What is There?

What is there in the end but forgiveness
And forgiving one’s self.
What is regret when we cannot go back
To change anything done?
We only move forward
To more change, the slow breakdown
Of the body, aging and death,
There is that, of course, but
The quicker one can do it the better:
Live so the need to forgive is less and less.
It is a gift we give, and when we can, is priceless.

 

tumblr_opi6ecpEKH1qde5xzo1_500Rayn Roberts 2017

If I Spoke

If I spoke from the heart and you could hear
You would ride the sound
Back to the beginning and see who you really are.

If I spoke from the heart, my tears would be a river
Running into the sea, an Ocean of sweetest water.

If I spoke from the heart, my joyful laughter
Would fill the universe
And ring the galaxies like a wind chime

If I spoke from the heart, you would hear my voice call
From time past, present and to come
All our wounded children– It would heal them, every last one

And the world, if ever it were, would be whole again.

Two in The StreamPhoto by Rayn Roberts

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Bedime Prayer

Bedtime Prayer

 
Soma, xanthan, vodka sweet
Now I lay me down to sleep
 
I pray that death will not come
That would be pretty dumb
 
To die alone without a friend
Would be a bitter wasted end.
 
But if I die before I wake
I did my best for fuck sake
 
I don’t know where I’m goin’
Make sure the gate is open
 
 
 
Photo: CIRCA 1940s – Zbigniew Stypulkowski, A Member Of A Polish …

After My Mom Died

For Mary Leary

The cracked world strangely abstract, crows eat the petals of morning
Flowers panic in the window box
Hummingbirds under the eave
Xanax morning calm without peace
I probably should meditate, but WTF—this works

A gathering of thieves, friends looking for Xanax in the  bathroom
Invisible on the balcony
Nicking my hash, drinking my blood
They came to prop me up
Then stole my stash, “suck it up pigface”
Later a Las Vegas Cocktail open mic colorless as the dry heaves

I hear Jimmy Jazz in my head:

“Fuck you and you and you and you if you call this is a poetry reading!
This is not a poetry reading!”– Ugly grey dog balls poetry
Wingless noise banging a toy piano poetry
Butt-crack poetry– Taking a shit is more creative
Than what some drool over into mocha macchiato.
Just throw some glitter on it, stick it to the frig with the rest of the brain leak-

My Mom would hate this poem, it’s all I’ve got right now.

My grief is driving me to java, but wait, some entertaining genius
May pop up out of the deep
It’s all about the art of self-expression, isn’t it?  Well? Isn’t it?

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Give ’em hell in heaven, Mom!