Soft as a white tuft of dandelion puff
That a breeze picks up to examine,
Caress, then set down in delicate balance
Upon a blade of grass, you fled from me,
As quietly as a whisper of regret.
Like that lingering patch of April snow
That's there in the morning, yet gone by night.
Like the dew that glistens in the first light
Of a summer day, then flees before the heat,
You slipped away, along with childhood's wonder.
You didn't slam the door in a white hot rage
Or punctuate your decision to depart
With an explosion of recriminations.
It wasn't a memory milestone moment
Such as the loss of one's virginity.
I looked for you one day and discovered you'd left.
My sand castle of boyish illusions had been levelled
Beneath an all-engulfing tide of experience.
The leaders that I'd trusted to clear my path had
Lined their pockets and let brush devour the trail.
Our Nation's laws that I'd been taught to revere
Have been forged by corrupt black robed judges
Into the chains of greedy sweat-shop overseers.
My God has become a "Bogey-man" tale whose hell
Is used as "muscle" in evangelical shakedowns.
Love proved the cruellest disappointment of all.
The bright flame of reverent adoration
That I tended when I was its worshipful acolyte
Dimmed to cynicism as I saw love sold on sidewalks
Or dangled to peddle items from beer to mouthwash.
So Irretrievable is innocence now
That when I walk the woods to pluck at twigs of solace,
I can hear the frightened heartbeats in the burrows,
Sense the predator, and smell the musty decay of death.
Although I seek it, even Nature offers no solace,
So irretrievable is innocence now.
Monday, October 25, 2010
If God So Loved the World
If God so loved the world as I love you
And I'd his power, I know what I'd do.
I'd rid your world of hunger, death and pain;
I'd bind Mr. Devil in a golden chain,
Putting an end to his sly, wicked reign.
Of evil your world wouldn't have a clue
If God so loved the world as I love you.
If God so loved the world as I love you,
He'd remake the Eden that Eve once knew
For you, and you'd wield your influence well.
His fiercest wrath a smile of yours would quell;
Your tears would pardon the damned from hell.
He'd view his works in a much kindlier hue
If God so loved the world as I love you.
If God so loved the world as I love you,
He'd scan heaven for as beautiful a view
As you, and failing, deem it incomplete.
He'd leave his Angels for one more sweet,
Forsaking his throne to kneel at your feet.
If I had God's power, that's what I'd do
If God so loved the world as I love you.
And I'd his power, I know what I'd do.
I'd rid your world of hunger, death and pain;
I'd bind Mr. Devil in a golden chain,
Putting an end to his sly, wicked reign.
Of evil your world wouldn't have a clue
If God so loved the world as I love you.
If God so loved the world as I love you,
He'd remake the Eden that Eve once knew
For you, and you'd wield your influence well.
His fiercest wrath a smile of yours would quell;
Your tears would pardon the damned from hell.
He'd view his works in a much kindlier hue
If God so loved the world as I love you.
If God so loved the world as I love you,
He'd scan heaven for as beautiful a view
As you, and failing, deem it incomplete.
He'd leave his Angels for one more sweet,
Forsaking his throne to kneel at your feet.
If I had God's power, that's what I'd do
If God so loved the world as I love you.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Heroes
Just a reminder.
It should be actions
That earn one the honor
Of being called "a Hero"
Not just the donning of a uniform
It should be actions
That earn one the honor
Of being called "a Hero"
Not just the donning of a uniform
"Operation Iraqi Freedom"
Pity the poor soldiers
Whose deaths are demeaned
By that dubious assertion
Etched on their headstones
For all eternity.
Damn the Administration
That offends all decency
By defacing their dignified
White military markers
With political propaganda.
Whose deaths are demeaned
By that dubious assertion
Etched on their headstones
For all eternity.
Damn the Administration
That offends all decency
By defacing their dignified
White military markers
With political propaganda.
Saint Francesca of Assisi
"For God's sake don't tell them about the bear,"
I cautioned her. Gerta Sautalouma looked up
At me with surprised, uncomprehending eyes,
Like those of a puppy that had just been scolded.
Admitting that need had finally vanquished pride,
She'd submitted a plea for help from Social Services.
She'd received a reply. Two caseworkers were
Coming to her home to assess her situation.
She'd just told me of the bear that she feeds apples to.
It lumbers up to her, tame as one of her dogs.
I'd met her today at the end of her long driveway
That nature was reclaiming with scrubby poplar,
Weeds, and knee-deep grass between the old ruts.
Every week I'd haul a load of bones and suet out to her;
I'd remain to help the gentle, plump-faced Finnish woman,
Who dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls, to load her sled.
"What would the bureaucrats make of her?" I wondered.
Pillars of stacked newspapers and sheet-covered ghosts
Of furniture past have conspired to compress her house
Into a labyrinth of narrows and hands and knees trails.
Gerta Sautalouma had gone without for too long
To let go of anything now. Latticed with cobwebs.
Cardboard boxes still wait stacked in the living room
For the move that she could never bring herself to make.
A box of toys in a corner and a bat and glove by the door
Conjure up images of her twelve year old boy.
His blonde hair used to glisten in the morning sun
As he would run down the driveway to meet the bus.
The dust-covered smoking stand, the leather easy chair
That oozes a trail of stuffing toward a mouse nest,
The moth-ravaged clothing hanging in an upstairs closet;
To her, these are holy relics of her late husband.
She lives in the woodstove-warmth of her sauna now.
Often, lying awake in the silence of a winter night,
Her memories will limp on back to better times;
Her life before the accident that took her two men from her,
Leaving her to run the family grocery store, alone.
She'd failed, letting it slip through her toil-gnarled hands.
Hard-working and honest herself, she'd dispensed credit
To anyone who'd ask for it. She trusted folks back then.
The day her store was auctioned off, she fled in tears.
When people hurt they cope with pain in different ways.
Some coil into a hissing rage of brooding venom
And strike out at anyone who comes near them.
Some can shake hurt from themselves like a dog does the rain
While some flee from those who have hurt them, as did Gerta.
She took refuge in her home, like the battered child
Who hides in a closet to escape drunken blows and curses.
Bones lay scattered about her yard and driveway;
Brittle, bleaching remnants of life, giving her land
The appearance of an ancient battleground.
Last fall Costable Toivo paid her a visit.
Knowing she did without to feed her dogs, he donned the Law
To mask his mercy, and told her "Your dogs were chasing deer."
Ignoring pleas that would've softened Herod's heart,
He gave lead dispatch to all but two of her companions.
Late that winter she was telling me, her ruddy face
Livid with pain, anger and outraged disgust,
Of the heartless bastards that had abandoned
A box of puppies at the end of her driveway
In sub-zero cold. "Three of them had frozen to death,"
She said mournfully, "but I was able to save the two
That were huddled in the middle." Less than a year now
Since Toivo's slaughter, and she was back up to ten dogs.
"I just told them to let me be," she explained,
Her voice quavering with indignation.
"I just told them to stick their help up their ass."
The social workers, aghast at the living conditions
That had embraced her existance, had tried to pry her
From her home, but fled when she picked up a pitchfork.
"If I don't ask them for anything anymore," she insisted,
"They can't hurt me. They'll have to leave me alone."
As she turned from me to pull her sled's burden
Of old bones down a rut of her driveway,
The fiery leaves of early autumn
Framed her bowed, kerchiefed peasant figure
In a blazing panorama of color.
Her canine disciples padded silently alongside her.
She was Saint Francesca of Assisi, surrounded
By the adoration of God's guileless creatures.
I cautioned her. Gerta Sautalouma looked up
At me with surprised, uncomprehending eyes,
Like those of a puppy that had just been scolded.
Admitting that need had finally vanquished pride,
She'd submitted a plea for help from Social Services.
She'd received a reply. Two caseworkers were
Coming to her home to assess her situation.
She'd just told me of the bear that she feeds apples to.
It lumbers up to her, tame as one of her dogs.
I'd met her today at the end of her long driveway
That nature was reclaiming with scrubby poplar,
Weeds, and knee-deep grass between the old ruts.
Every week I'd haul a load of bones and suet out to her;
I'd remain to help the gentle, plump-faced Finnish woman,
Who dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls, to load her sled.
"What would the bureaucrats make of her?" I wondered.
Pillars of stacked newspapers and sheet-covered ghosts
Of furniture past have conspired to compress her house
Into a labyrinth of narrows and hands and knees trails.
Gerta Sautalouma had gone without for too long
To let go of anything now. Latticed with cobwebs.
Cardboard boxes still wait stacked in the living room
For the move that she could never bring herself to make.
A box of toys in a corner and a bat and glove by the door
Conjure up images of her twelve year old boy.
His blonde hair used to glisten in the morning sun
As he would run down the driveway to meet the bus.
The dust-covered smoking stand, the leather easy chair
That oozes a trail of stuffing toward a mouse nest,
The moth-ravaged clothing hanging in an upstairs closet;
To her, these are holy relics of her late husband.
She lives in the woodstove-warmth of her sauna now.
Often, lying awake in the silence of a winter night,
Her memories will limp on back to better times;
Her life before the accident that took her two men from her,
Leaving her to run the family grocery store, alone.
She'd failed, letting it slip through her toil-gnarled hands.
Hard-working and honest herself, she'd dispensed credit
To anyone who'd ask for it. She trusted folks back then.
The day her store was auctioned off, she fled in tears.
When people hurt they cope with pain in different ways.
Some coil into a hissing rage of brooding venom
And strike out at anyone who comes near them.
Some can shake hurt from themselves like a dog does the rain
While some flee from those who have hurt them, as did Gerta.
She took refuge in her home, like the battered child
Who hides in a closet to escape drunken blows and curses.
Bones lay scattered about her yard and driveway;
Brittle, bleaching remnants of life, giving her land
The appearance of an ancient battleground.
Last fall Costable Toivo paid her a visit.
Knowing she did without to feed her dogs, he donned the Law
To mask his mercy, and told her "Your dogs were chasing deer."
Ignoring pleas that would've softened Herod's heart,
He gave lead dispatch to all but two of her companions.
Late that winter she was telling me, her ruddy face
Livid with pain, anger and outraged disgust,
Of the heartless bastards that had abandoned
A box of puppies at the end of her driveway
In sub-zero cold. "Three of them had frozen to death,"
She said mournfully, "but I was able to save the two
That were huddled in the middle." Less than a year now
Since Toivo's slaughter, and she was back up to ten dogs.
"I just told them to let me be," she explained,
Her voice quavering with indignation.
"I just told them to stick their help up their ass."
The social workers, aghast at the living conditions
That had embraced her existance, had tried to pry her
From her home, but fled when she picked up a pitchfork.
"If I don't ask them for anything anymore," she insisted,
"They can't hurt me. They'll have to leave me alone."
As she turned from me to pull her sled's burden
Of old bones down a rut of her driveway,
The fiery leaves of early autumn
Framed her bowed, kerchiefed peasant figure
In a blazing panorama of color.
Her canine disciples padded silently alongside her.
She was Saint Francesca of Assisi, surrounded
By the adoration of God's guileless creatures.
The Marble Valise
The stillness in Burlington's Aspen Grove,
That solemn sanctuary of remembrance,
Is remniscent of the quiet of a library.
To stretch this simile to a metaphor,
A cemetery is a card catalogue of granite.
Each life's compressed to vital statistics;
A name first, then a publication date,
Then when that tale of life went out of print.
At most, lives are summarized by epitaphs
That read like blurbs on a book's dust jacket.
Pithy statements, like "Loving Husband,"
"Gentle Wife," or "A Christian Gentleman,"
Or a bible verse, or a rhyming couplet;
Grief expressed in conventional fashion.
That's why the bag captures our attention.
A marble valise rests upon a square base,
As though some drummer had just set it down
For a moment, intending to return.
So out of place, this image of business
Amidst this serenity of silent stone.
"You don't sell a product, you sell yourself."
This maxim is drilled into salemen in training.
If a man takes this assertion to heart though,
Each slammed door, curt rebuff and refusal
Becomes a personal rejection. This young man
Penned this last note before he took his own life.
"My trip has ended. Send my samples home."
Chiselled on the base beneath the marble valise,
His words of despair, disillusionment and pain
Are there for us to touch like silent scars,
Fossils of anguish forever encased in stone.
That solemn sanctuary of remembrance,
Is remniscent of the quiet of a library.
To stretch this simile to a metaphor,
A cemetery is a card catalogue of granite.
Each life's compressed to vital statistics;
A name first, then a publication date,
Then when that tale of life went out of print.
At most, lives are summarized by epitaphs
That read like blurbs on a book's dust jacket.
Pithy statements, like "Loving Husband,"
"Gentle Wife," or "A Christian Gentleman,"
Or a bible verse, or a rhyming couplet;
Grief expressed in conventional fashion.
That's why the bag captures our attention.
A marble valise rests upon a square base,
As though some drummer had just set it down
For a moment, intending to return.
So out of place, this image of business
Amidst this serenity of silent stone.
"You don't sell a product, you sell yourself."
This maxim is drilled into salemen in training.
If a man takes this assertion to heart though,
Each slammed door, curt rebuff and refusal
Becomes a personal rejection. This young man
Penned this last note before he took his own life.
"My trip has ended. Send my samples home."
Chiselled on the base beneath the marble valise,
His words of despair, disillusionment and pain
Are there for us to touch like silent scars,
Fossils of anguish forever encased in stone.
Desire and the Ghosts of Drowned Sailors
Park Point, Duluth, Minnesota
She pauses to gaze out at the undulating blue water,
Breathing in the beauty of the scene, letting it lap
Over her, like waves gently massaging the shore.
The vista that has captured her attention
Has seen its sad sagas of storm and shipwreck,
But she's as oblivious to the lake's history
As she's aware of her looks, her bikini lines,
Her legs and her long cascading blonde hair.
On June 7th, 1902, the whaleback Thomas Wilson
departed the Duluth harbor with a cargo of iron ore.
The George Hadley, bound for Superior, collided
with her shortly after she entered the open Lake.
Mortally stricken just forward of the aft hatch, the
Wilson sank within three minutes, going down with
9 members of her 23 man crew still trapped within
her hull.
The minds of the apparitions that still linger here
Are still stirred bv the sight of a gorgeous woman.
They can still remember the gentle caress of a hand,
The warmth of an embrace, and the desperate need
That can only be sated by two bodies uniting as one.
Death hasn't diminished their desire...or longing.
On the afternoon of November 28th, 1905, the
Mataafa approached the Duluth Ship Canal. Raging
waves and an 80 mile an hour wind gust slammed
the ship against the North Pier and spun the bow
around 270 degrees. The Mataafa grounded in the
shallow water alongside the pier. The ship was
pounded by enormous waves for several hours while
the temperature plummeted to below zero. Thousands
of Duluthians watched as three sailors ran the length
of the ship from the bow to the stern and survival.
They watched one man turnback halfway, intimidated
by the enormous waves crashing upon him. 9 crewmen
froze to death that night while the city looked on
helplessly.
Ghosts gather to pay homage to her beauty.
Hands of dead sailors caress her breast.
Her nipples harden; she blames the breeze
That blows in cold off the lake, and wishes
She would have brought a towel to wrap around her.
A stoker from the Wilson imagines her
In his strong embrace, his whisker stubble
Rubbing raw against her face, then addresses
The futility of his desire with a sigh, and settles
For giving her a pat on her fine firm ass.
She doesn't feel it. She feels nothing but
A momentary twinge of loneliness, a longing
For something that she just can't put a finger on.
The night of April 28th, 1914, the grossly
overloaded freighter Benjamin Noble approached
the Duluth harbor during a nasty storm only
to discover that one of the pier lights had been
shattered by a huge wave. Unable to gauge which
light it was, and remembering what had happened
to the Mataafa when she had met disaster
near the pier.
Master John Eisenhardt turned his ship
north toward Two Harbors.
The Noble was never heard from again.
The shade of one of the Noble's young crewmen
Approaches her reverently, then reaches out to
Touch a wisp of hair that the breeze tugs at.
When she reaches up to brush it back into place
He drifts away in a phantasmagoric fluster.
Too shy to approach a woman in life,
Death has left him still as socially inept.
The gorgeous woman turns and resumes her slow
Languorous stroll along the beach. The ghosts
Of Gitchee Gumee dead step back to let her pass,
Still eying her with desire tempered with reverence.
She's approaching me. I set down my book
On Lake Superior shipwrecks, and bestow
Upon her my own longing gaze of admiration.
I fail to elicit a response. I'm as invisible to
And just as intimidated by the sight of
This wondrous Nordic goddess of beauty
As the apparitions of the doomed deckhands.
She pauses to gaze out at the undulating blue water,
Breathing in the beauty of the scene, letting it lap
Over her, like waves gently massaging the shore.
The vista that has captured her attention
Has seen its sad sagas of storm and shipwreck,
But she's as oblivious to the lake's history
As she's aware of her looks, her bikini lines,
Her legs and her long cascading blonde hair.
On June 7th, 1902, the whaleback Thomas Wilson
departed the Duluth harbor with a cargo of iron ore.
The George Hadley, bound for Superior, collided
with her shortly after she entered the open Lake.
Mortally stricken just forward of the aft hatch, the
Wilson sank within three minutes, going down with
9 members of her 23 man crew still trapped within
her hull.
The minds of the apparitions that still linger here
Are still stirred bv the sight of a gorgeous woman.
They can still remember the gentle caress of a hand,
The warmth of an embrace, and the desperate need
That can only be sated by two bodies uniting as one.
Death hasn't diminished their desire...or longing.
On the afternoon of November 28th, 1905, the
Mataafa approached the Duluth Ship Canal. Raging
waves and an 80 mile an hour wind gust slammed
the ship against the North Pier and spun the bow
around 270 degrees. The Mataafa grounded in the
shallow water alongside the pier. The ship was
pounded by enormous waves for several hours while
the temperature plummeted to below zero. Thousands
of Duluthians watched as three sailors ran the length
of the ship from the bow to the stern and survival.
They watched one man turnback halfway, intimidated
by the enormous waves crashing upon him. 9 crewmen
froze to death that night while the city looked on
helplessly.
Ghosts gather to pay homage to her beauty.
Hands of dead sailors caress her breast.
Her nipples harden; she blames the breeze
That blows in cold off the lake, and wishes
She would have brought a towel to wrap around her.
A stoker from the Wilson imagines her
In his strong embrace, his whisker stubble
Rubbing raw against her face, then addresses
The futility of his desire with a sigh, and settles
For giving her a pat on her fine firm ass.
She doesn't feel it. She feels nothing but
A momentary twinge of loneliness, a longing
For something that she just can't put a finger on.
The night of April 28th, 1914, the grossly
overloaded freighter Benjamin Noble approached
the Duluth harbor during a nasty storm only
to discover that one of the pier lights had been
shattered by a huge wave. Unable to gauge which
light it was, and remembering what had happened
to the Mataafa when she had met disaster
near the pier.
Master John Eisenhardt turned his ship
north toward Two Harbors.
The Noble was never heard from again.
The shade of one of the Noble's young crewmen
Approaches her reverently, then reaches out to
Touch a wisp of hair that the breeze tugs at.
When she reaches up to brush it back into place
He drifts away in a phantasmagoric fluster.
Too shy to approach a woman in life,
Death has left him still as socially inept.
The gorgeous woman turns and resumes her slow
Languorous stroll along the beach. The ghosts
Of Gitchee Gumee dead step back to let her pass,
Still eying her with desire tempered with reverence.
She's approaching me. I set down my book
On Lake Superior shipwrecks, and bestow
Upon her my own longing gaze of admiration.
I fail to elicit a response. I'm as invisible to
And just as intimidated by the sight of
This wondrous Nordic goddess of beauty
As the apparitions of the doomed deckhands.
Where Do They Hide the Ugly Mormons?
Where do they hide the ugly Mormons?
I watch the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,
Teeth-capped and dazzling white
As snow on an Aspen ski slope,
The robed singers ooze wholesome
Family values through every pore
Of their unblemished complexions.
Even old Mormons age gracefully.
No lined, haggard smoker faces
Or jowls hanging down to one's collar.
The young missionaries that come to our door
With their offer to pray with us
To share their faith with us
To ask God to bless our house
Sport starched white shirts and ties;
They're dressed like the earnest young
Republicans that they are.
Still smiling sunnily
Despite repeated rebuffs.
Where do they hide the ugly Mormons?
It's said that the Spartans,
That warrior state of ancient Greece,
Would abandon their crippled or sickly infants
On the bleak wild of a mountainside
For the wolves to devour.
Could there be some secret slope
In Utah's Wasatch Mountain range
Where the bones of Mormon infants
Deemed "ugly"
Lay bleaching in the sun?
I watch the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,
Teeth-capped and dazzling white
As snow on an Aspen ski slope,
The robed singers ooze wholesome
Family values through every pore
Of their unblemished complexions.
Even old Mormons age gracefully.
No lined, haggard smoker faces
Or jowls hanging down to one's collar.
The young missionaries that come to our door
With their offer to pray with us
To share their faith with us
To ask God to bless our house
Sport starched white shirts and ties;
They're dressed like the earnest young
Republicans that they are.
Still smiling sunnily
Despite repeated rebuffs.
Where do they hide the ugly Mormons?
It's said that the Spartans,
That warrior state of ancient Greece,
Would abandon their crippled or sickly infants
On the bleak wild of a mountainside
For the wolves to devour.
Could there be some secret slope
In Utah's Wasatch Mountain range
Where the bones of Mormon infants
Deemed "ugly"
Lay bleaching in the sun?
Frightened Little One
"Let man have dominion over the fish of the sea,
and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle,
and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing
that creepeth upon the earth."
Genesis 1:26
"I had to get her away from him
Before he killed her,"
His live-in whispered apologetically
As she handed the squirming little cat
With the black and white face,
Long, matted black hair,
Four white boots
And a crushed front paw
To Sandy at the Animal Shelter.
"How did this happen?" Sandy angrily demanded..
"Please...I don't want any trouble,"
The heavy brunette begged,
Her lined face and tired eyes
Betraying her own despair.
She knew what it was like to be hurt,
To be trapped in a relationship,
To live in fear
Like the little cat that she had just rescued.
"Just find her a good home," she pleaded.
Nancy and I saw two wide frightened eyes
As we peered into the cat carrier.
"Betty" was huddled at the rear of it.
Frightened little one,
Your first instinct has always been to run,
To dodge the hurt,
To flee from the pain,
To find that hiding place
Where you will be safe.
Cruelty is encountered in life
Far more often than kindness.
Love is far rarer than hate.
Trust, like religious faith
Is hard to recover
Once you've lost it.
You've adapted though.
You've learned to move on three legs,
Carrying your injured paw curled inward
Like an indictment of mankind.
Although you've come to trust us,
A stranger in the house,
A dropped pan,
A thunderclap
Or that evil vacuum
Will send you scurrying downstairs
To the safety of a hiding place.
Your first instinct will always be to run,
To dodge the hurt,
To flee from the pain.
I recently read of mountains wrapped in mist
Deep in the New Guinea wild
Surrounded by almost impenetrable jungle.
Deep within their mystery
Scientists discovered
Previously unknown species of monkeys,
Birds of Paradise, bower birds
And ring-tailed kangaroos.
The creatures were so trusting
That a man could approach one slowly
And gently pick it up.
They've yet to experience the cruelty of man.
They'll soon learn reasons to fear him.
and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle,
and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing
that creepeth upon the earth."
Genesis 1:26
"I had to get her away from him
Before he killed her,"
His live-in whispered apologetically
As she handed the squirming little cat
With the black and white face,
Long, matted black hair,
Four white boots
And a crushed front paw
To Sandy at the Animal Shelter.
"How did this happen?" Sandy angrily demanded..
"Please...I don't want any trouble,"
The heavy brunette begged,
Her lined face and tired eyes
Betraying her own despair.
She knew what it was like to be hurt,
To be trapped in a relationship,
To live in fear
Like the little cat that she had just rescued.
"Just find her a good home," she pleaded.
Nancy and I saw two wide frightened eyes
As we peered into the cat carrier.
"Betty" was huddled at the rear of it.
Frightened little one,
Your first instinct has always been to run,
To dodge the hurt,
To flee from the pain,
To find that hiding place
Where you will be safe.
Cruelty is encountered in life
Far more often than kindness.
Love is far rarer than hate.
Trust, like religious faith
Is hard to recover
Once you've lost it.
You've adapted though.
You've learned to move on three legs,
Carrying your injured paw curled inward
Like an indictment of mankind.
Although you've come to trust us,
A stranger in the house,
A dropped pan,
A thunderclap
Or that evil vacuum
Will send you scurrying downstairs
To the safety of a hiding place.
Your first instinct will always be to run,
To dodge the hurt,
To flee from the pain.
I recently read of mountains wrapped in mist
Deep in the New Guinea wild
Surrounded by almost impenetrable jungle.
Deep within their mystery
Scientists discovered
Previously unknown species of monkeys,
Birds of Paradise, bower birds
And ring-tailed kangaroos.
The creatures were so trusting
That a man could approach one slowly
And gently pick it up.
They've yet to experience the cruelty of man.
They'll soon learn reasons to fear him.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Rage of Troubadors
In the days of the Lion Richard, of tournaments,
And honor, in the days of faith and innocence,
Troubadors, those minstrels with the velvet voices
Would roam through the realm cloaked in silken raiment.
In the pastoral splendor of Antiquity
They could touch the hearts of their listeners
With wands of song charged with melodious magic.
They'd weave their reveries into a tapestry
Of wonderous images and romantic rhapsody
That would leave their audiences rapt with emotion.
Chivalry and romance have hardened to asphalt and steel;
Savage, soulless structures that house their inmates
In the bleak grey harshness of urban despair.
We need Revolutionaries now, not sonnets.
We need poets who mirror the rebelliousness of our age.
They ravage their voices with shouts of angry defiance
Punctuated with chords of electric violence.
They claw at their instruments with a frenzied passion,
As though raw brutality could wrest wisdom from them
And translate it into waves of charged pandemonium.
Those screams that you hear are the rage of troubadors
Doomed to live in their grey hell of concrete and steel.
And honor, in the days of faith and innocence,
Troubadors, those minstrels with the velvet voices
Would roam through the realm cloaked in silken raiment.
In the pastoral splendor of Antiquity
They could touch the hearts of their listeners
With wands of song charged with melodious magic.
They'd weave their reveries into a tapestry
Of wonderous images and romantic rhapsody
That would leave their audiences rapt with emotion.
Chivalry and romance have hardened to asphalt and steel;
Savage, soulless structures that house their inmates
In the bleak grey harshness of urban despair.
We need Revolutionaries now, not sonnets.
We need poets who mirror the rebelliousness of our age.
They ravage their voices with shouts of angry defiance
Punctuated with chords of electric violence.
They claw at their instruments with a frenzied passion,
As though raw brutality could wrest wisdom from them
And translate it into waves of charged pandemonium.
Those screams that you hear are the rage of troubadors
Doomed to live in their grey hell of concrete and steel.
Don Juan
Cloaked in bitterness brought on by a surfeit
Of desire, he made love out of contempt
Of self.
Enraptured only with the romance of the pursuit,
His lust would cut through the pretentions of love
To wound
The woman who would soon come to despise them both;
The Prize, with her severed pride dripping its blood
Of tears.
Content to be with her tonight, though. Aroused
By the perfumed warmth of her body, her breasts,
Her touch,
He almost came close to telling her that he loved her.
Almost.
Of desire, he made love out of contempt
Of self.
Enraptured only with the romance of the pursuit,
His lust would cut through the pretentions of love
To wound
The woman who would soon come to despise them both;
The Prize, with her severed pride dripping its blood
Of tears.
Content to be with her tonight, though. Aroused
By the perfumed warmth of her body, her breasts,
Her touch,
He almost came close to telling her that he loved her.
Almost.
God's Mercy and Justice
Christians boast incessantly
Of their God's mercy and justice,
But if you ask me,
Their Creator's reputation
For jurisprudence is unmerited.
Can you imagine the uproar
If a judge were to sentence a man
To a lifetime in prison
For "Jaywalking?"
How is that any more absurd
Than condemning a man
To an eternity of damnation
For the sins of a lifetime?
Of their God's mercy and justice,
But if you ask me,
Their Creator's reputation
For jurisprudence is unmerited.
Can you imagine the uproar
If a judge were to sentence a man
To a lifetime in prison
For "Jaywalking?"
How is that any more absurd
Than condemning a man
To an eternity of damnation
For the sins of a lifetime?
Saturday, October 16, 2010
For Love Of Aphrodite
Keen-eyed Mikos saw through his mortal guise.
The God was tending a forge in Acardy.
He'd worked a sword into a spade
And a shield into an infant's bathtub
Before his eyes clouded too full of tears
For him to work further. Sighing like a bellows,
He surrendered to his misery, sat down,
And daubed at his eyes with thick sweaty fingers.
Disconcerting are a God's tears to men.
We view them as beings beyond our pain.
Mikos turned to flee, lest like Actaeon
He'd be punished for viewing the forbidden.
If it was death to watch a Goddess bathe
A God's anguish could augur an awful fate.
Hephaestus looked up and banished his fear
By beckoning him to come sit beside him.
"Ares is with her again," he explained,
His voice quivering with the indignation
And despair of a husband betrayed.
"My thoughts wander in a labyrinth of loneliness
Wherein all the corridors of desire and need
Lead only to her. But she laughs at my love.
She seeks pleasure instead in the brutal passion
And battle-scarred visage of the God of War."
"Why do you remain with her?" Mikos wondered,
Emboldened by the God's confession. "If my woman
Left my bed for another's embrace, I'd never take her back."
"My pride tells me I should leave her," the God admitted,
"But to rage at her infidelities
Would cut me off from that radiant beauty
Whom being close to is like basking in Spring warmth
After a lengthy, fog-laden winter of chill.
Her skin is as soft as a good-night caress,
Her lustrous hair as sweet-scented as hyacinth.
Her moist red lips glisten like rose petals
That just beg to be plucked with one's tongue.
Her nearness thickens my brain as fine wine does,
My legs become unsteady, my voice falters,
And my feelings entwine in exaltation and fear
As a warrior's thoughts do before battle.
Now I've got to get back to my work," he sighed.
"I'm going to shape her a delicate brooch
Of sapphire set in silver filagree,
Wrought to portray spindrift and sea-spray
Leaping up from the blue as it collides with the rocks
To snatch at the gold of the sun. Imagine
The delight in her eyes when I present it to her.
How her smile will light up the room!"
The God was tending a forge in Acardy.
He'd worked a sword into a spade
And a shield into an infant's bathtub
Before his eyes clouded too full of tears
For him to work further. Sighing like a bellows,
He surrendered to his misery, sat down,
And daubed at his eyes with thick sweaty fingers.
Disconcerting are a God's tears to men.
We view them as beings beyond our pain.
Mikos turned to flee, lest like Actaeon
He'd be punished for viewing the forbidden.
If it was death to watch a Goddess bathe
A God's anguish could augur an awful fate.
Hephaestus looked up and banished his fear
By beckoning him to come sit beside him.
"Ares is with her again," he explained,
His voice quivering with the indignation
And despair of a husband betrayed.
"My thoughts wander in a labyrinth of loneliness
Wherein all the corridors of desire and need
Lead only to her. But she laughs at my love.
She seeks pleasure instead in the brutal passion
And battle-scarred visage of the God of War."
"Why do you remain with her?" Mikos wondered,
Emboldened by the God's confession. "If my woman
Left my bed for another's embrace, I'd never take her back."
"My pride tells me I should leave her," the God admitted,
"But to rage at her infidelities
Would cut me off from that radiant beauty
Whom being close to is like basking in Spring warmth
After a lengthy, fog-laden winter of chill.
Her skin is as soft as a good-night caress,
Her lustrous hair as sweet-scented as hyacinth.
Her moist red lips glisten like rose petals
That just beg to be plucked with one's tongue.
Her nearness thickens my brain as fine wine does,
My legs become unsteady, my voice falters,
And my feelings entwine in exaltation and fear
As a warrior's thoughts do before battle.
Now I've got to get back to my work," he sighed.
"I'm going to shape her a delicate brooch
Of sapphire set in silver filagree,
Wrought to portray spindrift and sea-spray
Leaping up from the blue as it collides with the rocks
To snatch at the gold of the sun. Imagine
The delight in her eyes when I present it to her.
How her smile will light up the room!"
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A Villanelle of Unrequited Love
Come my fair lass and lie with me
My need for you I here reveal.
With you is where I long to be.
Let me become your devotee
And with a kiss our love we'll seal.
Come my fair lass and lie with me.
For my heart's lock you've got the key,
My loneliness your love can heal.
With you is where I long to be.
Please listen to my anguished plea,
Before you I abjectly kneel.
Come my fair lass and lie with me.
Don't spurn me with a harsh decree
Or pierce my heart with your spiked heel.
With you is where I long to be.
If need's a crime, hear my appeal.
I'll plea bargain; now here's the deal.
Come my fair lass, just lie to me.
With you is where I long to be.
My need for you I here reveal.
With you is where I long to be.
Let me become your devotee
And with a kiss our love we'll seal.
Come my fair lass and lie with me.
For my heart's lock you've got the key,
My loneliness your love can heal.
With you is where I long to be.
Please listen to my anguished plea,
Before you I abjectly kneel.
Come my fair lass and lie with me.
Don't spurn me with a harsh decree
Or pierce my heart with your spiked heel.
With you is where I long to be.
If need's a crime, hear my appeal.
I'll plea bargain; now here's the deal.
Come my fair lass, just lie to me.
With you is where I long to be.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
A "Kinder, Gentler Nation"
The rent's overdue
The car payment's late
"Whose fault has become
A couple's debate.
They swap blame
Til he becomes irate
Angry Words
A SLAP
A FIST
A SHOVE
She glares up at him now
With her eyes filled with hate.
Poverty is the assassin of love.
The car payment's late
"Whose fault has become
A couple's debate.
They swap blame
Til he becomes irate
Angry Words
A SLAP
A FIST
A SHOVE
She glares up at him now
With her eyes filled with hate.
Poverty is the assassin of love.
Seeing the Light for What It Is
Eagerly pulling my hand toward the fairground,
My young son's mind was already lassoed
By its thumping music, the tastebud teasing smells
Of cotton candy, funnel cakes and corn dogs,
And the lights. his eyes were captivated
By their bright cacaphony of cavorting colors.
My memories of having been conned by carneys;
And of watching one bashing his battered wife
Against their trailer door when I once cut through
A fair's dark parking lot, kept my pace at a walk.
The spinning lights and the soul-snaring rhythm
Of the club scene held me in its grasp for awhile.
How I longed to possess the grace and confidence
To give myself to the music. The only moves I knew
Though were the clumsy locksteps of loneliness.
How I envied the smooth men their lovely partners.
The times the band would take a break, the lights
Would cease to dazzle, and I'd glimpse on other faces
The same isolation I felt. We drank to drown shyness
While yearning desperately to belong, to be loved.
Mammon's Temple is ablaze with colored lights.
It's ads say "you can't be a winner if you don't play."
The jangling bells whistles and the thrill of a jackpot
May change your life. After all, don't you deserve it?
Games of chance use lights to promote instant riches
That beckon seductively as sirens ships to ruin.
The faces of the players are taut with an intensity
That takes hold of them as firmly as sexual desire.
The unbridled greed, the desperate need...to win
Enough to buy status, respect, freedom and love.
"I am the Light and the Lamp of the World,"
Asserts The Christ; yet I've seen how light is used
To seduce, cajole, scam and delude us. Deceptive
Practices more worthy of the Prince of Darkness.
We come into being in the blindness of the womb;
Lovers slip into the evening shadows to embrace,
Or turn out the lights before they make love...or dream.
We rest and rejuvenate our body in darkness.
We hide our tears at night or use its cloak to dry them.
I've seen the light for what it is. Draw the shades.
My young son's mind was already lassoed
By its thumping music, the tastebud teasing smells
Of cotton candy, funnel cakes and corn dogs,
And the lights. his eyes were captivated
By their bright cacaphony of cavorting colors.
My memories of having been conned by carneys;
And of watching one bashing his battered wife
Against their trailer door when I once cut through
A fair's dark parking lot, kept my pace at a walk.
The spinning lights and the soul-snaring rhythm
Of the club scene held me in its grasp for awhile.
How I longed to possess the grace and confidence
To give myself to the music. The only moves I knew
Though were the clumsy locksteps of loneliness.
How I envied the smooth men their lovely partners.
The times the band would take a break, the lights
Would cease to dazzle, and I'd glimpse on other faces
The same isolation I felt. We drank to drown shyness
While yearning desperately to belong, to be loved.
Mammon's Temple is ablaze with colored lights.
It's ads say "you can't be a winner if you don't play."
The jangling bells whistles and the thrill of a jackpot
May change your life. After all, don't you deserve it?
Games of chance use lights to promote instant riches
That beckon seductively as sirens ships to ruin.
The faces of the players are taut with an intensity
That takes hold of them as firmly as sexual desire.
The unbridled greed, the desperate need...to win
Enough to buy status, respect, freedom and love.
"I am the Light and the Lamp of the World,"
Asserts The Christ; yet I've seen how light is used
To seduce, cajole, scam and delude us. Deceptive
Practices more worthy of the Prince of Darkness.
We come into being in the blindness of the womb;
Lovers slip into the evening shadows to embrace,
Or turn out the lights before they make love...or dream.
We rest and rejuvenate our body in darkness.
We hide our tears at night or use its cloak to dry them.
I've seen the light for what it is. Draw the shades.
The Squire and the Wizard
Mind-mired in vainglorious dreams
Of moon-lit moors and lonely Lords,
Of slaying savage evil-doers,
Of sighing sirens, singing swords,
I ventured off to Camelot.
Merlin's eyes were mesmerized
By sinister visions of woe,
Singular sagas of sadness
Madness and deaths I'd yet to know.
Steeped in sorcery, Merlin's mind
Seethed with strange Satanic visions,
Searing scenes of funeral fires,
Augeries of fatal decisions.
I soon would enter Camelot.
Maimed by Merlin's maniac gaze,
His meaningless chants and mumbling,
I stammered out my knighthoood ambition;
My confidence though, was crumbling.
Obsessed with morbid mysteries,
He morbidly smiled, as though amused.
His wizened fram mingled macabre
With malignant as I stood confused.
I had arrived at Camelot.
Malicious misanthropy marked
His mood. He said "Your virtue needs a test."
From his cloak he drew a mirror.
He sneered as he told me of my quest.
"Until the terms of this task you've met
Set no foot near Camelot's door.
Unravel the riddle of self.
Take this mirror." He said no more.
I had been banished from Camelot.
Meandering through mazes of madness,
Menaced by minstrels of might,
I doubt I shall solve this riddle of self
On this, or any other night.
But still, I'll retain the mirror,
This strange gift of Merlin's, so precious.
It helps me view myself, I'll keep it near.
Why did Merlin call me "Narcissus?"
I doubt I'll again visit Camelot.
Of moon-lit moors and lonely Lords,
Of slaying savage evil-doers,
Of sighing sirens, singing swords,
I ventured off to Camelot.
Merlin's eyes were mesmerized
By sinister visions of woe,
Singular sagas of sadness
Madness and deaths I'd yet to know.
Steeped in sorcery, Merlin's mind
Seethed with strange Satanic visions,
Searing scenes of funeral fires,
Augeries of fatal decisions.
I soon would enter Camelot.
Maimed by Merlin's maniac gaze,
His meaningless chants and mumbling,
I stammered out my knighthoood ambition;
My confidence though, was crumbling.
Obsessed with morbid mysteries,
He morbidly smiled, as though amused.
His wizened fram mingled macabre
With malignant as I stood confused.
I had arrived at Camelot.
Malicious misanthropy marked
His mood. He said "Your virtue needs a test."
From his cloak he drew a mirror.
He sneered as he told me of my quest.
"Until the terms of this task you've met
Set no foot near Camelot's door.
Unravel the riddle of self.
Take this mirror." He said no more.
I had been banished from Camelot.
Meandering through mazes of madness,
Menaced by minstrels of might,
I doubt I shall solve this riddle of self
On this, or any other night.
But still, I'll retain the mirror,
This strange gift of Merlin's, so precious.
It helps me view myself, I'll keep it near.
Why did Merlin call me "Narcissus?"
I doubt I'll again visit Camelot.
The Used Book
"Look," my wife said, handing me the volume
She'd been reading. "This book is so old
That someone had to cut its pages apart."
I examined the faded orange binding
That read "Lincoln's Sons" by Ruth Randall.
"I find it comforting," Nancy continued,
To know that someone's read this before me.
It's as if they've cleared a path for me."
I imagined the book's first owner
Painstakingly using a penknife
Or perhaps a silver letter opener
Shaped like a sword to cut through the pages.
His blade scattering the screeching "J's"
As he swats away "B's," ignoring their sting.
Holding at bay with that thin blade of steel
The sneaky "R's" with their legs out to trip one,
And "S's, hissing, rearing, getting ready to SSStrike.
There's "K's" with their lances held at the ready,
The jagged menace of the slashing "Z's,"
And coiled "G's," gnashing their terrible jaws,
Waiting to gobble up the unwary.
There's "T's," their arms reaching out to grab you
And hurl you into the gaping maw of an "O."
It's a conquered empire of evil letters,
Cowed into submission by the Balboa
With the machete that cut through each page,
Blazing a trail for future readers.
The subdued alphabet surrenders to grammar,
Submitting to being ordered into
Words..... Sentences.....Paragraphs
Subject thoughts now, except for the unruly few
That sullenly muster to mutter resistance,
Giving voice to their anger and frustration
With words like 'war,' ' assassin' and 'bullet.'
She'd been reading. "This book is so old
That someone had to cut its pages apart."
I examined the faded orange binding
That read "Lincoln's Sons" by Ruth Randall.
"I find it comforting," Nancy continued,
To know that someone's read this before me.
It's as if they've cleared a path for me."
I imagined the book's first owner
Painstakingly using a penknife
Or perhaps a silver letter opener
Shaped like a sword to cut through the pages.
His blade scattering the screeching "J's"
As he swats away "B's," ignoring their sting.
Holding at bay with that thin blade of steel
The sneaky "R's" with their legs out to trip one,
And "S's, hissing, rearing, getting ready to SSStrike.
There's "K's" with their lances held at the ready,
The jagged menace of the slashing "Z's,"
And coiled "G's," gnashing their terrible jaws,
Waiting to gobble up the unwary.
There's "T's," their arms reaching out to grab you
And hurl you into the gaping maw of an "O."
It's a conquered empire of evil letters,
Cowed into submission by the Balboa
With the machete that cut through each page,
Blazing a trail for future readers.
The subdued alphabet surrenders to grammar,
Submitting to being ordered into
Words..... Sentences.....Paragraphs
Subject thoughts now, except for the unruly few
That sullenly muster to mutter resistance,
Giving voice to their anger and frustration
With words like 'war,' ' assassin' and 'bullet.'
Saturday, October 9, 2010
At the Gravesite of Richard Mentor Johnson
The marble eagle perched atop the tall white column
With a wreath of laurel clutched firmly in its beak
Is a symbol of the young Nation's gratitude
To you, Colonel Johnson; Vice-President, soldier,
And slayer of the valiant Chief Tecumseh.
Egyptian Pharaohs adorned their dark chamber walls
With scenes of triumph. You drank a flagon full too, Sir.
You let the victory at the Battle of the Thames
Boost you into Van Buren's Vice-Presidency.
A heartbeat away from the prize, you ran with him again
Against the Whig ticket of Harrison and Tyler.
When the ticket "Tippecanoe and Tyler too" was shouted,
Good Democrats would bellow back "Rumpsey Dumpsey!
Rumpsey Dumpsey! Colonel Johnson KILLED Tecumsey!"
Yeah, you guys really knew how to address the issues.
If an elaborate marble tribute is a gauge
Of greatness, Colonel, you were a hell of a man.
Homer, Hannibal and Tecumseh have no gravesite
Memorials, but you have a bas-relief of you
On horseback slaying the noble Chief Tecumseh.
From a white man's elevated horseback status
Your pistol triumphs over Red-man's tomahawk,
The Chief's knees buckling like broken boughs, his body
Falling backwards into the lap of autumn frost; this death
Etched in stone is that of the brave Chief Tecumseh.
Tecumseh saw the end coming, Colonel Johnson.
He told Harrison at the great council at Grouseland
"Your great Chief far off won't be injured by war.
He'll sit in town and drink wine while you and I fight it out."
He divined his death in the entrails of change and donned
His war-paint to meet it like a man. Could've you
Been as fearless Colonel Johnson? To have outlived
His wits; a slovenly, ill-kept tavern keeper like you,
Age-ravaged and babbling drivel, is a finish
That Tecumseh would have ended rather than endured.
Was this the apex of your career then, Colonel,
That you celebrate in the permanency of stone?
Tying Tecumseh's life like a scalp to your belt
By depicting your role in his death. How pathetic.
His words and deeds still spark our imagination
While your boastful monument is all that remains
To broadcast your greatness, and its mute testimony
Is slowly giving way to the weathering of time.
With a wreath of laurel clutched firmly in its beak
Is a symbol of the young Nation's gratitude
To you, Colonel Johnson; Vice-President, soldier,
And slayer of the valiant Chief Tecumseh.
Egyptian Pharaohs adorned their dark chamber walls
With scenes of triumph. You drank a flagon full too, Sir.
You let the victory at the Battle of the Thames
Boost you into Van Buren's Vice-Presidency.
A heartbeat away from the prize, you ran with him again
Against the Whig ticket of Harrison and Tyler.
When the ticket "Tippecanoe and Tyler too" was shouted,
Good Democrats would bellow back "Rumpsey Dumpsey!
Rumpsey Dumpsey! Colonel Johnson KILLED Tecumsey!"
Yeah, you guys really knew how to address the issues.
If an elaborate marble tribute is a gauge
Of greatness, Colonel, you were a hell of a man.
Homer, Hannibal and Tecumseh have no gravesite
Memorials, but you have a bas-relief of you
On horseback slaying the noble Chief Tecumseh.
From a white man's elevated horseback status
Your pistol triumphs over Red-man's tomahawk,
The Chief's knees buckling like broken boughs, his body
Falling backwards into the lap of autumn frost; this death
Etched in stone is that of the brave Chief Tecumseh.
Tecumseh saw the end coming, Colonel Johnson.
He told Harrison at the great council at Grouseland
"Your great Chief far off won't be injured by war.
He'll sit in town and drink wine while you and I fight it out."
He divined his death in the entrails of change and donned
His war-paint to meet it like a man. Could've you
Been as fearless Colonel Johnson? To have outlived
His wits; a slovenly, ill-kept tavern keeper like you,
Age-ravaged and babbling drivel, is a finish
That Tecumseh would have ended rather than endured.
Was this the apex of your career then, Colonel,
That you celebrate in the permanency of stone?
Tying Tecumseh's life like a scalp to your belt
By depicting your role in his death. How pathetic.
His words and deeds still spark our imagination
While your boastful monument is all that remains
To broadcast your greatness, and its mute testimony
Is slowly giving way to the weathering of time.
I've Got the Monday Morning, I Hate My Fucking Job, I Hate My Life, & I Hate the Whole God Damned World and Everyone in it Blues
(A villanelle)
Mankind may all depart to hell,
That evil, proud, rapacious race.
May I live to hear its funeral knell.
To hear the tolling of that bell
Would bring a smile to my glum face.
Mankind may all depart to hell.
I want to be the one to tell
Of mankind's final fall from grace.
May I live to hear its funeral knell.
May they all end up where demons dwell,
With no one there to plead their case.
Mankind may all depart to hell.
It would suit me so very well
To see it gone without a trace.
May I live to hear its funeral knell.
Only their demise my rage will quell,
That mistake of God's, the earth's disgrace.
Mankind may all depart to hell.
May I live to hear its funeral knell.
Mankind may all depart to hell,
That evil, proud, rapacious race.
May I live to hear its funeral knell.
To hear the tolling of that bell
Would bring a smile to my glum face.
Mankind may all depart to hell.
I want to be the one to tell
Of mankind's final fall from grace.
May I live to hear its funeral knell.
May they all end up where demons dwell,
With no one there to plead their case.
Mankind may all depart to hell.
It would suit me so very well
To see it gone without a trace.
May I live to hear its funeral knell.
Only their demise my rage will quell,
That mistake of God's, the earth's disgrace.
Mankind may all depart to hell.
May I live to hear its funeral knell.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Return of Lady Depression
Depression, my old acquaintance,
Has returned to haunt me again.
She's the slut we all banged in our youth,
As immortal as an Anne Rice vampire;
As necessary a companion to us then
As to those who donned a Byronic pose,
The sensitive languor of an aesthete,
The "Lost Generation's" cynicism,
James Dean's rebellious attitude,
The world-weariness of the Beats, or
Wandered Morrison's wilderness of pain
The world of "grunge" or the darkness of Goth.
She's more than a little embarrassing
To have show up again in my life.
She knows my deepest secret fears;
She's been a witness to my indiscretions;
I have confided to her my dreams.
She knows how far I've fallen short of them.
She's prodding me with them now,
Playing picador to my pain-maddened bull.
She's the reign of psychological terror
That ravages my psyche's eco-system.
My feral mind is glutted with morose images
That multiply like zebra mussels.
Dark musings breed unchecked,
Running through my mind
Like nutria through Louisiana bayou.
The channels of my ambition are clogged
As though choked with water hyacinth.
She's the lamprey that saps my vitality,
The kudzu that wraps my bleak perspective
In a blanketing growth of thick green despair.
I begin to flagellate myself with regrets
And self-recrimination,
Ripping deep chunks of flesh
From my self-esteem.
Now she's clutching at my arm like a drunk
Craving love and reassurance.
She's slobbering sentimental over me.
Yeah, my old acquaintance has returned.
It looks as though she'll be around for awhile.
She's brought a lot of baggage with her.
I'm thinking
Tonight she wants me to take her
Out drinking
Has returned to haunt me again.
She's the slut we all banged in our youth,
As immortal as an Anne Rice vampire;
As necessary a companion to us then
As to those who donned a Byronic pose,
The sensitive languor of an aesthete,
The "Lost Generation's" cynicism,
James Dean's rebellious attitude,
The world-weariness of the Beats, or
Wandered Morrison's wilderness of pain
The world of "grunge" or the darkness of Goth.
She's more than a little embarrassing
To have show up again in my life.
She knows my deepest secret fears;
She's been a witness to my indiscretions;
I have confided to her my dreams.
She knows how far I've fallen short of them.
She's prodding me with them now,
Playing picador to my pain-maddened bull.
She's the reign of psychological terror
That ravages my psyche's eco-system.
My feral mind is glutted with morose images
That multiply like zebra mussels.
Dark musings breed unchecked,
Running through my mind
Like nutria through Louisiana bayou.
The channels of my ambition are clogged
As though choked with water hyacinth.
She's the lamprey that saps my vitality,
The kudzu that wraps my bleak perspective
In a blanketing growth of thick green despair.
I begin to flagellate myself with regrets
And self-recrimination,
Ripping deep chunks of flesh
From my self-esteem.
Now she's clutching at my arm like a drunk
Craving love and reassurance.
She's slobbering sentimental over me.
Yeah, my old acquaintance has returned.
It looks as though she'll be around for awhile.
She's brought a lot of baggage with her.
I'm thinking
Tonight she wants me to take her
Out drinking
My Wife's Dream Journal
Nancy keeps a journal of her dreams;
Moths that flutter in out of midnight darkness
That she's caught and penned between blue lines
In a spiral notebook, pale butterflies of night
Beckoned by brain neuron light.
She'll release them to dream interpreters,
Who'll share, analyze and classify them.
I hold secret the sacred content of my dreams.
I don't need a Daniel to interpret them, or wish
To bring them to read to a discussion group.
It's just dream-life, something sickly pale,
Excretions of the unconsciousness,
Pus secreted in fantastic rivulets of visions;
The night sweats of a fevered mind.
Yet even in deep sleep I can distinguish dreams
From reality. It's as if there's a part of my mind
Standing aside from the action, observing,
Yet detached, like Rod Serling as he steps into view,
The smoke curling up from his cigarette
As he submits commentary 'for our consideration'
After an opening scene from The Twilight Zone.
I can always spot some incongruity in my dreams;
Something that stands out like a boundary stake
Or a cairn of stones that's there to remind me
That it is just a dream. Perhaps it's a friend
I've made recently appearing where I worked
Years ago, or an inflatable Miller Lite chair
Mocking the formal setting of my dining room.
It's a surveyor's marker that's there as an aid,
Like cleats on my boots, or a sturdy walking stick;
Something firm to take hold of, like a handrail;
Something solid to help me keep my balance
On the slippery slope of dream perspective,
A compass to show me where I am, to keep me
From falling prey to nightmare-spawned madness.
On her desk lies my wife's journal of dreams.
Does she dream in color or in black and white?
Does she dream of a beach and a sun-bronzed surfer,
Of cuddling with some country-western singer, or
Is she riding behind some tatooed biker?
Are her dreams as practical as she is?
Is she immersed in her dreams or aloof like me?
Now's my chance to find out. Her gathered dreams
Rest within easy reach, as enticing a read
As an older sister's steamy diary might be.
Should I violate her trust? Should I trespass upon
What visions the dream-weaver has woven for her?
No. I value the privacy of my own nocturnal realm
Too highly to feel comfortable with invading hers.
Besides, I might discover in reading her journal
Just how far I've fallen short of her dreams.
Moths that flutter in out of midnight darkness
That she's caught and penned between blue lines
In a spiral notebook, pale butterflies of night
Beckoned by brain neuron light.
She'll release them to dream interpreters,
Who'll share, analyze and classify them.
I hold secret the sacred content of my dreams.
I don't need a Daniel to interpret them, or wish
To bring them to read to a discussion group.
It's just dream-life, something sickly pale,
Excretions of the unconsciousness,
Pus secreted in fantastic rivulets of visions;
The night sweats of a fevered mind.
Yet even in deep sleep I can distinguish dreams
From reality. It's as if there's a part of my mind
Standing aside from the action, observing,
Yet detached, like Rod Serling as he steps into view,
The smoke curling up from his cigarette
As he submits commentary 'for our consideration'
After an opening scene from The Twilight Zone.
I can always spot some incongruity in my dreams;
Something that stands out like a boundary stake
Or a cairn of stones that's there to remind me
That it is just a dream. Perhaps it's a friend
I've made recently appearing where I worked
Years ago, or an inflatable Miller Lite chair
Mocking the formal setting of my dining room.
It's a surveyor's marker that's there as an aid,
Like cleats on my boots, or a sturdy walking stick;
Something firm to take hold of, like a handrail;
Something solid to help me keep my balance
On the slippery slope of dream perspective,
A compass to show me where I am, to keep me
From falling prey to nightmare-spawned madness.
On her desk lies my wife's journal of dreams.
Does she dream in color or in black and white?
Does she dream of a beach and a sun-bronzed surfer,
Of cuddling with some country-western singer, or
Is she riding behind some tatooed biker?
Are her dreams as practical as she is?
Is she immersed in her dreams or aloof like me?
Now's my chance to find out. Her gathered dreams
Rest within easy reach, as enticing a read
As an older sister's steamy diary might be.
Should I violate her trust? Should I trespass upon
What visions the dream-weaver has woven for her?
No. I value the privacy of my own nocturnal realm
Too highly to feel comfortable with invading hers.
Besides, I might discover in reading her journal
Just how far I've fallen short of her dreams.
Hug Tightly Your Dreams
Hug tightly your dreams.
They bring you comfort and solace
Like the stuffed animal companions
Of your childhood.
When you box them up
And lock them away
In your mind's attic,
You begin to age.
The wine of aspiration
Becomes the vinegar
Of a defeated psyche.
They bring you comfort and solace
Like the stuffed animal companions
Of your childhood.
When you box them up
And lock them away
In your mind's attic,
You begin to age.
The wine of aspiration
Becomes the vinegar
Of a defeated psyche.
There Ain't Any God for us Working Men
The poem read by Angus McDermott
at the Coaltown Tavern the night before
his pit boss pulled him from the mine to fire him
See that whitewashed church, you working people,
And that sanctimonious asshole in white.
The company owns that church, lock stock and steeple
And has the preacher sewn up just as tight.
If I've told you this twice, I'm saying it again.
There ain't any God for us working men.
Sure, religion's good for our wives and wee folk.
It brings them solace, some comfort to seek out
When they hunger, the baby's dying, or the yoke
Of wage slavery hurts so much you just have to shout.
A working man knows though, that it's all just a joke;
Just company preachers blowing company smoke.
"Labor not for wealth in this life," they smugly say,
"But lay up your treasure for the next."
The company must have found their own way
To interpret this, or reads from a diff'rent text.
They live in brick houses, and drive their fancy cars.
They add to their vast fortunes by short-changing ours.
You can bet that the bible-thumper's sermon
Has been approved by the company brass.
If you think you'll get God's word from those vermin,
You stupid bastards can just kiss my ass.
They tell you, "Be content with your lot in this life,
Work hard, distrust Unions; just go home to the wife."
We tunnel rats sit in back on folding chairs
While the owner's family hogs the front pew.
If we step out of place we get hostile stares
From company spies who watch what we do.
There ain't any God for us working men,
The damn owners have bought him off too.
Had enough of the company store, low wages and lies?
Had enough of their religion? Join me and unionize!
at the Coaltown Tavern the night before
his pit boss pulled him from the mine to fire him
See that whitewashed church, you working people,
And that sanctimonious asshole in white.
The company owns that church, lock stock and steeple
And has the preacher sewn up just as tight.
If I've told you this twice, I'm saying it again.
There ain't any God for us working men.
Sure, religion's good for our wives and wee folk.
It brings them solace, some comfort to seek out
When they hunger, the baby's dying, or the yoke
Of wage slavery hurts so much you just have to shout.
A working man knows though, that it's all just a joke;
Just company preachers blowing company smoke.
"Labor not for wealth in this life," they smugly say,
"But lay up your treasure for the next."
The company must have found their own way
To interpret this, or reads from a diff'rent text.
They live in brick houses, and drive their fancy cars.
They add to their vast fortunes by short-changing ours.
You can bet that the bible-thumper's sermon
Has been approved by the company brass.
If you think you'll get God's word from those vermin,
You stupid bastards can just kiss my ass.
They tell you, "Be content with your lot in this life,
Work hard, distrust Unions; just go home to the wife."
We tunnel rats sit in back on folding chairs
While the owner's family hogs the front pew.
If we step out of place we get hostile stares
From company spies who watch what we do.
There ain't any God for us working men,
The damn owners have bought him off too.
Had enough of the company store, low wages and lies?
Had enough of their religion? Join me and unionize!
When Good Yuppies Go Amish
As Stringtown Grocery comes into view
Yuppie daddy points at the black buggies;
Horses tethered to the rail, nodding to each other,
Slightly swinging their necks, snorting impatiently
As though engaged in a wordless conversation.
"Hey Posse! What goes
Clip Clop Clip Clop Clip Clop
Bang!
Clip Clop Clip Clop Clip Clop?"
Without lifting his eyes from his Gameboy
His son responds with bored indifference.
"What?"
"An Amish drive-by," his old man responds,
Grinning foolishly after delivering the punch line.
His son dignifies his dad's effort with a slight chuckle;
His daughter bristles with haughty embarrassment.
Her dad calls his kids "his posse,"
"His Homeys."
He has no idea how ridiculous he sounds,
Striving to be "cool" and failing in his attempts
As miserably as an air conditioner lacking Freon.
She just wishes that her father would realize
That he's reached that annoying age of dotage
That parents reach when one becomes a teen-ager;
The age where they should be seen, but not heard
And certainly not listened to.
'Aren't you coming in, Gary?" the dad asks.
"I'll just sit here and play my Gameboy."
"Come in with us," his dad cajoles him.
Anxious as Clark Griswold to make this day
A most memorable family outing.
"You might meet some hot Amish chick."
His son grunted the most skeptical of snorts;
Then his mind begins to wander toward
Fantasies of Playboy's Miss April,
He imagines her wearing an Amish bonnet,
Her ample breasts swelling, as if yearning
To burst the restraint of her bodice;
A veritable virginal prairie Venus
Longing for just the right young man
To step out of the pages of a romance novel,
Saunter into the store, make eye contact with her
And maybe ask her out to a forbidden movie.
Inside the theatre she'd remove her bonnet,
Let her long black hair tumble down her shoulders,
And make out passionately with her English lover.
"Yeah, I guess I'll come in with you guys,"
He sighed, putting on a show of acting as resigned
As one of Fox's Martyrs being led to the stake.
A sacrifice to dad's concept of family togetherness.
The earnest-looking bonneted young girl
Behind the grocery check-out counter
Failed to live up to young Gary's vivid imagination.
Plain and simple without a hint of sexy.
Inside the store his parents both began to wallow
In the Amish experience to the point of looking
Ludicrous. Gary was so mortified.
His dad was kneeling on the floor,
Chatting on his cell phone with one of his golf buddies
About the different kinds of trail mix for sale.
"They have a cranberry nut with yogurt chips,
Mixed dried fruit with little pineapple chunks,
And a mix of raisins, craisins and granola."
People actually had to step around him.
Gary was sort of hoping someone would give him
A little nudge with their foot. He certainly would have.
Gary grabbed a couple bags of gummi worms,
Then dropped them into his old man's cart.
He'd have fun grossing his sister out with them later,
Dangling them from his mouth, or from his nose.
Caitlin glared at her mother as she read the labels
Of spices and teas packaged in little plastic tubs.
Mom was enunciating the names annoyingly loud,
Sounding like some grade school kid called upon
To read a portion of a book to her classmates.
"Catnip, Chamomile, Spruce Needle, Fennel,
Echinacea, Rose Hip, Licorice Root, Thistle..."
Yeah, Mom was babbling into her phone as well.
They filled their cart with treats to take home,
A Yuppie hunting-gathering expedition;
Bologna, cheese, ripe tomatoes, homemade fudge,
A caramel roll, pretzel balls, a rhubarb pie;
As if consumerism could lead to contentment,
As if a stuffed stomach could be the answer
To filling that void of spiritual emptiness
That they're sometimes too acutely aware of.
That missing intangible "something"
That perhaps the Amish have found.
Such foolish vanity to expect to comprehend
The nuances of a culture in an afternoon visit.
Everyone lugs their own upbringing, education,
Prejudices and presuppositions with them
Like sets of outdated luggage that contain
Too many experiences to let go of
To pick up and lug around someone elses.
Urban attitudes cling to these folks as stubbornly
As the odor of booze and cigarettes does
Long after one has left a tavern's smoky confines.
As they leave the grocery, the yuppie daddy
Motions toward yet another horse and buggy.
"Hey homeys!
\What goes Clip Clop Clip Clop Clip Clop
Bang!
Clip Clip Clop Clip Clop Clip Clop?"
This time he uses his index finger as a pistol barrel
To punctuate the gunshot in his joke.
Then they climb into their mommy van;
Plastic people with their plastic phones,
Plastic toys and plastic purchasing power;
Their vehicle, lives and mind-sets
As alien to Amishland
As the tattered Wal-Mart bag
Snagged on a branch of a hackberry tree
That reaches out to stretch across the gravel road
That meanders slowly out to the Country Store.
Yuppie daddy points at the black buggies;
Horses tethered to the rail, nodding to each other,
Slightly swinging their necks, snorting impatiently
As though engaged in a wordless conversation.
"Hey Posse! What goes
Clip Clop Clip Clop Clip Clop
Bang!
Clip Clop Clip Clop Clip Clop?"
Without lifting his eyes from his Gameboy
His son responds with bored indifference.
"What?"
"An Amish drive-by," his old man responds,
Grinning foolishly after delivering the punch line.
His son dignifies his dad's effort with a slight chuckle;
His daughter bristles with haughty embarrassment.
Her dad calls his kids "his posse,"
"His Homeys."
He has no idea how ridiculous he sounds,
Striving to be "cool" and failing in his attempts
As miserably as an air conditioner lacking Freon.
She just wishes that her father would realize
That he's reached that annoying age of dotage
That parents reach when one becomes a teen-ager;
The age where they should be seen, but not heard
And certainly not listened to.
'Aren't you coming in, Gary?" the dad asks.
"I'll just sit here and play my Gameboy."
"Come in with us," his dad cajoles him.
Anxious as Clark Griswold to make this day
A most memorable family outing.
"You might meet some hot Amish chick."
His son grunted the most skeptical of snorts;
Then his mind begins to wander toward
Fantasies of Playboy's Miss April,
He imagines her wearing an Amish bonnet,
Her ample breasts swelling, as if yearning
To burst the restraint of her bodice;
A veritable virginal prairie Venus
Longing for just the right young man
To step out of the pages of a romance novel,
Saunter into the store, make eye contact with her
And maybe ask her out to a forbidden movie.
Inside the theatre she'd remove her bonnet,
Let her long black hair tumble down her shoulders,
And make out passionately with her English lover.
"Yeah, I guess I'll come in with you guys,"
He sighed, putting on a show of acting as resigned
As one of Fox's Martyrs being led to the stake.
A sacrifice to dad's concept of family togetherness.
The earnest-looking bonneted young girl
Behind the grocery check-out counter
Failed to live up to young Gary's vivid imagination.
Plain and simple without a hint of sexy.
Inside the store his parents both began to wallow
In the Amish experience to the point of looking
Ludicrous. Gary was so mortified.
His dad was kneeling on the floor,
Chatting on his cell phone with one of his golf buddies
About the different kinds of trail mix for sale.
"They have a cranberry nut with yogurt chips,
Mixed dried fruit with little pineapple chunks,
And a mix of raisins, craisins and granola."
People actually had to step around him.
Gary was sort of hoping someone would give him
A little nudge with their foot. He certainly would have.
Gary grabbed a couple bags of gummi worms,
Then dropped them into his old man's cart.
He'd have fun grossing his sister out with them later,
Dangling them from his mouth, or from his nose.
Caitlin glared at her mother as she read the labels
Of spices and teas packaged in little plastic tubs.
Mom was enunciating the names annoyingly loud,
Sounding like some grade school kid called upon
To read a portion of a book to her classmates.
"Catnip, Chamomile, Spruce Needle, Fennel,
Echinacea, Rose Hip, Licorice Root, Thistle..."
Yeah, Mom was babbling into her phone as well.
They filled their cart with treats to take home,
A Yuppie hunting-gathering expedition;
Bologna, cheese, ripe tomatoes, homemade fudge,
A caramel roll, pretzel balls, a rhubarb pie;
As if consumerism could lead to contentment,
As if a stuffed stomach could be the answer
To filling that void of spiritual emptiness
That they're sometimes too acutely aware of.
That missing intangible "something"
That perhaps the Amish have found.
Such foolish vanity to expect to comprehend
The nuances of a culture in an afternoon visit.
Everyone lugs their own upbringing, education,
Prejudices and presuppositions with them
Like sets of outdated luggage that contain
Too many experiences to let go of
To pick up and lug around someone elses.
Urban attitudes cling to these folks as stubbornly
As the odor of booze and cigarettes does
Long after one has left a tavern's smoky confines.
As they leave the grocery, the yuppie daddy
Motions toward yet another horse and buggy.
"Hey homeys!
\What goes Clip Clop Clip Clop Clip Clop
Bang!
Clip Clip Clop Clip Clop Clip Clop?"
This time he uses his index finger as a pistol barrel
To punctuate the gunshot in his joke.
Then they climb into their mommy van;
Plastic people with their plastic phones,
Plastic toys and plastic purchasing power;
Their vehicle, lives and mind-sets
As alien to Amishland
As the tattered Wal-Mart bag
Snagged on a branch of a hackberry tree
That reaches out to stretch across the gravel road
That meanders slowly out to the Country Store.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Fading into the Light
Having witnessed the pre-dawn miracle
Of my son's birth, I left the hospital
Raptly clutching the Polaroid image
Of him blanketed in blue swaddling,
His cheeks scratched by tiny fingernails
Clumsily flailing against the brightness,
The light that engulfed him after the slap
And the snip of his umbilical cord.
My Mother-in-Law's kitchen light was on.
My knock intruded upon her Sunday rite
Of communion with coffee and newsprint.
Gazing tenderly at my new son's picture,
She embraced her role shift from a mother
To grandmother, her love eminating
Already toward that image of a child
Who would come to mean so much to her.
The child whose name has now fled her memory.
A strong woman can accept growing old,
Embracing each year like a new grandchild,
Something to be lovingly fussed over.
Louise had never been that strong. Childlike
In her vanity, she'd been an ornament
On the arm of both husbands she'd outlived.
She was happiest when dressed in fine gowns.
Never so devastated as on that day
When after having caused an accident,
She heard an officer refer to her
Via radio, with "Joe Friday" terseness
As "a confused elderly woman."
"Do I really look that old?" she asked us
Tearfully, as if our denials could help
Turn back the hands of time's ruthless advance.
Now Alzheimers is hastening her decline.
Her memories have lost their focus.
Images flee beyond recollection
Like photgraphs that have been left too long
Upon a desk for the sun's rays to caress,
Sapping them of their detail and color.
Clarity fades into a shroud of indistinct white
That wraps her thoughts in a befuddled haze.
Osteoporosis bends her body forward
Into a question mark that puctuates her
Confusion. She hears words she no longer
Comprehends, has thoughts she's no longer able
To express. As death approaches she'll curl up
Into a fetal-position, womb-secure.
When the brightness that spooks a newborn beckons,
She'll head toward the Light and be absorbed in it.
Of my son's birth, I left the hospital
Raptly clutching the Polaroid image
Of him blanketed in blue swaddling,
His cheeks scratched by tiny fingernails
Clumsily flailing against the brightness,
The light that engulfed him after the slap
And the snip of his umbilical cord.
My Mother-in-Law's kitchen light was on.
My knock intruded upon her Sunday rite
Of communion with coffee and newsprint.
Gazing tenderly at my new son's picture,
She embraced her role shift from a mother
To grandmother, her love eminating
Already toward that image of a child
Who would come to mean so much to her.
The child whose name has now fled her memory.
A strong woman can accept growing old,
Embracing each year like a new grandchild,
Something to be lovingly fussed over.
Louise had never been that strong. Childlike
In her vanity, she'd been an ornament
On the arm of both husbands she'd outlived.
She was happiest when dressed in fine gowns.
Never so devastated as on that day
When after having caused an accident,
She heard an officer refer to her
Via radio, with "Joe Friday" terseness
As "a confused elderly woman."
"Do I really look that old?" she asked us
Tearfully, as if our denials could help
Turn back the hands of time's ruthless advance.
Now Alzheimers is hastening her decline.
Her memories have lost their focus.
Images flee beyond recollection
Like photgraphs that have been left too long
Upon a desk for the sun's rays to caress,
Sapping them of their detail and color.
Clarity fades into a shroud of indistinct white
That wraps her thoughts in a befuddled haze.
Osteoporosis bends her body forward
Into a question mark that puctuates her
Confusion. She hears words she no longer
Comprehends, has thoughts she's no longer able
To express. As death approaches she'll curl up
Into a fetal-position, womb-secure.
When the brightness that spooks a newborn beckons,
She'll head toward the Light and be absorbed in it.
Letting Go of Louise
(A poem written for my wife, Nancy,
Shortly after the death of her mother, Louise.)
I wish I could weave the language of love
Into a comforter to keep you warm.
I wish you could take my prayers with you
As lanterns to illuminate your path.
I wish that my embrace could hold you back
From your appointment with eternal sleep.
I wish that I could accompany you
For part of your story, like Orpheus,
Who dared Death's dark realm for his beloved.
Like you stood with me my first day of school
As we waited together for the bus;
That big orange Bluebird coming to wrest me
From the security blanket
Of my home's familiar surroundings.
Unlike the old Marvin Rainwater song,
I didn't want to "find me a bluebird" that day,
But you lingered there with me and held my hand.
Now it's your turn to go away.
I've never seen a baby enter this world
Without anguished tears and wails;
It's tiny fists flailing at the indignity
Of being pushed from the comfort of the womb.
I've watched too many friends leave this life
With a final sigh of welcome relief.
Mom, I'll be there to hold your hand
Until the end, but I can't go there with you.
Take my love with you though; like a nightlight
Let it be there to comfort and reassure you.
If there is an afterlife, may yours be
As beautiful as the lake you were named for.
Shortly after the death of her mother, Louise.)
I wish I could weave the language of love
Into a comforter to keep you warm.
I wish you could take my prayers with you
As lanterns to illuminate your path.
I wish that my embrace could hold you back
From your appointment with eternal sleep.
I wish that I could accompany you
For part of your story, like Orpheus,
Who dared Death's dark realm for his beloved.
Like you stood with me my first day of school
As we waited together for the bus;
That big orange Bluebird coming to wrest me
From the security blanket
Of my home's familiar surroundings.
Unlike the old Marvin Rainwater song,
I didn't want to "find me a bluebird" that day,
But you lingered there with me and held my hand.
Now it's your turn to go away.
I've never seen a baby enter this world
Without anguished tears and wails;
It's tiny fists flailing at the indignity
Of being pushed from the comfort of the womb.
I've watched too many friends leave this life
With a final sigh of welcome relief.
Mom, I'll be there to hold your hand
Until the end, but I can't go there with you.
Take my love with you though; like a nightlight
Let it be there to comfort and reassure you.
If there is an afterlife, may yours be
As beautiful as the lake you were named for.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
While You Sleep (a Rondo)
While you sleep
A thousand different couples fall in love.
A young man begs "a shrine of hers to keep,"
A lock of hair, perhaps a scented glove.
She smiles, complies and sighs, but soon she'll weep,
While you sleep.
While you sleep
A thousand sordid rendezvous take place.
A wife slips out of bed to lightly creep
A few doors down. To her shame and disgrace
She finds her love's made vows that he won't keep,
While you sleep.
While you sleep
A frightening cataclysm is unleashed.
A earthquake's shaking terror. Death will reap
A bumper crop tonight. The screams soon ceased.
Man's God has slaughtered men as man does sheep,
While you sleep.
While you sleep
A soul ascends her way to heaven. Soon
A blind, indifferent God will end her sleep.
A callous slap. A harp that's out of tune;
She starts, awakes, observes. Proceeds to weep,
While you sleep.
Won't you sleep.
Please.
Only in our dreams
Is disillusionment a stranger.
A thousand different couples fall in love.
A young man begs "a shrine of hers to keep,"
A lock of hair, perhaps a scented glove.
She smiles, complies and sighs, but soon she'll weep,
While you sleep.
While you sleep
A thousand sordid rendezvous take place.
A wife slips out of bed to lightly creep
A few doors down. To her shame and disgrace
She finds her love's made vows that he won't keep,
While you sleep.
While you sleep
A frightening cataclysm is unleashed.
A earthquake's shaking terror. Death will reap
A bumper crop tonight. The screams soon ceased.
Man's God has slaughtered men as man does sheep,
While you sleep.
While you sleep
A soul ascends her way to heaven. Soon
A blind, indifferent God will end her sleep.
A callous slap. A harp that's out of tune;
She starts, awakes, observes. Proceeds to weep,
While you sleep.
Won't you sleep.
Please.
Only in our dreams
Is disillusionment a stranger.
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Love Song of J. Snidely Whiplash
Let us go Nell, you and I
While the Canadian sunset is splayed out
Across the blood red sky like an otter pelt
Stretched out upon a skinning-board.
Let us walk through pine-scented woods,
Down trails that wander like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent.
What? You don't trust me?
When I tied you to that railroad track
And you watched that locomotive coming at you,
It's whistle whining, its air brakes screeching;
It was just my obsessive devotion.
If I couldn't have you, then no one should.
If you were my woman I'd never hurt you.
In a room where couples come and go
I'd trump them all with you in tow.
You know, when I lashed you to that log
And turned on the sawmill conveyor that carried you
Ever closer to that deadly whirling blade,
It was just an act of love; showing you symbolically
That I could never share you alive with someone.
If you were my woman I'd never hurt you.
Would it be remiss
To ask for just a kiss?
Curses. Foiled again.
I should have been a pair of bankers claws
Stacking bills gleaned from a teller's cage.
Someday there may come a time
When I may tire of turning widows and orphans
Out into the Canadian cold.
Already my hair is growing thin;
I'm seeing the start of a double-chin.
I now need more than just a little moustache black
To camouflage the ravages of time.
Otherwise, you know what they say...
There's "No play for Mr. Gray."
There's no love in a single's bar for an aging rogue.
I have measured out my life by foreclosed mortgages.
When I tied you to that other log
And sent you hurtling down that flume
Toward death in an icy, log-jammed river,
It was just a way of stating metaphorically, Love,
That I'd like to take you on a wild ride.
The wide-eyed terror that I witnessed on your face
Was at least an emotion more comely
Than the indifference or scorn you've shown me.
If you were my woman, I'd never hurt you.
In a room where couples come and go
I'd trump them all with you in tow.
Is it the perfume on your dress
That makes me so digress?
Would it be remiss
To ask for just a kiss?
Curses. Foiled again.
Goodness isn't all it's cracked up to be, Love.
Doesn't the urge to be somewhat naughty prick you
A little bit, like the stays of your corset?
That straight-arrow Boy Scout of a Mountie
With the cleft jaw and the I.Q. of a sea slug,
Won't he become boring after awhile?
Deep-six the ribbons and bonnet, Nell,
And jettison the virtuous look.
I'd like to see you in stiletto heels
And a short black skirt slit up to your hips.
I'd love to see your long golden hair set free
To cascade like a waterfall down your back,
Your smile brightened by whorehouse red lipstick,
Smoke curling seductively from the cigarette
You hold in your slender manicured fingers.
Is it the perfume on your dress
That makes me so digress?
To see you dressed so fetchingly erotic,
My Love, would be a sight enticing enough
To make any man's moustache curl.
You know, my black beaver hat
Isn't the only large possession I take pride in.
Why do you think I wear a loose cape?
Let me be your Alec D'Urberville.
Let me do my damnedest to corrupt you.
I'll bet ther's a sultry vixen
Simmering beneath your muslin skirt.
I've seen you stroking the muzzle
Of that stupid Do-Right's horse,
Like some doped-up burlesque queen
Getting ready to straddle the bologna pony.
Let me take you downriver, Nell,
To dwell in Big Easy decadence.
There we can laughingly stroll past Piety
And choose to live our life on Desire instead.
We'll make love in the languid mornings
And Revel at night with the Dixieland bands.
We'll drink absinthe, and shuck and suck oysters.
You can flash your tits from our balcony, and
I'll help catch the beads that are tossed up to you.
Together we can live a life of lavish excess
Until our sins engulf us and we drown.
While the Canadian sunset is splayed out
Across the blood red sky like an otter pelt
Stretched out upon a skinning-board.
Let us walk through pine-scented woods,
Down trails that wander like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent.
What? You don't trust me?
When I tied you to that railroad track
And you watched that locomotive coming at you,
It's whistle whining, its air brakes screeching;
It was just my obsessive devotion.
If I couldn't have you, then no one should.
If you were my woman I'd never hurt you.
In a room where couples come and go
I'd trump them all with you in tow.
You know, when I lashed you to that log
And turned on the sawmill conveyor that carried you
Ever closer to that deadly whirling blade,
It was just an act of love; showing you symbolically
That I could never share you alive with someone.
If you were my woman I'd never hurt you.
Would it be remiss
To ask for just a kiss?
Curses. Foiled again.
I should have been a pair of bankers claws
Stacking bills gleaned from a teller's cage.
Someday there may come a time
When I may tire of turning widows and orphans
Out into the Canadian cold.
Already my hair is growing thin;
I'm seeing the start of a double-chin.
I now need more than just a little moustache black
To camouflage the ravages of time.
Otherwise, you know what they say...
There's "No play for Mr. Gray."
There's no love in a single's bar for an aging rogue.
I have measured out my life by foreclosed mortgages.
When I tied you to that other log
And sent you hurtling down that flume
Toward death in an icy, log-jammed river,
It was just a way of stating metaphorically, Love,
That I'd like to take you on a wild ride.
The wide-eyed terror that I witnessed on your face
Was at least an emotion more comely
Than the indifference or scorn you've shown me.
If you were my woman, I'd never hurt you.
In a room where couples come and go
I'd trump them all with you in tow.
Is it the perfume on your dress
That makes me so digress?
Would it be remiss
To ask for just a kiss?
Curses. Foiled again.
Goodness isn't all it's cracked up to be, Love.
Doesn't the urge to be somewhat naughty prick you
A little bit, like the stays of your corset?
That straight-arrow Boy Scout of a Mountie
With the cleft jaw and the I.Q. of a sea slug,
Won't he become boring after awhile?
Deep-six the ribbons and bonnet, Nell,
And jettison the virtuous look.
I'd like to see you in stiletto heels
And a short black skirt slit up to your hips.
I'd love to see your long golden hair set free
To cascade like a waterfall down your back,
Your smile brightened by whorehouse red lipstick,
Smoke curling seductively from the cigarette
You hold in your slender manicured fingers.
Is it the perfume on your dress
That makes me so digress?
To see you dressed so fetchingly erotic,
My Love, would be a sight enticing enough
To make any man's moustache curl.
You know, my black beaver hat
Isn't the only large possession I take pride in.
Why do you think I wear a loose cape?
Let me be your Alec D'Urberville.
Let me do my damnedest to corrupt you.
I'll bet ther's a sultry vixen
Simmering beneath your muslin skirt.
I've seen you stroking the muzzle
Of that stupid Do-Right's horse,
Like some doped-up burlesque queen
Getting ready to straddle the bologna pony.
Let me take you downriver, Nell,
To dwell in Big Easy decadence.
There we can laughingly stroll past Piety
And choose to live our life on Desire instead.
We'll make love in the languid mornings
And Revel at night with the Dixieland bands.
We'll drink absinthe, and shuck and suck oysters.
You can flash your tits from our balcony, and
I'll help catch the beads that are tossed up to you.
Together we can live a life of lavish excess
Until our sins engulf us and we drown.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
HOLLYWOODLAND
(A poem for Peg Entwistle)
Who's to say when enough was enough.
Was it the disappointment of the many days
Getting all dolled up for casting calls that left you
Standing against the wall, like an eager girl
At a formal dance who's never asked to;
Waiting by the phone for a studio to call
Like some girl stuck home on a Saturday night;
Watching with dismay as most of your scenes
From the one movie you landed a part in
Ended up as trash on the cutting room floor.
When Bette Davis watched you play Ibsen's Hedvig,
She credited her youthful admiration of you
In that role to her desire to become an actress.
Movies though, were where the real glamour was.
Dazzling fireworks of exploding flashbulbs,
Leading ladies in their body-hugging gowns
Emerging from limos, savoring the red carpet
Excitement of their movie premieres.
Grand epics of romance filmed on backlots
Of plywood facades, kingdoms of illusion.
Every girl dreams of becoming a princess,
Or a Star. The ones with talent and the look
Need luck as well. Elizabeth Short had none,
Achieving fame only in her gruesome death,
As did Virginia Rappe, Arbuckle's victim.
Their tragedies churned headlines, as did yours.
Your disillusion drove you to climb to the top
Of a landmark letter on the Tinseltown hillside,
From which you jumped, unaware of the offer
Of a lead role that had been mailed to you.
Your body lay shattered at the base of the "H,"
A lifeless blonde-haired, blue-eyed doll
Without a name, just the initials "P. E."
On the note that finally led your uncle to you.
Hollywoodland is a cruel town still, Peg.
Casting couch lizards seduce with promises,
Booze and drugs, then abandon you for fresh prey.
Innocence hardens to toughness too quickly.
Perhaps you let go of your dream too soon, Peg,
But what of we who've clung to ours for too long?
Those of us who jealously hug our dreams
Should erect a monument on your unmarked grave,
Perhaps a kneeling angel with drooping wings,
Its anguished face gazing up at the sky
As if to question God, or implore his forgiveness.
Let your gravesite become the place of pilgrimage
Where we can bring our unattainable goals,
Unaccomplished deeds and unfufilled desires,
Those wilted bouquets that flowered in our youth,
To lay them down before you as we let go of them.
Who's to say when enough was enough.
Was it the disappointment of the many days
Getting all dolled up for casting calls that left you
Standing against the wall, like an eager girl
At a formal dance who's never asked to;
Waiting by the phone for a studio to call
Like some girl stuck home on a Saturday night;
Watching with dismay as most of your scenes
From the one movie you landed a part in
Ended up as trash on the cutting room floor.
When Bette Davis watched you play Ibsen's Hedvig,
She credited her youthful admiration of you
In that role to her desire to become an actress.
Movies though, were where the real glamour was.
Dazzling fireworks of exploding flashbulbs,
Leading ladies in their body-hugging gowns
Emerging from limos, savoring the red carpet
Excitement of their movie premieres.
Grand epics of romance filmed on backlots
Of plywood facades, kingdoms of illusion.
Every girl dreams of becoming a princess,
Or a Star. The ones with talent and the look
Need luck as well. Elizabeth Short had none,
Achieving fame only in her gruesome death,
As did Virginia Rappe, Arbuckle's victim.
Their tragedies churned headlines, as did yours.
Your disillusion drove you to climb to the top
Of a landmark letter on the Tinseltown hillside,
From which you jumped, unaware of the offer
Of a lead role that had been mailed to you.
Your body lay shattered at the base of the "H,"
A lifeless blonde-haired, blue-eyed doll
Without a name, just the initials "P. E."
On the note that finally led your uncle to you.
Hollywoodland is a cruel town still, Peg.
Casting couch lizards seduce with promises,
Booze and drugs, then abandon you for fresh prey.
Innocence hardens to toughness too quickly.
Perhaps you let go of your dream too soon, Peg,
But what of we who've clung to ours for too long?
Those of us who jealously hug our dreams
Should erect a monument on your unmarked grave,
Perhaps a kneeling angel with drooping wings,
Its anguished face gazing up at the sky
As if to question God, or implore his forgiveness.
Let your gravesite become the place of pilgrimage
Where we can bring our unattainable goals,
Unaccomplished deeds and unfufilled desires,
Those wilted bouquets that flowered in our youth,
To lay them down before you as we let go of them.
What if Wile E. Coyote had Caught the Road-Runner
He seemingly was able to stretch
Beyond himself with a sudden lunge
To grab that smart-aleck bird's throat.
Its terrified eyes bulged outward
As he twisted its neck.
"Snap!"
And it was over.
No longer would he ever have to listen to
That annoying "beep-beep, beep-beep."
He strutted proudly home
With the carcass slung over his shoulder,
Flopping it onto the kitchen counter
For his wife to pluck and prepare.
The dinner was a disappointment;
The meat tendon and muscle,
Tough as the pads of feet
That have run on asphalt all their life.
Yip and Yap, their two pups
Complained so loudly
That his wife made a phone call
To have a pepperoni pizza delivered.
That evening his old lady gave him "that look."
He glanced up as if he could sense
An anvil plummeting down toward his head.
"That look," was always a preamble to her
Next suggestion. "Let's sit down and talk."
Such talks always presaged some serious matter
Such as another pregnancy
Or bills that were past due.
"I've been patient while you pursued your goal,"
She began, "I've worked full-time,
Basically raised the pups by myself
While you were out somewhere doing your own thing,
Wasting your life chasing that damned bird.
Don't you think it's time you took a job that pays,
That puts better meat on our table
Than that gristly carcass you dragged home today.
You know, I have my own dreams too.
Oprah says that a woman shouldn't let marraige
And family obligations
Stand in her way of realizing them.
Here," she said, handing him a folded newspaper.
He got that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach,
A feeling similar to the time when he'd just run off the edge
Of a cliff, his momentum still keeping him aloft
For an instant before gravity pulls him down.
She'd circled an ad in the Help Wanted section.
"Look," she pointed. "Acme is hiring.
Third shift, but the job pays well.
You've got a lot of experience
Working with Acme products."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He's been with Acme for seven years now.
"Lucky seven," he muses sardonically.
He started on the loading dock.
He's worked his way up to lead man
On the line that cranks out
Acme's boxing glove in a jack-in-the-box.
A couple of years ago management called him in
And told him, politely but firmly
That he'd related his stories
About his pursuit of the Road-Runner
Far too often, and that nobody cared anymore.
His wife gave junior college a try,
But just couldn't handle the course load.
She's back working at the "Stop & Sniff" again.
His life has become a coyote-ugly existance
That he can't escape by gnawing his leg off.
Now, when he steps out onto the loading dock
For a smoke, and to gaze wistfully up at the moon
That he used to sit on the hill and howl at,
He again hears that faint echo of a "beep-beep."
Feelings of despair suddenly overwhelm him.
He knows now that it's happiness that's eluded him,
And he'll never get another chance to pursue it.
Beyond himself with a sudden lunge
To grab that smart-aleck bird's throat.
Its terrified eyes bulged outward
As he twisted its neck.
"Snap!"
And it was over.
No longer would he ever have to listen to
That annoying "beep-beep, beep-beep."
He strutted proudly home
With the carcass slung over his shoulder,
Flopping it onto the kitchen counter
For his wife to pluck and prepare.
The dinner was a disappointment;
The meat tendon and muscle,
Tough as the pads of feet
That have run on asphalt all their life.
Yip and Yap, their two pups
Complained so loudly
That his wife made a phone call
To have a pepperoni pizza delivered.
That evening his old lady gave him "that look."
He glanced up as if he could sense
An anvil plummeting down toward his head.
"That look," was always a preamble to her
Next suggestion. "Let's sit down and talk."
Such talks always presaged some serious matter
Such as another pregnancy
Or bills that were past due.
"I've been patient while you pursued your goal,"
She began, "I've worked full-time,
Basically raised the pups by myself
While you were out somewhere doing your own thing,
Wasting your life chasing that damned bird.
Don't you think it's time you took a job that pays,
That puts better meat on our table
Than that gristly carcass you dragged home today.
You know, I have my own dreams too.
Oprah says that a woman shouldn't let marraige
And family obligations
Stand in her way of realizing them.
Here," she said, handing him a folded newspaper.
He got that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach,
A feeling similar to the time when he'd just run off the edge
Of a cliff, his momentum still keeping him aloft
For an instant before gravity pulls him down.
She'd circled an ad in the Help Wanted section.
"Look," she pointed. "Acme is hiring.
Third shift, but the job pays well.
You've got a lot of experience
Working with Acme products."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He's been with Acme for seven years now.
"Lucky seven," he muses sardonically.
He started on the loading dock.
He's worked his way up to lead man
On the line that cranks out
Acme's boxing glove in a jack-in-the-box.
A couple of years ago management called him in
And told him, politely but firmly
That he'd related his stories
About his pursuit of the Road-Runner
Far too often, and that nobody cared anymore.
His wife gave junior college a try,
But just couldn't handle the course load.
She's back working at the "Stop & Sniff" again.
His life has become a coyote-ugly existance
That he can't escape by gnawing his leg off.
Now, when he steps out onto the loading dock
For a smoke, and to gaze wistfully up at the moon
That he used to sit on the hill and howl at,
He again hears that faint echo of a "beep-beep."
Feelings of despair suddenly overwhelm him.
He knows now that it's happiness that's eluded him,
And he'll never get another chance to pursue it.
At the Gravesite of Theodore Gericault
It comes across as inappropriate,
To me at least; no, not the romantic statue
Of the artist reclining atop his granite stone,
His soulful gaze modestly averted
As he thrusts his brush and palette toward us
As though presenting them as credentials,
As proof of his worthiness to be interred
In Pere Lachise, the cemetery of artists.
After all, this is in Paris, France,
Where an excesssive amount of conceit
Can be both expected and forgiven.
No, it's the bas-relief below the painter
That I object to, his "Raft of the Medusa,"
Reproduced in bronze, now oxidized to green,
As if shyly trying to shed its notoriety,
Drift away, and anchor amidst the lush foliage.
After the French frigate Medusa ran aground,
Close to a hundred fifty souls, those without clout,
Were jammed onto a raft made of masts and planking.
Rank and prestige had piled into the six lifeboats
Which first tried to tow the raft behind them,
But soom cut it loose, that umbilical cord
Of humanity that threatened their own survival.
After fifteen days, the strongest fifteen remained.
Soldiers and officers had been thrown overboard first,
Order and leadership jettisoned like moldy rations
As despair flexed its muscles and vented its anger
Upon the minions of the state that had betrayed them.
The weak and the wounded were next thrown overboard,
As they all had been, but without the pretense of a raft
As a salve for conscience. Maddened by thirst, heat
And hunger, those left finally resorted to cannibalism.
The painting depicts emaciated survivors
Frantically waving to attract a distant ship,
Waves rearing up behind them, hope illuminated
By an eerie storm-breaking light that frames
The raft in storm-bred shades of brown,
Surging seas soil-sodden from the sandbar,
Menacing clouds laden with Saharan dust;
Earthtones reaching out to engulf exhausted men
Poised between the ecstacy of deliverance
And the hopelessness of abandonment.
One wanders a cemetery seeking some solace,
Some life-affirmation amidst the marble tributes.
One looks for hope, some affirmation of God's love,
His mercy, his heaven, and perhaps immortality.
This artist's harrowing depiction of men
As evil and brutish beasts summon dark images
To intrude upon the stark stone finality of death.
Yes, this bas-relief is inappropriate here.
To me at least; no, not the romantic statue
Of the artist reclining atop his granite stone,
His soulful gaze modestly averted
As he thrusts his brush and palette toward us
As though presenting them as credentials,
As proof of his worthiness to be interred
In Pere Lachise, the cemetery of artists.
After all, this is in Paris, France,
Where an excesssive amount of conceit
Can be both expected and forgiven.
No, it's the bas-relief below the painter
That I object to, his "Raft of the Medusa,"
Reproduced in bronze, now oxidized to green,
As if shyly trying to shed its notoriety,
Drift away, and anchor amidst the lush foliage.
After the French frigate Medusa ran aground,
Close to a hundred fifty souls, those without clout,
Were jammed onto a raft made of masts and planking.
Rank and prestige had piled into the six lifeboats
Which first tried to tow the raft behind them,
But soom cut it loose, that umbilical cord
Of humanity that threatened their own survival.
After fifteen days, the strongest fifteen remained.
Soldiers and officers had been thrown overboard first,
Order and leadership jettisoned like moldy rations
As despair flexed its muscles and vented its anger
Upon the minions of the state that had betrayed them.
The weak and the wounded were next thrown overboard,
As they all had been, but without the pretense of a raft
As a salve for conscience. Maddened by thirst, heat
And hunger, those left finally resorted to cannibalism.
The painting depicts emaciated survivors
Frantically waving to attract a distant ship,
Waves rearing up behind them, hope illuminated
By an eerie storm-breaking light that frames
The raft in storm-bred shades of brown,
Surging seas soil-sodden from the sandbar,
Menacing clouds laden with Saharan dust;
Earthtones reaching out to engulf exhausted men
Poised between the ecstacy of deliverance
And the hopelessness of abandonment.
One wanders a cemetery seeking some solace,
Some life-affirmation amidst the marble tributes.
One looks for hope, some affirmation of God's love,
His mercy, his heaven, and perhaps immortality.
This artist's harrowing depiction of men
As evil and brutish beasts summon dark images
To intrude upon the stark stone finality of death.
Yes, this bas-relief is inappropriate here.
Ethan Allen on his Deathbed
The old blasphemer was dying.
His physician knew that there was no hope
Of recovery short of a miracle
For a man who believed in none,
But as a Christian, he felt it his duty
To try to bring the sinner to Jesus.
The dying man had once been a hero.
He and his Green Mountain Boys
Had wrested Ticonderoga,
The most formidable fort on the continent,
From its surprised British garrison.
The doctor donned a look of concern
That he hoped would also convey
The compassion of a merciful God
As he entered the dying man's bedroom.
What a coup it would be to wrest his soul
From Satan's claws with a deathbed conversion.
What luster it would add to his own reputation;
The man who pulled Ethan Allen from darkness.
"General, I fear the Angels are waiting for you,"
He piously intoned, his hands clasped
In front of his belt buckle as if in prayer.
The old patriot glared up at him,
Then mustered up his remaining strength
And angrily retorted,
"Waiting are they?
Waiting are they?
Well, goddam 'em
Let 'em wait!"
His physician knew that there was no hope
Of recovery short of a miracle
For a man who believed in none,
But as a Christian, he felt it his duty
To try to bring the sinner to Jesus.
The dying man had once been a hero.
He and his Green Mountain Boys
Had wrested Ticonderoga,
The most formidable fort on the continent,
From its surprised British garrison.
The doctor donned a look of concern
That he hoped would also convey
The compassion of a merciful God
As he entered the dying man's bedroom.
What a coup it would be to wrest his soul
From Satan's claws with a deathbed conversion.
What luster it would add to his own reputation;
The man who pulled Ethan Allen from darkness.
"General, I fear the Angels are waiting for you,"
He piously intoned, his hands clasped
In front of his belt buckle as if in prayer.
The old patriot glared up at him,
Then mustered up his remaining strength
And angrily retorted,
"Waiting are they?
Waiting are they?
Well, goddam 'em
Let 'em wait!"
Which Regret Will Become Your Cancer Cell?
The chance you didn't take; the move you wouldn't make
The rage you couldn't quell; a fear that made life hell;
A life-changing mistake; a heart you caused to ache;
The wage you didn't make; the thirst you couldn't slake.
Which regret will become your cancer cell?
The fling you never flung; the song you left unsung;
On which of these dashed dreams will your mind darkly dwell?
Wedlock's binding ties that too soon became unstrung
Or the "I love you" that died on the tip of your tongue.,
Which regret will become your cancer cell?
The poem you didn't write; the foe you failed to fight;
The setback you befell; the truth you dared not tell;
Some unforgiven slight; the wrong you wouldn't right;
Which of these will on your soul cast its blight?
Which regret will become your cancer cell?
Perhaps the friend in need that you failed to assist.
Of dark thoughts that lay seige to your mind's citadel
Such as lips never kissed; opportunities missed;
Which blunder will ball into a malignant cyst?
Which regret will become your cancer cell?
The rage you couldn't quell; a fear that made life hell;
A life-changing mistake; a heart you caused to ache;
The wage you didn't make; the thirst you couldn't slake.
Which regret will become your cancer cell?
The fling you never flung; the song you left unsung;
On which of these dashed dreams will your mind darkly dwell?
Wedlock's binding ties that too soon became unstrung
Or the "I love you" that died on the tip of your tongue.,
Which regret will become your cancer cell?
The poem you didn't write; the foe you failed to fight;
The setback you befell; the truth you dared not tell;
Some unforgiven slight; the wrong you wouldn't right;
Which of these will on your soul cast its blight?
Which regret will become your cancer cell?
Perhaps the friend in need that you failed to assist.
Of dark thoughts that lay seige to your mind's citadel
Such as lips never kissed; opportunities missed;
Which blunder will ball into a malignant cyst?
Which regret will become your cancer cell?
Whatever happened to Clyde Clifford?
"It was midnight on the sea,
the band was playing "Nearer My God to Thee."
Jamie Brockett, "The Legend of the Sinking of the USS Titanic"
Whatever happened to you, Clyde Clifford?
You were my midnight comfort, the disc jockey
With the voice that I wished my father had possessed,
A God-like voice, beaming through the heavens
On fifty thousand watts of AM power,
Reaching out to touch me like God to Adam
In Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel depiction.
You were no silent stone shibboleth
Or symbol of suffering and death on a cross.
Your voice was that of an understanding parent.
Your Beaker Street program was my church,
Your playlist my hymnal and the lyrics my gospels.
I felt that I could trust you and turned to you for solace
During nights when music seemed my only friend.
"And where was God!!!"
The Guess Who, "Friends of Mine"
I guess he dwells at K double A Y now.
Fifty thousand watts of wonder-working power
Blasting Holy Roller religion across the Midwest.
Divine sustenance, the grits and collards of God's glory
Served along with a jug of his fiery wrath.
"Give me that old time religion,"
If it's good enough for rednecks,
If it's good enough for rednecks,
If it's good enough for rednecks,
"It's good enough for me."
The word of the Lord has driven the old hippies
From their Little Rock radio station,
Banishing them like demons,
Pulling the plug on their devil music.
Did you put up much of a fight, Mr. Clifford,
Before they drove you away as well?
"The Revolution Will Not Be Televised."
Gil Scott-Heron
The images of flower power have withered.
Bill and Hillary were part of our generation.
Did you watch with bitter disappointment, Clyde,
As Hillary discarded Chomsky and army fatigues
For power suits and a seat on Wal-Mart's board?
Or When Bill threw it all away to chase cheap bimbos?
The revolution doesn't play on Clear-Channel radio,
And you'll see nothing controversial on Murdoch TV.
The Great Society has been sold out by politicians
Who've peddled their influence and votes
In return for corporate campaign contributions.
Politicians who've sold us into minimum wage slavery;
Why should we matter to them? They've got theirs.
"We want the world and we want it.....NOW!"
The Doors, "When the Music's Over"
Were you able to grab your piece of the world, Clyde,
When the opportunity to do so still existed?
Or did corporate radio stick it to you when you got old,
Discarding you like Chapin's DeeJay in "W.O.L.D.?"
What are you doing with your life now, Clyde?
I'd hate to think of you having to
Supplement your Social Security by working
As a greeter in a Wal-Mart store. Having to chant
Their mind-rot inducing cheers in the morning,
Having to waste that wonderful voice of yours
Repeating, "Hello, welcome to Wal-Mart.
May I get you a cart?" Muttering
Just under your breath, "Fuck you, asshole."
"Feed your head....Feed your head!"
The Jefferson Airplane, "White Rabbit"
Margaret Burbridge, the astronomer, has stated
That 'human beings are made of stardust."
It's also said that radio waves never perish;
They travel, like light, through deepest space.
Wherever you are now, Mr. Clifford,
Whether your star has sparkled or has turned to dust,
It's nice to think of Beaker Street living on as
Your program beams out to faraway galaxies.
Perhaps, on some distant world, some sentient being
Has just taken a bite of a mamalanga root, savored its juices
And felt a rush of divine insight explode in his mind
Before he passed it on to a friend. He's saying
"Turn your antennae just a bit this way and listen to this."
His friend lets his mind run with the music for a time
before he passes the root back to his buddy.
Impressed, he utters his language's equivalent of
"Yeah, man. That's some really good shit."
It was, Clyde. Peace.
And....Thanks.
"
the band was playing "Nearer My God to Thee."
Jamie Brockett, "The Legend of the Sinking of the USS Titanic"
Whatever happened to you, Clyde Clifford?
You were my midnight comfort, the disc jockey
With the voice that I wished my father had possessed,
A God-like voice, beaming through the heavens
On fifty thousand watts of AM power,
Reaching out to touch me like God to Adam
In Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel depiction.
You were no silent stone shibboleth
Or symbol of suffering and death on a cross.
Your voice was that of an understanding parent.
Your Beaker Street program was my church,
Your playlist my hymnal and the lyrics my gospels.
I felt that I could trust you and turned to you for solace
During nights when music seemed my only friend.
"And where was God!!!"
The Guess Who, "Friends of Mine"
I guess he dwells at K double A Y now.
Fifty thousand watts of wonder-working power
Blasting Holy Roller religion across the Midwest.
Divine sustenance, the grits and collards of God's glory
Served along with a jug of his fiery wrath.
"Give me that old time religion,"
If it's good enough for rednecks,
If it's good enough for rednecks,
If it's good enough for rednecks,
"It's good enough for me."
The word of the Lord has driven the old hippies
From their Little Rock radio station,
Banishing them like demons,
Pulling the plug on their devil music.
Did you put up much of a fight, Mr. Clifford,
Before they drove you away as well?
"The Revolution Will Not Be Televised."
Gil Scott-Heron
The images of flower power have withered.
Bill and Hillary were part of our generation.
Did you watch with bitter disappointment, Clyde,
As Hillary discarded Chomsky and army fatigues
For power suits and a seat on Wal-Mart's board?
Or When Bill threw it all away to chase cheap bimbos?
The revolution doesn't play on Clear-Channel radio,
And you'll see nothing controversial on Murdoch TV.
The Great Society has been sold out by politicians
Who've peddled their influence and votes
In return for corporate campaign contributions.
Politicians who've sold us into minimum wage slavery;
Why should we matter to them? They've got theirs.
"We want the world and we want it.....NOW!"
The Doors, "When the Music's Over"
Were you able to grab your piece of the world, Clyde,
When the opportunity to do so still existed?
Or did corporate radio stick it to you when you got old,
Discarding you like Chapin's DeeJay in "W.O.L.D.?"
What are you doing with your life now, Clyde?
I'd hate to think of you having to
Supplement your Social Security by working
As a greeter in a Wal-Mart store. Having to chant
Their mind-rot inducing cheers in the morning,
Having to waste that wonderful voice of yours
Repeating, "Hello, welcome to Wal-Mart.
May I get you a cart?" Muttering
Just under your breath, "Fuck you, asshole."
"Feed your head....Feed your head!"
The Jefferson Airplane, "White Rabbit"
Margaret Burbridge, the astronomer, has stated
That 'human beings are made of stardust."
It's also said that radio waves never perish;
They travel, like light, through deepest space.
Wherever you are now, Mr. Clifford,
Whether your star has sparkled or has turned to dust,
It's nice to think of Beaker Street living on as
Your program beams out to faraway galaxies.
Perhaps, on some distant world, some sentient being
Has just taken a bite of a mamalanga root, savored its juices
And felt a rush of divine insight explode in his mind
Before he passed it on to a friend. He's saying
"Turn your antennae just a bit this way and listen to this."
His friend lets his mind run with the music for a time
before he passes the root back to his buddy.
Impressed, he utters his language's equivalent of
"Yeah, man. That's some really good shit."
It was, Clyde. Peace.
And....Thanks.
"
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Courtiers of Time
You courtiers of time pay it homage
So slavishly, like fawning sycophants
Competing for a powerful Lord's favor.
Your eyes lock on the movement of its hands
Like a dog's when its master holds a bone
Aloft to tease it. Pitiless as age,
Cloaked in the lean and hungry numerals
Of Rome, the voice of time, stern as old Cato
Demanding the destruction of Carthage,
Issues its decrees from our cottage walls.
Securely enthroned, it mandates we march
Like soldiers to its strict martial cadence.
My mind plots coup d'etats to overthrow
The tyrannical regime of the clock.
Yet daily I pay it assidious court
And lock my movements to its gravity
As though it's my sun and I a planet
Tied to it in a never-changing orbit.
When the chimes toll, I go where they bid me,
For I too, am a courtier of time.
So slavishly, like fawning sycophants
Competing for a powerful Lord's favor.
Your eyes lock on the movement of its hands
Like a dog's when its master holds a bone
Aloft to tease it. Pitiless as age,
Cloaked in the lean and hungry numerals
Of Rome, the voice of time, stern as old Cato
Demanding the destruction of Carthage,
Issues its decrees from our cottage walls.
Securely enthroned, it mandates we march
Like soldiers to its strict martial cadence.
My mind plots coup d'etats to overthrow
The tyrannical regime of the clock.
Yet daily I pay it assidious court
And lock my movements to its gravity
As though it's my sun and I a planet
Tied to it in a never-changing orbit.
When the chimes toll, I go where they bid me,
For I too, am a courtier of time.
Remember Me Then
Like fruit that's plucked too soon, I'm too bitter.
Set me upon the windowsill awhile.
Let me ripen beneath a woman's smile,
And through the pane we'll both view the glitter
Of dew upon the grass, the colorful blaze
Of autumn leaves, and their gentle flitter
To earth that follows frost-etched fall mornings.
Remember me then as fruit crushed to wine
To warm your heart anon, as now you do mine.
Set me upon the windowsill awhile.
Let me ripen beneath a woman's smile,
And through the pane we'll both view the glitter
Of dew upon the grass, the colorful blaze
Of autumn leaves, and their gentle flitter
To earth that follows frost-etched fall mornings.
Remember me then as fruit crushed to wine
To warm your heart anon, as now you do mine.
Burn the Quoran!
"These flames...light up a new era...Spirits are awakening
and oh, Century, it is a joy to live!"
Joseph Goebbels, spoken at the Nazi bookburning, 1933
Yeah, wallow in your fifteen minutes of fame,
Pastor Jones, revel in the attention
That the media is lavishing upon you,
Your lunatic-fringe church,
Your gun-totin redneck parishoners,
Your poor white trash concept of a God
That's moved you to burn the sand nigger bible.
It warn't too long ago that your local boys
Were burning crosses to intimidate blacks,
Another race they hate, but now you're hoisting it
In the name of the Lord God of bookburners.
Yeah, milk the talk show circuit, Pastor Jones.
Shake hands with Larry King, and flash that smug
Grand Inquisitor smirk of self-righteousness.
Besides hellfire, now you're brandishing a match
That might ignite a world conflagration.
It's little people like you who spark the wars;
Like the religious zealot who hoped to incite
A slave rebellion by taking Harper's Ferry,
The Serbian Nationalist who assassinated
Archduke Ferdinand and wife at Sarajevo,
The bitter former corporal who blamed the Jews
For his country's betrayal and his poverty.
Yeah, you'll milk the publicity for all its worth,
Pastor Jones, make a few converts who feel kinship
With your toxic brand of hate-infused religion.
You'll make a few bucks too, you shit-stirring phony.
That's really what this is all about, isn't it?
Sadly, it may be our troops, or innocent civilians
Who might give their lives for your blood money,
As Muslim extremists, as hate-inspired as yourself,
Respond to your misguided act of provocation.
When you start a fire using bigotry as kindling,
It's likely to flare up and get away from you.
"The past is lying in flames. The future will rise
from the flames, within our hearts."
Joseph Goebbels, spoken at the Nazi bookburning, 1933
and oh, Century, it is a joy to live!"
Joseph Goebbels, spoken at the Nazi bookburning, 1933
Yeah, wallow in your fifteen minutes of fame,
Pastor Jones, revel in the attention
That the media is lavishing upon you,
Your lunatic-fringe church,
Your gun-totin redneck parishoners,
Your poor white trash concept of a God
That's moved you to burn the sand nigger bible.
It warn't too long ago that your local boys
Were burning crosses to intimidate blacks,
Another race they hate, but now you're hoisting it
In the name of the Lord God of bookburners.
Yeah, milk the talk show circuit, Pastor Jones.
Shake hands with Larry King, and flash that smug
Grand Inquisitor smirk of self-righteousness.
Besides hellfire, now you're brandishing a match
That might ignite a world conflagration.
It's little people like you who spark the wars;
Like the religious zealot who hoped to incite
A slave rebellion by taking Harper's Ferry,
The Serbian Nationalist who assassinated
Archduke Ferdinand and wife at Sarajevo,
The bitter former corporal who blamed the Jews
For his country's betrayal and his poverty.
Yeah, you'll milk the publicity for all its worth,
Pastor Jones, make a few converts who feel kinship
With your toxic brand of hate-infused religion.
You'll make a few bucks too, you shit-stirring phony.
That's really what this is all about, isn't it?
Sadly, it may be our troops, or innocent civilians
Who might give their lives for your blood money,
As Muslim extremists, as hate-inspired as yourself,
Respond to your misguided act of provocation.
When you start a fire using bigotry as kindling,
It's likely to flare up and get away from you.
"The past is lying in flames. The future will rise
from the flames, within our hearts."
Joseph Goebbels, spoken at the Nazi bookburning, 1933
Bill Fisher's Home Was Egged Again
From my earliest memory, this gentle man,
Stooped and grey now, has lived next door with his cats.
As young teens, we'd hide and yell out "Swishy Fishy!"
Tossing eggs at his house, or bombarding it
With the rotten excess of a rich fall harvest
Became a rite of passage for us neighbor boys,
Our chance to flex our budding manliness
By taunting a man whom we viewed as less of one;
Trying to banish our own sexual insecurity
With each splatter of old produce upon his siding.
This fisher of men though, was a better man
Than we were. Always forgiving, always there
With a wave or a kind word, even if he suspected
Our complicity in his home's vandalism.
Bill Fisher's home was egged again last night,
Hanging baskets ripped down, their dirt mingling
With the pink petal tears shed upon his sidewalk.
I'm heading over there with a pail of soapy water,
Some rags, and a couple bags of potting soil.
I've a friend to assist now, and old sins to expiate.
Stooped and grey now, has lived next door with his cats.
As young teens, we'd hide and yell out "Swishy Fishy!"
Tossing eggs at his house, or bombarding it
With the rotten excess of a rich fall harvest
Became a rite of passage for us neighbor boys,
Our chance to flex our budding manliness
By taunting a man whom we viewed as less of one;
Trying to banish our own sexual insecurity
With each splatter of old produce upon his siding.
This fisher of men though, was a better man
Than we were. Always forgiving, always there
With a wave or a kind word, even if he suspected
Our complicity in his home's vandalism.
Bill Fisher's home was egged again last night,
Hanging baskets ripped down, their dirt mingling
With the pink petal tears shed upon his sidewalk.
I'm heading over there with a pail of soapy water,
Some rags, and a couple bags of potting soil.
I've a friend to assist now, and old sins to expiate.
Albert Woolson's Last Christmas Parade
Albert Woolson, the last survivor of the
2,200,000 man Union army, died in Duluth,
Minnesota, in 1956, aged 106
I remember seeing you during your last
Christmas City of the North Parade;
You wore your stocking cap pulled down,
Bundled snugly in winter coat and muffler,
Wrapped securely, like a fragile package
Encased in styrofoam and strapping tape.
Every precaution that could be taken had been
Against a bone-chilling November damp
That could summon lung congestion.
As the car that bore your venerable burden
Rolled slowly down Superior Street,
My father called my attention to you.
"There goes the last of the boys in blue.
Imagine. That man fought in the Civil War."
The mittened hand of a very ancient man
Waved feebly out from the rolled-down window.
I shrugged.
More interested in marching bands, the floats,
The Shriners on their fun little motorcycles.
I could've almost reached out to touch
The hand of the Army of the Cumberland,
Gazed into eyes that wept when Lincoln was shot.
Talk of degrees of seperation; I was just a few feet
Removed from a soldier who by his longevity
Had become a symbol of the Republic's Grand Army.
Indifferent though, to the history rolling past me,
I turned my five year old attention span instead
To the clowns who were passing out candy
As they cavorted along the parade route.
2,200,000 man Union army, died in Duluth,
Minnesota, in 1956, aged 106
I remember seeing you during your last
Christmas City of the North Parade;
You wore your stocking cap pulled down,
Bundled snugly in winter coat and muffler,
Wrapped securely, like a fragile package
Encased in styrofoam and strapping tape.
Every precaution that could be taken had been
Against a bone-chilling November damp
That could summon lung congestion.
As the car that bore your venerable burden
Rolled slowly down Superior Street,
My father called my attention to you.
"There goes the last of the boys in blue.
Imagine. That man fought in the Civil War."
The mittened hand of a very ancient man
Waved feebly out from the rolled-down window.
I shrugged.
More interested in marching bands, the floats,
The Shriners on their fun little motorcycles.
I could've almost reached out to touch
The hand of the Army of the Cumberland,
Gazed into eyes that wept when Lincoln was shot.
Talk of degrees of seperation; I was just a few feet
Removed from a soldier who by his longevity
Had become a symbol of the Republic's Grand Army.
Indifferent though, to the history rolling past me,
I turned my five year old attention span instead
To the clowns who were passing out candy
As they cavorted along the parade route.
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