Something She Said

Writing is for thinking
through the day. Its for
playing with words until
you make so much sense
of things that someone somewhere
falls in love with you.

Writing is for expressing emotion.
It's also for finding as many ways
as possible to say something,
or to say nothing that means something.
I hate when writers become critics.
I wish critics would become poets.

Whisper me 12 sentences and
I'll pay you $5. She said,
"speak directly to me, it's time
to stop orbiting and
come back down to earth."
It took me a bit because
up here it's so peaceful
comfortable and safe.

If I live long enough,
there will be human life
on mars. A planet that bears
its own scars. Has it's own
climate science. Signs of where
water used to be.

She was like water.
My writer friend said,
"Stay thirsty." So I drank
until I couldn't get my fill.
Loved the new drunk.
Stayed sober from my
punch drunk.
She writes I read.
I write she reads.
Spies like us bleed too.

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The 5 People Who Make Life Heaven

They listen when you need to talk Talk when you need to listen They know your darkness Let you know theirs Without judgement and expectation You can talk to them about how you see things They don't get angry or anxious when you disagree Trust you enough to say what they really think Read tweets and novels Never make you beg or grovel Won't allow it Remind you that you're better than that Lay some of their burden on you Let you behind their wall Feel welcome behind yours You feel each other with heart and mind Even if you don't explain yourself They get you You get them These are the ones that make life worth living Make you love to be alive Reflect you to you Teach and learn Some days the lead singer Some days the band These are the ones You can count on one hand (c) Ron Kennedy

Poetry Tree

I saw no birds grieve No fallen leaves No branches on the ground None made a sound It wasn’t rotten It didn’t die in a storm Capitalism came In its progress form To take one of my last Best refuges from me I may be the only one who noticed The death of my poetry tree.

Stargazing

Photo by Gustavo Spindula on Unsplash Sometimes I check my neck to see if it’s still Half red, half dirty and half um Andrew, I’m still gonna need some Help with that Math We live in an era where Before you even speak an opinion You might be attacked For what you have Or don’t How you look What you might say How you act Who you love Where you live That you give a damn about facts That you empathize with those cast As villains in the common narrative Or even that you don’t naturally fall in line Being of your own mind Self-educated Self meditated Spiritually in moments sublime I lay on my back & count the stars listening to For Now Thinking on philosophies that rhyme Alone & feeling fine.

Between The Rhymes

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