Saturday, March 7, 2015

They cannot.


Who would save the world?
zealots who have all answers?

Those who insist on censorship
while exclaiming love of freedom?

Purveyors of political correctness
squelchers of the right to divergent opinion?

The know-it-alls who brook no dissent
while cramming ideology down out ignorant throats?

The self righteous flag waving, cross bearing keepers
of all that they consider inviolable while violating you and me?

Who would save the world?
the know-nothings who believe that they know all?

And if they save the world
it will not be fit place for human habitat.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Low Hanging

Billie Sang Of "Strange" Fruit

There’s a moss draped century oak
near the old cypress episcopal church
gnarled branches reach to the ground

Resurrection fern covers the branches
and looks like a weed that had died
but it greens with the coming of rain

The oak’s history is bloodied
by the white folk who worship
while selling their souls every day

The oak’s story is not over
there’s still much to be written
and time will tell what that will be

There may be atonement
under the old oak’s branches
or time might go on as it has yesterday

Monday, February 23, 2015

It lurks

Our Dark Matter

buried deep
in atavistic souls,
utterly evil

Our vilest nature,
cloaked with smiles,
lies unseen,

Dark matter
behind bonhomie
still lurks,
in shadow

Modern sensibilities
disguise our darkest natures
that beneath lie unchanged,

Dark matter,
was there, is there
always shall be there,

Would that
we had evolved
to a higher plane
of being

Dark matter,
our corpus,
corrupts our souls,
sources our maddest delusions

We can only
learn to live with
that essential truth


Friday, February 20, 2015

Of Time

Time's Flyin'
 Maybe it's good we pass away,
'cause memories are always with us,
we can recall a youth of muscle,
flat bellies, single chins, and woodies;
all things that now are buried in the past.

Maybe it's good we pass away,
'cause memories are always with us,
we can recall a time with clear skin
firm bottoms, perky breasts, and moisture;
all things that now are better off forgotten.

Maybe it's good we pass away,
'cause the march of time reminds us
of glory days that are gone forever;
a past lived large and wished for again,
but, alas, a past not to be repeated.

Maybe it's good we pass away,
when old friends leave everyday,
so that those who stay behind
don't have much that's left to say,
and besides, who would listen?

Maybe it's good we pass away,
younger folk now hold sway,
but dammit, I'll stick around a while,
regaling them with old and boring tales,
keeping center stage to piss 'em off

A old and stubborn cuss is me,
though time and tide wont wait,
I'll hold on to see what I can see,
and have fun with my September years,
laughing loudly as my time winds down.

Friday, February 13, 2015


Head Scratching
by GC

Well Bub,
I'd tell
what it is
that I
if only
I could

It seemed
but that was
the fog
set in

all you wnt
do no
because it's

floated off
the ether
never to

you nor I
ever know
it might have

Saturday, January 24, 2015


A-muse-ing Pals
by GC. Smith

I am surrounded with my pals
They help me think to write
They silently encourage me
And help me find the words

First is my Teddy bear
With lotsa soft brown hair
And a great big pink tongue
With which to lick the honey

Then there’s Spike, my doggy
Spotted black and white
You better treat him nice
Or he will bite your ass

Then there is my gargoyle
Who sits atop my desk
Watches carefully over me
My humpback friend for sure

My raven he is made of tin
But I know he’s alive
That raven does inspire
Amusing muse is he

They are all my good pals
Who help me when I write
And if I didn’t have them
It would be a sadder life

When I finish with writing
I go and whirl in the tub
With yellow rubber ducky
Who’s been with me forever

Sunday, January 18, 2015


The Fire 
By GC 

"Caliente  ...ohhhhh...laaaaa..." 

Our fires burn. 
and she is hot 
my summer gal, 
au natural 

Wantin' all, 
but she cannot know 
if my flame is more than show 
if I might or might not stay long with her 
enamoured with her fevered emanation 

Then, chill comes on 
with winter moon 
harsh winds
freeze and forstall 
the consummation 
and the knowing

Wind chills out 
all of summer’s fire 
banking flames; 
there becomes hiatus of touch 
til chill is done 

Starved now for warmth, 
immobile, near death, 
when suddenly
daffodil poke up 
their yellow blossoms cheering 
telling what will come 
our lost touches 

know now that she is hot 
and reincarnate
her fingers now caress 
my enflamed skin,
oh joy, 
summer's come again 
--it's time for fun 
and sin

we are consumed