He Doesn't Taste Squash

He doesn't taste
Squash

Baked
Pureed
Sauteed

He doesn't taste
Squash

He tastes

Dirt

Waste

Of chickens
Of rabbits
Of worms

He turns it
With his tongue

His arms burn

He re-turns
Rows of earth
With his hands
In his mind

No matter how bland
He tastes
Salt
Of sweat

No matter how savory
The juice
Of earth's fruit

He tastes
The rain

Filling roots
Leaves
Shoots
Stems

And fruit

Surrounding seed
Chance
Again for
Roots
Leaves
Shoots
Stems

Squash

He tastes not the dish
But is more thankful
For food
Than those who
Chew
Mouths full

As each bite enters his

He prays
For those
Without

Jeffersonian Agrarianism

For the World

I till earth
I tend it's produce
I take it's yield

For the World

I love beasts
Creatures great and small
I nurture daily
Dismantle monthly

For the World I love

I touch creation

Daily

Creator
Gives good gifts
Touching me
Daily

With rain
Sun
Harvest and
Love

For the World

The Ductility of Dreams

If steel shared
The diameter
Of spider silk
The web would
Prove more powerful

While a bat’s wings are only
As thick as
Plastic sandwich bags

I tell of a tension
Exerted on steel
Spider’s string
And the flesh of wings

The opposing forces
Of this tension are
Dreams
And gifts

They tear apart
Double lives
Of men

The temptation?
To compromise
The responsibility
That arrives
When he realizes
His gift
His curse

The responsibility
To be
A Messiah
To Humanity

The tug of war
Of the mind

He dreams of
Love
And simple life

A family
And a chance to
Drive to work
Instead of swing
Or fly

He dreams of days
Just quietly going by
Going by a normal name
Like

Clark or
Peter or
Bruce

For a moment
He wishes
He never knew his own strength

Then,

Alfred or
Lois or
Aunt May

Fights alongside
Against the tension
And knowing both identities
Reminds

"...sometimes
We have to be steady
And give up the thing we want the most...
Even
Our dreams."

He rises
Accepting his station
And remembers
In this occupation
It is not uncommon
To beat bad guys

And Get the girl

Another Super-Hero Poem

Who is hero
In a world where
Last is first
And the greatest
Serves?

Who possess super-human powers
Who’s identity truly
Is secret?

His super suit
Is blue
A dirty Dickies one-piece
With his name embroidered-
No-
Emblazoned
Above the pocket

Maybe he doesn’t spend his nights
Mopping vomit
In that old
Elementary school

Maybe his broom flies
And he cleans the streets
Of villains and bad guys

And what a surprise
If she
Were a super hero

One with the elements
She breathes
Fire and screams
Wind
Earth covers her dead parts
And dirties her dress
Like soiled sheets
Of a hundred thousand beds

Could water make her clean again?

Maybe her nose
Is so
Red
From all that fire breathing she does
Consuming adversaries
Of truth
And Justice

Perhaps old people
Aren’t really confined to homes
It could all be a hoax
So enemies of humanity don’t
Sense their strength
Or know
Their knowledge

While the world sleeps
Wheelchairs go 400 miles per hour
Amphibious attack vehicles
Sort of James Bond style

They sport
Top-secret prosthetics
Made by mad scientists
In underground government labs

Maybe they move like lightning
With their mech-appendages
And go by names like
Robot-Boy and
Electro-girl

They fake the shakes of disease
Feign the confusion
Of senility
So they don’t blow their cover

Little children
Might be the most mighty
Of the secret-supers
The anti-evil
With minds powered by
Naivety and pure
Un-perverted laughter

Wicked ones flee from the laser light
Of innocent eyes

I can see the Metropolitan
Headlines now

"Janitor,
Elder,
Child,
And Whore
Form Fantastic Foursome
And stop clan
Of evil ninjas
Set on world domination”

That world
Where last come first
Is probably villianless
Lacking crime
And its’ resultant
Death
Pain
And crying

The peace of that kingdom
Is kept constantly
By the King who
Saved every day
By
Sacrifice
Of super strength
Becoming
Weak

He commands
All would-be
Heroes to do the same

To love
To become
Like kids
Like untouchables
Like the poor
Like the least