Month: August 2014





Florida Vultures

Moved onto the dead limbs of

A lightning-struck Oak


I perceive this pair

No longer part of the flock

Patient, shunned twosome


Observing, waiting

To pick over the corpse of

A dream unfulfilled




None Today

Mother leaves nestling

Never returns from search





Child chirps

She returns today

Mother and Child Reunion*



*Paul Simon song title

(c) 2014 ViataMaja


The spirituality that had evaded her

Since the breakup has returned

But it is on another plane

Part of a different dimension

Instead of relating this feeling to

Heaven or Reincarnation

Or Shamanism or Nature

The sense of spirituality

Is present in everyday chores.


Here it is Sunday morning at the supermarket.

No more than ten people

Drift through the large store

She is alone in the peanut butter aisle

Listening to great music

Piped out of the store speakers

Dobie Gray singing Drift Away

She cannot resist, reacts to the song

Bellowing out the refrain:

“Give me the beat boys and free my soul

I want to get lost in your rock and roll

And drift away…”


Incredibly, she hears nine other voices

Belting out the refrain

From every corner of the vast building

Skin tingling, she thinks

Music frees our souls, no doubt.

Then it weaves them together with others

How can anyone

Who truly loves and understands the power

Of chords, melody, harmony

Be anything but a good person deep down in the core of the soul?


Do sociopaths get teary over music?

Despite the decades

She still teared up from Simon and Garfunkel singing,

“I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why…”

But is that because of the words? How about the sound?

Could Jimmy Page’s guitar clarion call in Stairway to Heaven

With no words at all

Prove that chords are as powerful as words?


Do serial killers experience that feeling?

No? But surely the world of humanity was mostly good.

For every bad deed there can be ten good ones?

The crashing of the Twin Towers done by anti-lifers

Juxtaposed with the volunteer cleanup and saving of souls done by

Life affirmers counteracted that?

Life affirmers defined by

Those who could feel compassion for all

Whether they prayed differently or voted differently or had blue striped hair

It is easy to like someone who mirrors us

The real test comes when one has to search inward

And conclude that others are worth liking

Even if they do not appear in our mirror.


And so she sang

As did her spiritual brothers and sisters

Rolling the carts down the aisles

Doing a little dance with feet or shoulders

Affirming life and the thread that

Sometimes holds us all together..


© 2014 ViataMaja, Laminas




“Man buys all the pies

At McDonald’s to spite

A crying child behind him

In line…”


After snorting with laughter

While imagining his thought processes

Sadness overcame me


For the child

For the man

For all of us


Have to wonder

Who is walking

This Earth

Behind smiling masks

With such hatred?


Who cooks our meals at restaurants?

Who bottles our pills at pharmacies?

Who slashes and burns our sick bodies?

Who divides us with hateful words?


Am I the only one who no longer makes eye contact with strangers?


© 2014 Viata Maja


THE DEAD J’S ROCK BAND (A Stacked Haiku)

A hidden gateway

Overabundance of green

Live Oaks, Lantana…

String Man stumbles through

Guitar slung over his back

Fiddle held in hand.


Moment gazing at the dream

She smiles and says,

Tell me who you are

Have we met somewhere before?

He smiles and says,

Went to hell one day

Much worse than a summer drought

A Haiku-ish thought

I met the Dead J’s

Got out our guitars and played

Whoosh, we’re in Heaven.

Who are the Dead J’s?

Jimi Hendrix, lead guitar

Janis Joplin sings.

John Denver from high

John Lennon Imagines songs

Jim Croce had dreams

Jim — Doors — Lizard King

Jerry Garcia, Grateful

John Bonham, drummer

A preponderance

Of J’s that died much too soon

Still rocking away!

I am the front man

Looking to start a new band

Got any ideas?

Well, pick a letter!

Grim Reaper is the String Man?

Smiling, I say, “X”

© ViataMaja, Laminas


Every day I write a poem to you

When I put my arms around you

When my dark eyes seek yours

When our lips brush softly

Even while perking your morning coffee

I feel like the poet laureate of love

Measuring out meter and rhyming your existence

In my oh-so-lucky life


© 2014 ViataMaja




At three in the morning a poem wrote itself

Nudging me awake

I wrote in darkness

Moon not quite bright but unnecessary

Because it was automatic writing

Like the claims of those old Victorian Spiritualists

(Those whiskered men and corseted women)

Who insisted a greater power moved their pen across the paper.


I wrote endless pages of how the world and life

Should be

The pen moved in the dark


Creating words that shone

Neon? No, nuclear.


Exhausted, finally fell asleep

Woke up to see

The spiral notebook on the floor

Pen dangerously clutched in sleepy fingers

Ah, what did I write?

What did the Spirit dictate to me?

All those words scrawled across the pages


Pages and pages of indecipherability

Except for one word:



(c) 2014 ViataMaja


Tried to be friends, used words

Written, spoken, sung

You ignored me and that

Means one thing, this thing

Is not meant to be.


You don’t understand how I love

You’re still back with the nightmare people

Invited you into my light, the dream

Where together we’d face those purple mountains

More bruised than majestic but full of promise


I thought we’d be mutual Muses

Women don’t have Muses, you think?

If you deny a Muse to a woman

You deny her the title of Poet


You promised to put the pen in my hand

When the lines came

Even if we were wrapped together

Facing the night

Instead, you chose the molasses of time

Sticking you flat to what once was


One day the past will suddenly arise

Shake off the good and the bad

Looping through the mind

And finally skitter into the future

Tense-ness of life

But age waits for no one…


© 2014 ViataMaja


“The world you see is just a movie in your mind.

Rocks dont see it.

Bless and sit down.

Forgive and forget.

Practice kindness all day to everybody

and you will realize you’re already

in heaven now.

That’s the story.

That’s the message.

Nobody understands it,

nobody listens, they’re

all running around like chickens with heads cut off

I will try to teach it but it will

be in vain, s’why I’ll

end up in a shack

praying and being

cool and singing

by my woodstove

making pancakes.”

Jack Kerouac, author of On The Road

Letter to Edie Kerouac Parker, 1957

(Brain Pickings Weekly)


“The past is a million miles away”

I say, looking at familiar places

On a 17 inch computer screen


Photos taken

When I last walked those spaces

There were no ghosts

Now I see the ghosts

Here I am, young and hopeful

Here are friends, some alive, some dead

More like whimsical chimera

Trapped forever in the concrete of the city

The pores of the breathing buildings


Mouths open in laughter

Or terror

Or song

“…we shall overcome…”

“…how many deaths does it take…”

“…come on baby light my fire…”

“…I can’t get no satisfaction…”

“…the times they are a’changing…”

Echoing down the years

Fingers pressing frets

Changing chords audible only on vinyl


And most of all writing and reciting poetry

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness…”

Define madness, I whisper to Allen Ginsberg’s ghost

Your generation preceded mine

My generation‘s minds may have been destroyed by TV


What I want to know is

Where is Music? Where are Ideas? Where are Love and Peace?

Haunting the old photos posted online?

Merely ghosts from the aging past…


© 2014 ViataMaja