Wow, is it hot

chillin I’m not.

How can I make up the time that I’ve lost?

What was wrought

with this furnace you brought?

Did you think about what this would cost?

You think it’s okay

to burn up this way.

I tell you you’re out of your mind.

We’re humans I say.

We can’t live this way.

Now you’ve got us in a bind.

Turn off the heat

these temps we can’t beat

My flowers are going up in flames

I’ve used all our sheets

I’ve stomped with my feet

Still I can’t douse or contain;

This insane conflagration,

Stirs a terrible sensation,

That makes an end to refrains.

Stop for chrissakes, it’s hot!


Just yesterday (for Santi)

I saw you yesterday

You weren’t so far away

Not as far as most

But still, not so very close.

If I could have touched you

The ripples would roll through

To the end of days

And in so many ways

Make our spirits one

Our time would not be done

You wouldn’t be so far away

I saw you, just yesterday. 


Please remember my brother with me today.  Santi gave all on this day in 1972.  We all lost that day.

SP4 Santiago Herrera Escobar, US Army Scout and Patrol Dag Handler, 34th Patrol Dog Platoon, 3rd Bde., 1st Cav., Bien Hoa, RVN.  RIP Brother. 



Its been so long since I wanted to write

not to scribble in anger, or hammer my rage

or describe the latest source of fright

but to reach out, touch it and earn the wage

that would buy me a reason to still be alive.


So it came as a surprise when

my keyboard came alive and then

words were thrown about to blend

and in every meaningful way did mend

my life, my soul, and all that jive.


Still, I wonder,

was this path forced upon me

because they felt it was a necessity

or because the gods destroyed the key

that would have granted eternity

before this purgatory they could contrive


Quickly I grasp at the tendered hands

Gratefully engaged, I reenter in time

For my soul to be kept in calm lands

To be part of the next phase in line.

So weak am I, yet He bids me survive


There is now a faint pulse in my chest

A door has opened, safe passage revealed

I strive once more to finish the quest

Before the favor might be repealed

There is yet much to claim as mine, to thrive.


I remember, I do, this thing called, Alive.

Time wasn’t caught


 What if there wasn’t any reason at all

To wake up, take a chance, maybe a fall?

Why not just stay under, far out of touch,

Never see sunlight, people or such?

There always seems to be somebody’s cause

Something to save, or to give us pause.

Shouldn’t there be, just occasionally,

Nothing at all, on an endless sea

Of no need or want, no lack or pain,

Only an open field, on those great fruited plains?

Did I miss the turning point, go the wrong way?

Was there some other duty or tariff to pay?

Where did freedom lose my life?

Since when did honor bear only strife?

Time made me think that I could still win

Then drew me down to where safety thins.

Where there isn’t room to hide within

Where only God doesn’t fear the din.

Where I dance and writhe in blood-soaked skin.

What if there wasn’t any reason at all?

What if you had to make that call?

Who would you blame then, what would you say?

If you looked in my eyes and couldn’t look away.

“You’re too poor.”  “You’re angry.” “You don’t fit in”

“No, I can’t help you.  Good bye.” With a grin?

Where did your heart go, can you not feel the swell?

What coldness allows that you can’t even tell

That you’ve become the very evil we fought

That in the end, it was you who was caught,

While feelings, truth and time were not.


Nearly alive

Once was a man who nearly lived. 

He grew,  he learned,  he loved,  he lost.

The more he tried,  the less he thrived, 

So he said,  “screw this” and instead,  he got tossed.

Once was a place where he actually fit.

He felt nearly normal,  a regular guy.

The efforts he made were oh so legit,

There should have been profit,  things to buy.

But he wasn’t well born, no society’s child,

Nor was he a political or media a-lister.

He was oh so normal, not nearly so wild

More a drifting river than a crazy twister.

So all his tries led to naught.

The end of good was what he got.

The end of days he then soon sought. 

For a lack of means it was not bought. 

And so his future was clearly fraught

with a toxic mix of can’t, won’t or not

He’s left with one unhappy thought

There’s naught to do. he got tossed.