Ballad of The Black Hound Of Depression

Along life’s bumpy dirt-covered road there’s an animal you ought to know well, he’s wrought with terror, and born from thunder, during the howling winds of hell. His eyes have a ruby red glow, his coat is slick and fine. He’s called the black hound of depression, or so some people say, and no amount of medication can scare the black hound away. It would mean your demise, so please people be wise, do not allow the black hound inside your mind. On some windy night you’ll awake with a fright and onto the city bridge you’ll find.
Leaping to your death, you think, is the only escape to keep the hell-hound at bay. Downward you’ll plunge into the great abyss, giving the water below a sapphire kiss.
Your mind’s videotape spins it’s last reel, the final frame will show the black dog, still nipping at your heels. ~ Poet Stoker

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What If

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What if in the future being right was wrong?

What if good was actually bad?

What if, in some futuristic war, ten million animals and humans died and, because the world was so over populated by then, it was thought upon as a good thing..wouldn’t the planet have more room to breath?

What if zero was the highest number..then what friend or follower number would social media use to addict our children?

What if blowing-up yourself and innocent others in the name of religion was really not a terrorist act, but a way to cleanse the earth of those who have too much, and think too little of smaller countries by rewarding greed, using government corruption to get rich, and then overcompensating those who are destroying the natural balance of the earth’s crust by digging for oil which is no longer there?

What if death was right and life was wrong?

What if both heaven and hell were here and now—and all of this planet’s beautiful life forms were merely cancerous growths in disguise, eating, breathing, defecating and spreading, until finally in the end consuming the hand which fed it?

~ Poet Stoker

Frost Woods

Frost Woods

The misty moss-covered forest floor this time of year is scented with mayflowers. The aroma of new life in spring brings joy to my nostrils and softness to my step as I explore the lovely woods of Robert Frost’s poetry. How nice it would be if you were here with me; together we could pick wild flowers and mushrooms, make a smudge fire, fill our bodies with sweet smoke and chew spruce gum while singing songs of lost lovers and figures so forlorn. ~ Poet Stoker