Breakfast of Champions

 Breakfast of Champions

I grab a monster,
double load a protein shake...
Time to light it up!

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Fools

 Fools 

Midnight on the dot,
And they welcome the new year
Shooting in the air. 

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2026. All rights reserved

Over the Top!

One final rough and jagged sonnet from a rough and jagged year... 

Over the Top!

On the eve of the new year,
reflecting on the dying one.
While I had planned to do so much,
I didn’t get a damned thing done.
Some have called it a dumpster fire,
with all the chaos that we’ve been through,
but my past year was Trench Warfare,
inches I gained were miles too few.
But this year, I have mapped a plan,
I have lay my goals out before me,
charting out an adaptable path
that, I believe, will lead to victory.
This progress-less chaos to a stop
when I cry, one last time, “Over the top!”

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Smoke

 Smoke

A simple cigar 

Lit with intent and prayer

Is an offering...

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Ancestral

 Ancestral

Sing a song of blood, 
of loyalty without end:
Libate and make smoke

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

How can blind men see?

How can blind men see?

What noble things can come to broken men,
whose former dreams lay shattered all around?
Incapable of being fixed again
in their own minds, having run themselves down?
Suspicious of any positive thing
that sheer happenstance, or by fate’s Decree,
or gift some sympathetic God may bring,
downplaying it all because he can’t see
the worth he may hold to others like him,
in the simplest things that he may do,
that lightens the dark, and lessens the grim
and gives others the strength to push on through…
They’ll rebuild themselves, and reclaim their lives,
by showing them themselves through others’ eyes!

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Why the Poor Man Hates

Why the Poor Man Hates.

All I want is a home
A place my family can call our own.
Just 4 bedrooms, on an acre of land,
A white picket fence, some cobbled stone…

A lawn to cut every Saturday morning,
in which my kids can run and play
some space for a dog to run with them
and maybe a small fire at the end of the day.

Just enough rooms to feel comfortable
nothing fancy or too much
maybe enough space for a home office
or at least room for a small book hutch.

It’s not too much to want as a man
it used to be the epitome of the American Dream
now near impossible to obtain by the poor
and it’s enough to make a grown man scream.

Sold out by bankers, and corporatist whores,
money clippers and lenders, and financiers of wars,
The fifth column of sympathizers and saboteurs,
they’ve stolen our footing, and forced us to all fours.

Now hope seems illegal, and opinions are censored
and we’ll be lucky to express unpunished dissent,
everything is rented, and nothing is owned
and the only thing left to me is my debt and lament…

That all I want is what my father had
what my grandfather had before and his had as well
that dream which was stolen to be rented back to us
in this post American corporatist hell…

I work like a dog, and my wages stay stale
yet my rent, groceries and my home utility
skyrocket without a limit
and I feel so lost in all the futility.

So, when asked why I don’t care
about the struggle of those so far away,
I point to where we stand, brothers and sisters
to where our shattered dreams lay

How did my heart grow to hate,
those who just don’t belong
those who stole our dreams,
and our suffering struggle prolonged?

It’s simple when you follow the funds
every last nickel and dime plucked away fast
from our families’ inheritance, from our birthright
every stolen penny…down to the last.

It was ours…. now it’s gone,
and dreamers now can only dream
for nothing can be obtained by the poor
for debt slavery now reigns supreme.

They are the ones who filled me with hate,
they are the ones who caused me to rage
when they stole from my family’s future
and put us in poverty’s perpetual cage…

All I wanted was a home…
Just a place we could call our own…
just an acre…a sliver…of land….
In which to live, and be left alone…

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved