The Poems

I Have Seen The Best Minds Of My Generation Destroyed By Madness

Too many people stomping around—
fractured herds mucking the rivers,
shitting the highways,
killing the grass.
They think they know when they don’t.

They rode lame in a hot race and wept when their HellCat lost.
Now they cry from twit-faces in their concrete castles filled with Eisenhower plastic,
drowning their DTs in anger
and lamenting that their cultivated habits didn’t make them rich.

Money for the populace is the reason Owners obsess over property and selfhood.
They muck the rivers,
shit the highways,
kill the grass,
and count their dollars made of starvation, suicide, failure, death—

Dusty professors moan that I speak Ginsberg—
tragedy reduced to numbers big as vagina
while the world riots to muck the rivers…
eating the life from their own butchered bodies
and lamenting that their cultivated habits still don’t make them rich.

Fires In Ashbarrels, The Poems

New World Slavery

A woman from a fishing village
slaves in a sweatshop,
making shirts for retail stores,
selling them at low prices
to help save shoppers money to spend at McDonalds
after the Little League game tonight.

She makes barely enough money
to pay the rent of her shared one-bedroom apartment in the city
where hucksters scramble
day and night
to sell away her corner of the world
to anyone wanting a piece of the New World Dream.

She doesn’t dream asleep tonight,
but works to make enough money
to buy one of her nine daughters
a new dress this month,
to wear at the new school
Christian missionaries built last year
down the road from her home.
They convinced her government
to make school education mandatory
for everyone’s future welfare.

Now she sews and goes without eating
so her daughters are not left behind
when the corporate and political tsunami
crushes her world,
her life,
her heart.

Fires In Ashbarrels, The Poems

Nightfall (Old Poems Revised)

Night falls swiftly on us—
our lives are a flash in the sinking sun,
ten thousand years of rebounded vibrations—
I call it life but you call it hell.

You steer my sight to the setting sun and tell me
that it’s evening for us all—
the night is silence:
no more color,
no Hawaiian girls dancing—
all the knots and softness are gone from the day.

I retreat my gaze—
you were wild and ripe for life
in your short and raging glee,
now you stare at darkness and lament
that when we’re dead
no one invites us over for a drink.
No one sees the dirt beneath our nails,
or the dust that fills our throats,
or the ghosts that we’ve become.

When we are dead,
even the stones go on without us.

I promise to remember you,
if that will bring back a spark in your heart,
if only for a taste of what you mean to me.
You’ll live in me like the joyous songs of birds
rising in my soul,
overflowing when I think of you,
then passing when I follow you
into the lasting hug of this old earth.

My Tangerine Days, The Stories

A Glimpse At Danger

The humid air stung his eyes. He hated how the steaminess assaulted his throat and made it hard to breathe. He rarely walked, but Dr. Ford said his body needed the exercise if he wanted to get better. The backside of the park was a good place to begin. No one needed to see him huff and puff and sweat like an old steam engine. That’s why he kept inside the woodsy area. Plus, it was cooler here.

He was resting against the backside of a tree after urinating in the bushes there when two little darlings wearing short skirts caught his eye. He watched unseen as they passed within arm’s reach, giggling the way girls their age often do. He let them get several yards past him before he followed. Despite his poor condition, he was able to keep up with the little darlings—they weren’t hurrying.

On the other side of the grove, he kept his distance and pretended to stare down at the sidewalk along Seneca Street. No need making eye contact with anyone passing by. Traffic was sparse, even on Maple Drive where the girls entered Rockwood Terrace, and then an expensive looking tan and white ranch house.

1249, he read from the front door. Above it hung a wooden sign from the portico. The Garrs. He passed by the long house built low to the ground and its three car garage attached to the left. More houses like it lined the circular street active with children playing.

He turned around and retraced his steps back to the park and his car. He sat behind the wheel and decided to visit the Garrs soon … very soon.

My Tangerine Days, The Poems

Death Of A Poet

Do you launch rainbows?
Do you fill the sky with sunbeams and butterflies?
You do, naturally now in your ashes to ashes and dust to dust way.

You are the breeze, the wind, the sky
Hugging the land
Dusk in winter
Flowers in summer
The corner of sounds a few beats in the light and the dark.

You caress me now and forever
You caress the earth with your ear pressed to my breast
With a breath stirring the wheat
Nodding the noon asleep before rain.

LolaCandi, The Photos

Ocean Photos 8


I love being in and on water as much as being on land. My dad was in the Navy and owned a few boats, so I got to sail with him. One of our favorite songs was Sailing by Christopher Cross. When I think of my dad, I hear the song’s beautiful piano and its poignant words in my mind.

Well, it’s not far down to paradise, at least it’s not for me
And if the wind is right you can sail away and find tranquility
Oh, the canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see
Believe me

It’s not far to never-never land, no reason to pretend
And if the wind is right you can find the joy of innocence again
Oh, the canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see
Believe me

Sailing takes me away to where I’ve always heard it could be
Just a dream and the wind to carry me
And soon I will be free

Fantasy, it gets the best of me
When I’m sailing
All caught up in the reverie, every word is a symphony
Won’t you believe me?

Sailing takes me away to where I’ve always heard it could be
Just a dream and the wind to carry me
And soon I will be free

Well it’s not far back to sanity, at least it’s not for me
And if the wind is right you can sail away and find serenity
Oh, the canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see
Believe me

Sailing takes me away to where I’ve always heard it could be
Just a dream and the wind to carry me
And soon I will be free

Christopher Cross lyrics are property and copyright of their owners. “Sailing” lyrics provided for educational purposes and personal use only.


LolaCandi, The Photos

Ocean Photos 7

Sharks Own the Oceans—

Today is Father’s Day. In memory of my dad, I dedicate today’s post to him. He was the first person to teach me how to dive. Although he died in a car accident because of a negligent driver, safety was always top priority to him, no matter where he was at or what he was doing.

He was also the first person to teach me about sharks. We spent many wonderful afternoons at aquariums and marine museums looking at sharks, both real and illustrated, and, in my case, learning all about them.

I have swum with many sharks, mostly bulls and sand sharks. And when you’re swimming in shallow water with reefs and sand below you, it’s inevitable that you’re going to end up swimming with them, big and small. These places are prime feeding spots for them. Just keep a cool head and leave them alone, no matter how close they get to you. I’ve seen divers touch them without anything happening. And I’ve seen divers who bear the scars and missing appendages of not being so lucky. Sharks own the oceans, not humans.