I found a diary beneath a tree the other day

and sat down to read a story about responsibility,

destiny, hope, love, and love lost.

There was a hero and a villain, in a true story

wrapped in a plane brown wrapper of parchment.

Plane brown wrappers I have learned

contain the most interesting reading

about everything under the sun.

I think I know how it ends…


Newsstands packed full, preach and teach,

advertise, not so subtly lending a hand to control.

Telling you, how to be, what to where, what to think,

not to think, not to wonder. Ask!

Question the status quo.

I want to be like Mikey likes it he’ll eat anything.

Keep up with the Jones, ignore the man behind the curtain

Spoon-fed on the Tele-dumbing us up, younger and younger

and I’m not finished yet…


I gently turn the weathered pages

of the book that crumbles in my hands

as I learn about doubt,

the reluctance to take the reins of a responsibility

given as a birthright.

It was written with a uniqueness to rival all

and set the standard for a future as yet untold.

It was written in a subtle voice

that would echo for hundreds of thousands of years

and change the world as we know it.

It read of peace starting and ending wars

over words spoken so softly that mountains shuddered.

I’m sure I know how it ends…


This is bull shit! Shit stacked as high as you

walking and talking with forked foreign tongues.

Pointing fingers in every direction except,

laying blame on everything else except,

putting responsibility on everyone else except.

In reading the begets, I think about the first hit,

the first stick, the first weapon, made to kill to eat,

made to defend, to survive,

forged to strike… to suppress opinion.

Violence begets violence as you point your finger

there are three pointed back at you

this should be the end, but I’m not finished yet…


I finished reading about a man in his voice,

told from his view of a world suffering

from violence, hate and anger all beginning from fear.

Fear of others.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of the grass being greener.

It’s only a theory, but if someone told you

and you could not see it… You would fear it.


It was the diary of a reluctant messiah

that did not preach so much as simply walked and talked

about a place inside that was full of peace and kindness.

This he spoke and his words offended.

It was Chaucer and Shakespeare.

It was Hemingway and Steinbeck.

It was Plato and Mother Goose with twelve men in a tub.

It was Pinocchio begging to be just like everyone else.


there once was a man from Nazareth

whose birth we celebrate on Christmas

spoke of love not violence

and went before Pilate

who washed his hands

and released Barabbas

and got nailed to the cross

that Jack built


The diary had no real ending.

The story stopped halfway through a page

with a thorn as a marker.

The last line in the diary was,

“I do not wish this burden placed upon me,

but if it be your will, and for the sake of all, then so be it.”

I closed the crumbling book that fell to the ground.

It exploded in a cloud of dust

so I could not show it to anyone else, but

you know how it ends.


you have your knowledge your truth your beliefs

but be sure they are your own

have you looked and not prayed

have you read and not asked God to tell you

have you gotten out to meet and greet

shaken hands with different

races cultures and creeds

to understand the who, what and why

of that which you call your culture and your beliefs

are you sure you are not some unrecognized

carbon copy of parental circumstance

would you speak out if the Emperor had no clothes?


earth is decaying,

and mother nature slain

by mankind’s industry will die in a screaming cackle

laughing at the knowing of our suicidal genocide

or genocidal suicide depending on your point of view

even the believers have lost hope

they say were living in the end times

so what’s the point

fear begets anger, begets hate,

all of which beget violence

to see the results of violence

make a fist, the symbol of violence

did your nails in deep

until your own blood is spilt

then opening your hands

the end will become clear


momma said there’d be days like this

but it doesn’t have to be

all of the knowledge is right in front of us

but it seems we only use one percent of our brains

and that must be Adams fault

because he only took one bite of the fruit

I wonder, can anyone tell me,

how much knowledge

was left on the ground

to rot? 

Published by James Gabriel