Still wild. Still sacred. Just sailing under a new flag.

Much love

G.x

but they’ve also confused me.

like why did Bevan Garland, suddenly punch me in the eye, when we having a play fight when we 9-years-old?

i was so hurt, sure I had a shiner… but why punch me? what did i do? were we not both just having fun?

sometimes I underestimate the level of brokenness that exists inside the humans all around me…

it’s important to not make assumptions and to not judge others… judgment kills empathy and a world without empathy is a very sad world indeed.

let’s not create that world…

this month on Zagoosie, i am working on a poem that explores the very best traits in humanity…

you know, how people come alive in natural disasters and often really start taking care of each other…

i want to see that side of people more…

i think it’s up to me what side i see…

and what side i show?

journey here with me this month…

i want to make our world better one poem at a time…

i do a bunch of other things but this is my creative space, my outlet, my place where i just let the words flow uncensored…

what do you love most about people? give me one-word? i will put in October’s Zagoosie.

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oh cry

for the new kings
have lost
their crowns,
and the queens,
have make-up
smudged
violently,
upon their
pretty faces,
I’m not sure
any of this,
has made
America
greater

cry a little more

for decency
is dying
as the leaders lie,
lying,
upon the facade,
of an idea
they broke,
upon the backs,
of the disillusioned
man,
who toils
the worn lands,
the fire is stoked,
and hatred boils,
don’t answer the door…
beware of the
woke???

yeah, cry a little bit more

for
old glory
sits upon
an old chestnut
mare,
resting his
bone spurs
in the stirrups of a horse
he will never ride…
dressed in stripes
he will never
wear,
carrying a flag
he cannot
bear,
oh yeah,
he sits upon
his high horse,
like a throne
as history unwinds,
and the clock
slowly ticks
all the way back
to 1776…

watch the fireworks and cry a little more

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This poem grew from many voices — raw feelings of fear, loss, and hope all tangled together.

Each word reflects real emotions shared by those who’ve faced darkness but still hold onto defiance, hope, and even excitement.

The twisted tree stands for resilience — bent by storms but rooted deep in hidden streams of strength.

Even in the darkest fields, life moves and grows, offering shade to those who endure.

This is our story — raw, unfinished, and alive.

Welcome to The American Tree.

— Geoff Talbot

The American Tree

the twisted tree
bends
in the hot
wind,
as the devil’s
pitchfork
turns
over the dead
corn,
scare crowed
people watch,
sad,
forlorn,
terrified
by the shadows,
devastated
by the silence,
for the wind,
blows
quietly,
and the
once brave souls
have forgotten,
how to
moan.

even the land
no longer
groans.

this is
the reapers
work.

to mortify the souls
so the sickle
can cut
without
protest

and yet the tree remains
twisted?
yes.
dead?
no.
still anchored,
with deep roots
drinking from
hopeful
streams.

tendrils
so deep,
in places where
the scythe
can’t cut,
excitement lingers,
hope breathes
in those underground
streams,
that no one sees,
but old
trees
drink

defiance born
under the fields
of dead
corn,

wait,
don’t be
cast down,
nor dejected,
don’t forget,
your
crown,
for the reaper
is relaxing
his grip
upon
the hook,

his crooked grin,
his infantile ego,
his greatest sin,
he’s doesn’t know about the stream,
he can never win.

for the tree
is changing now,
this
ordinary
old
hunk
of
wood,
is spouting
forth,
with shoots
of good,
shade
for the
those
overwhelmed,
and stressed,
by the
hot winds,
of time.

oh my God, this rhyme, brings forth the…

fruit,
succulent
and full of juice,
for the
discouraged,
to drink
and feast,
and find
strength,
in their lament,
for the devil’s
sickle,
is too blunt
to cut the
tree,
and embarrassed
he
will
flee.

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The Words People Gave Me To Use:

no rider
would dare
to ascend,
for fear,
they would be thrown,
cast down,
for attempting to ride
a king…

do not let,
yourself be ridden,
do not succumb
to the bridle,
or the whip,
nor the shit,
or be saddled with,
another’s burden…

you were born
to run free,
truly wild,
like the wind
across the sands of time.

Gabriel, who is 13, was lying next to me. Rose, who is 8, was not far off staring at the clouds dancing in the blue.

“Let’s make a word”, I challenged them.

“Why?”

“For my new interactive poetry website,”

“What kind of word?” asked Rose, giggling some, her beautiful face cast in the golden evening sun.

“Something that sounds funny, honey,” I said with a grin.

“It should start with a Z and be something wild and free”, said my son, Gabriel, pretty seriously.

We played around some more. Trying this and trying that, until Rose said, “It should be Zagoosie.” She made it up; she pulled it right out of her hat.

So Zagoosie it was, and it always will be.

This is how it works. You give me the words.

And I set them free.

That’s the truth of it friends, that’s how we came up with the name. Here are the Zagoosie Poems created so far this year.

1. Dumb Chicken

2. Good People Still Give -
   

3. It Will Turn Your Cold Sausage Blue -

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dumb chicken 
proud red comb,
bout to cross
busy street
close your eyes 
chicken,
have you not heard 
the stories
of blood
and glory
of cousins passed
who fought
the street 
and did not last…

I shout to 
the chicken
my very
best words
but he walks
with such pride
as he steps 
off the curb
in this 
wheelhouse 
of madness 
where no one 
can reason
it's his time
to rise
to the top
it's his 
season.

onward 
he marches
so awesome
so sure
that his future 
is golden
he needs
no proof
that there's more,
on the other side
of the road,
he's one hundred percent
there lies a land
full of honey
a world
without
rent.

and yet
this road
is so 
dangerous
every chicken
should know
the legends
are ample
LEAN IN...
for the show,
I'll whisper 
what happens
shush
keep it down
for all his
rizz and his jizz
this red comb
a clown
he's banking
on promises
made by a king
in a world
of roast chickens
and fat men
who sing.

he's following 
something
an odor
a musk
a promise
of a world
with only
one kind of
lust.. 
a world 
just for chickens
without KFC
where the red combs
can roam
in their
feathered
fantasy.

doesn't
see it coming
he's lost 
in a stupor
he stuck 
in a dream
he simply 
doesn't hear
my unregistered 
scream
round the corner
it revs
steams a dark
limousine
an agent
of death
from a filthy
regime.

something is about to happen the likes of which we've never seen...

rubber
hits blubber
no sense of 
danger
everything's gone
for the chicken
now
a total 
game changer...

the air 
is so still
just stagnant
with smoke
nothing is living
nothing is woke
the cries
of the chicken
gone now
for all time
squashed on
the pavement
lost to 
the rhyme.

another fool
another mark
on a chalkboard
of scratches
on road
that's so dangerous
it kills
birds in great
batches
it's the call 
of the caps
it's the march 
of the band
it's the czar 
who demands
that they cross
to this 
land.

Is this not a 
confirmation
to the world
to the entire
chicken nation
that the 
other side
of the road
uncrossed
is not the 
land of the living
it's the 
hell of the
lost?

---- Appendum from Author ----

oh the foe
does
tariff me so
but it is the
chicken who pays
the full price
for eggs
squashing him to the pavement
reducing him
to dregs.

I realize this poem probably offends your judeo christian values,
And yet, unlike the chicken I don't obey in advance.

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These were the words, I was given to use by our readers.

Leave a comment

This is How Zagoosie Works. Every Week…

Monday to Wednesday: I post an image like the one below, asking people to tell me how they are feeling in one word only. I collate the answers until Wednesday Midnight, Pacific Time.

Thursday to Friday: I will write the poem, publishing Friday evening your time.

The Lone Wolf in the Moonlight

it's quiet tonight
I walk along the brow of a hill
the canyons are empty below me
the desert is bathed in moonlight
there is nothing to see
I hear nothing, sense nothing
I am the desert
and the desert is me

you still haunt me
especially at night
your warmth, your hair
your touch, your life
I long to chase you again through the fields of golden maize
I wish to stand on the giant rock at the head of the ravine
and watch...
as you weave your way flirtatiously towards me
across those grey, flat, shingle rocks.

but I am the hungry wolf
who hunts the plains alone each night
you were my insatiable hunger
and now you have become my unquenchable thirst.
and even if I throw my head back
and howl up at the night.
I'll never hear you howling back
not now, not ever
never again in this life

cause every night I am the solitary wolf
howling alone under the moonlight

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HOPE

don’t let
2025 be a year of hate
it’s not too late
to avoid
the slow dance
in the dark
down the crooked path
towards imminent
death

take a breath
walk
a few more steps
up around the bend
where the
good children play
stay
in this good place
where the sun kisses
faces with kindness
and the wind
sings
songs of laughter
as it plays
in the trees
a comedy of hope
and love

don't let
your eyes become
dark and down
staring only
at the barren ground
don't wait
for 48
to let go
of this hate
instead change your view
find the few
with soft eyes
and open minds
they still
exist
even in this time...

walk the dog
up around the bend
where the birds
sing
and the beautiful flowers
live
the world
is still good here
compassion exists
and good people
still give

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Explaining the Zagoosie

16 - Total number of Interactive Words Used. See the word map below of people who answered the question. "What Gives Me Hope."

This week’s poem is about the hope.

Let’s create a powerful, possible poem that lifts people up and sets their eyes on something positive.

This is How Zagoosie Works. Every Week…

Monday to Wednesday: I post an image like the one below, asking people to tell me how they are feeling in one-word only. I collate the answers until the Wednesday Midnight, Pacific Time.

Thursday to Friday: I will write the poem, publishing Friday evening your time.

Thanks for getting involved.

Put your word below. Make it is honest, as visual and as compelling as you wish. I would love to put a piece of you into this week’s Zagoosie.

Leave a comment

the tyrant forgets
that his power is temporal
that his days are numbered
that his bones will weaken
that his memory will go…
and all that will remain
is the filth and the shame
of his sullied tyrant’s name.

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• laughter

• hope

• a place to vent

• something else

• anything else

I am asking all our readers on social and on substack to nominate a topic for this week’s poem. Put yours in the comments below.

The job of the poet is to speak into the hearts of people, and this is best done by first listening and really trying to understand?

What would you like this week’s poem to be about?

Highlights From Last Week:

Last week, we launched this site and it’s been such a great start. Here are some of the highlights.

• First Poem Published - It will turn your cold sausage blue (Read)

• Over 200 people suggested words for the poem on social and substack - Just wow

• Over 30 new subscribers.

• 522 site visits

Some incredible old poems have been added to the archives. The most popular one, really resonates with today’s climate.

Read: This land runs dry

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I am imperfect
this is certain
was it ever in doubt
clarity came
with you, little fire
your birth inspired,
a change in me.

son,
this is your dad
laid bare and disrobed
of ego and presumption
sometimes kind
often frustrated
always broken.

committed though
to always show,
that despite my flaws
and fractured claws
I scratch for more,
for you
my boy

that I am less
untethers me, so…
before you
I kneel
like a son to a father,
praying that I too,
will grow.

In one-word only, how do you feel about the next 4-years?

See the word cloud at the bottom of this post that visually displays the way people feel right now.

Why did I ask this question?

Because I write interactive poetry inspired by an attempt to connect deeply with people.

To forge deep connections, it’s imperative that we are curious, that we listen, not just with our ears but with our whole person, with our own heart.

We are all works in progress here. I am certainly still a baby in this way.

These were your words, this is my poem. Please share this post, I need your help to grow this movement.

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It will turn your cold sausage blue...

eyes wide,
dread and horror,
washed into the blue,
as the little boy runs,
away from the sun,
toward the fire,
back to the old,
fleeing from,
the new.

little boy run, 
little boy run,
little boy run,

turn around,
young son,
you're heading 
straight for the corn,
into the cold arms
of terror and scorn,
to the field
where the monsters live,
and hate is unleashed,
where everyone takes,
and no one
gives.

stop young son,
stop young son,
stop young son,

no hope,
this way,
the corn is jacked,
nothing golden here,
the lying lurk,
the heartsick hide,
and chaos reigns,
with his sister
called fear,
and his
other brother
nick-named 
despair.

shouting now,
shouting now,
shouting now,

stop,
little boy, 
stop,
it's not too late,
your future's not there,
with the rageful few
and the hateful eight,
this won't make,
america great,
stop little boy,
this does not,
have to be,
our fate.

he's stopping now,
he's stopping now,
he's stopping now,

staring into 
the field of corn,
forlorn, he sees 
the scarecrowed hitler
standing, arms wide
in mocked crucifix,
as the powerful monsters
hail
his horrifying reign,
into the face 
of this dark 
stain,
the little boy
fronts a fate 
so fucked,
it would turn,
your cold sausage blue,
an evil hell, 
an ugly hue,
not some small
persnickety 
indifference, 
where we could
agree to 
differ...
about the goodness
of the scarecrow,
and his
wannabee 
grifters...

run little boy, run

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Total “Interactive Words” used = 32

This Land Runs Dry

“I hate you”
shouts the bearded man
through clenched teeth
the stench of his striped heart
pumps with the enigma of red, white and blue

this land runs dry

“I’m an American man”
he shouts again, spit flies
rabid and uncouth
as if his birthright had been shaken loose
legitimatized hate?
as if making America great
was his white-washed calling

this land is falling

never has dying looked so good
amid the chaos and the fury
as the fundamental patriots march
dressed for church and Monday night football
they’ll never take a knee

oh please, this land runs dry

Christ come back, that’s my cry
for your sheep have not simply gone astray
they’ve been bitten
by a rabid wolf in a red cap
possessed now
inoculated
with a legion of hate
and a dark kind of faith
the cross has fallen
just a shadow remains
no longer wood, just a star spangled cloth
perhaps these words are off
but i cannot find the grace
in the harshness of this faith
or the curse of these words
that exclude, and detest
those who are different
or thought of as less

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the wound is deep and this land is dry

angry man you never owned this land
cause you would have watered it
planted some shade
dressed the wound
but you did none of this
and now you cry out in rage
as if you have been wounded
by those who are free enough,
to take a knee
while your angry giddy heart,
hangs on the shadow of yesterday’s tree.

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This is How Zagoosie Works. Every Week…

Monday to Wednesday: I post an image like the one below, asking people to tell me how they are feeling in one-word only. I collate the answers until the Wednesday Midnight, Pacific Time.

Thursday to Friday: I will write the poem, publishing Friday evening your time.

The Words so Far (Yikes) - Updated 1/22 -9:00 AM Pacific

Transparent
Despair (3X)
Disgusted (2X)
Sick
Unburdened
Hopeful
Despondent
Wary
Reordering
Appalled
Sausage - from my mate Eric LOL
Apathetic
Turbulence
Powerful
Epoch-Making
Alliance
Lies
Scared (2X)
Anxious
Heartsick
Hope
Pray
Polarizing
Horrifying
Optimistic (3X)
Trepidation
Armageddon
Dyspnea
Incredulous
Despondent
Sad
Golden
Dread
Careless
Incompetence
Defence
Hope / Hopeful
Gaslit
Racism
Fucked
Resigned
Worried (2)
Self-Serving
Disheartened
Persnickety
Terror
Determined
Positive
Extinction
Suffocated
Unleash
Persecuted
Terrified
Spirituality
Devastated
Discombobulated
Concerned
Pissed
Happy
Anguish

Where to Add Your Words

Going forward words posted into the comments will be given priority. So post yours here.

Over 100 words were submitted, some mentionable and others a little more delicate. At last count, I used 48 of the words.

My goal was to create an epic, a long poem that told a story, made people laugh, but also perhaps took the reader on a deeper trip to something more profound.

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On Kremlin Stones:

last night the stardust bit me and I had the strangest dream,
the year was 2042, and the darkness ran supreme.
I found myself in Russia, in a dream that wasn’t Luther’s,
tyrants ruled this evil world, it was a cruel and capricious future.

it was winter there in Moscow, a call came through the din,
“could you please lend ME a dollar?” his voice rang, hollow and thin,
as I looked down to the ground, on the edge, of cold Red Square,
he sat there in sad squalor, bent broken with despair.

his face, now long forgotten, fought with surgeon’s knife in vain,
a nefandous human story, of a life inflicting pain,
his skin the taint of orange, his eyes, now laced with fear.
I was sure death was knocking, that the reaper’s breath was near.

yet inspite his state, there lingered something awful and so sinister,
an abhorrence reaking putrid, lying crookedly familiar,
now broken there before me, once a tower, tall and greedy,
lay an exiled former President, insecure and @realneedy.

the Good Samaritan in me… should’ve walked along my way,
but humanity beckoned, and I stopped and I prayed.
and I lifted him up, I put him back on his feet,
then he begged me for a cheeseburger, so we walked down cobbled streets

we sat down at the table under arches still there golden,
and as he ate there bigly, with each bite, HE became emboldened,
then the narcissist inside him reared its UGLY swollen head,
the beggar now forgotten,
for HE was GREATER than Lincoln, Jefferson or Johnson.

and HE talked,
and HE talked,
and HE talked,
and HE talked,
and I just sat there and I listened, as the bullshit became, uncorked,
such ground-breaking, mendacity, such combed-over ruthless treason,
my ears were exhausted, by HIS words, bankrupt from any reason.

HE should be on Rushmore? the Dotard LOUD insisted,
“HE, the GREATEST of all men, was so unfairly resisted,
by swindlers and swamp dwellers, boggarts and nitwits,
and a left leaning congress, who tried to impeach HIM; so anachronistic.

“but HE was not defeated because winning was his game,
HIS talent underestimated, HIS foes, HE put to shame,
no one thought HE’D win again, that HE’D make a second term
but this autocratic FUHRER was impossible to burn.”

HE stopped… just for a moment, and I caught my breath a little,
I put my feet FIRM on the ground, as HE wiped off all HIS spittle,
“Perhaps you won a second go,” my voice etched quiet with rage,
but you stole away a nation’s hope, with ugliness uncaged.”

“and now, with decades flown by, you lie and beg for food,
on Kremlin stones, your corrupt soul eats your vitriolic spew,
you claim your kleptolagniac wins, like you’re some Gold Star Vet
and yet, you walk on bony spurs, and our country won’t forget”

and then, HE looked at me, quite strangely, as if unsure… of time,
and for a second I saw right through HIM, perhaps, for the very first time,
HE was not a buffoon, nor the bravest kind of peep
just a vapid, twatwaffling, conman, with an addiction to HIS own, self-grandiosing TWEETS.

And then came that golden moment, that from my dream I shan’t forget,
perhaps HE found HIS conscience? Could HE hear the reapers breath?
“it was Vlad”, HE uttered softly, “we colluded, we did it
together,
two comrades purchased, the entire world, yeah, red brothers…now and forever.”

I sat there, speechless, frozen, at the beast that lay before,
the TRUTH, the horror of this life this awful schadenfraude,
a man, so EGO-CENTRIC, that HE would grab ahold of power,
a fool so madly maladroit, HE’D trade… country, for a golden shower.

I told HIM without sympathy, from this place of TRUTH within,
you partnered with the devil, choosing wealth over neighbor’s kin,
and now, your dying in the cold, without a friend who cares,
for every life a reckoning comes, and listen, yours is… near.

And HE got up from the table, disgust on HIS scrotum face,
“I’VE no need to hear this crap, I’VE gotta get out, of this place!”
And HE took three steps, towards the door, and on his fourth… HE fell,
the liar breathed his final breath, then tumbled into hell.

and even in this dream of mine, when the future came to call,
a realization, struck my gut, that there’s a message for us ALL
that this nightmare lives inside our hearts to prophesy, a TRUTH,
that leaders rise to serve us all outside the polling booth,

and if we choose to elevate a crooked kind of man,
who falsifies and always lies, then we reckon with God’s hand
for HE is us and we are HIM, HE”S a mirror we hold near,
and follow HIM, the nation will, to begging in Red Square.

So don’t see HIM as a villain but a symptom of all that’s wrong
that the racist and the greedy still sing our nation’s song
and we must fight so ruthlessly to rid ourselves of sin,
of hypocrisy and kakistocracy, or the TRUTH will never win.

If you like it, then please share it.

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The Eagle and the Man

The Eagle and the Man
I heard the story of a man
who raised an eagle
from an egg,
it became his best friend
in the whole world,
they were…
inseparable,
he loved it so,
everywhere the man went
the eagle sure would go.

(he tied a rope around its leg so he would never lose it)

so each day he’d walk
with his eagle
on a lead,
flying ten feet
above the ground,
both of them
kind of pleased,
at this point I need to say
that the eagle flew
just to one side
of the man,
so when it passed
…well…
it missed him
with his poo.


I know its
quite surprising,
but the eagle
loved the man,
they’d often sit
at Oceans Cliff,
feathered wing in
calloused hand,
in silence not
requiring words
they’d watch
the sun go down
and when morning woke
the man would cook
the fish they’d bought in town.

you know Eagle thought
he was truly blessed
to have a friend
like man,
and life was
love and roses,
until the Eagle
shook death’s hand,
you see Eagle,
had a dodgy heart
and I don’t think he knew.
until that day,
his heart exploded,
and our eagle
sure went blue.

it happened bright
one summers dawn,
right down on
Oceans Cliff,
after man had cooked
his taloned friend,
a healthy dose
of fish,
on mornings walk,
with Eagle soaring
just above the man,
at cruising speed
and altitude
just ten feet,
above the land,
when suddenly…
soaring through
the sky
with wings spread
open wide…
there came
another eagle
on his early morning ride.

you see I don’t think this eagle
in all his years
with man,
had ever seen
a bird like this,
living just as
God had planned,
perhaps it was
this beauty
wild,
untamed,
unleashed,
that caused our
little eagles’ heart
to suddenly…
just…
cease.

but the vet
who looked
at Eagle
to find out
why he died,
well he found
something
very strange,
way down
deep inside,
you see Eagles heart
it was not there
not found
inside his chest,
it fact it
wasn’t there
at all
concluded
our dear vet.

you see man
had raised
our Eagle
like a child
from an egg,
and Eagle never
flew the skies,
his wings they
never spread,
his eagle heart
it did not grow
we can be
sure of that,
for man’s great love
had killed him
it was his leash,
that held him back

well the story
just gets sadder,
its the story,
of the man,
he still sits,
at Oceans Cliff,
he still
walks the land,
and you know
I’m not sure,
he’s noticed
that Eagles time
has ceased,
cause he still
drags his
feathered friend
At the end of his ten foot leash.

If you hate control and love freedom, please share this poem on social and subscribe to Zagoosie.

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