativity

Have you noticed?
The homeless population is increasing
In the LA tent encampments
Surrounded by luxury cars
They plan to change the world
They are our only hope

At night, they bake beans over trash-can fires
Tell stories of their downfalls
And imaginary triumphs
Then they cuddle up in their tents
And scream into the void
They are met with silence

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Scoundrels (a poem)

But must I confess how I liked him
Though he pointed the gun at my head
And told me to give up the charade
Of pretending to enjoy this life

He was tall, slender like
The Slender Man, gruff like
People your mother told you
Not to associate with – scoundrels

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Soul-Eater (a poem)

The soul-eater has corrupted me thoroughly

this world teeters on brinks of insanity –

the soul-eater lurches thru

underground tunnels quietly,

he searches for innocence

to destroy violently –

save me from the soul-eater,

I beg you, please,

nothing is sweeter to him

than sadistic glee.

(Photo by BSD on Unsplash)