Saturday, December 31, 2022

Poem: Bricks on Beach

 

Bricks on Beach

 

rolled like dough,

leavened by bubbly combers

and yeasty slaps of brine,

 

these scattered stashes 

of once-towered treasures

left over when prosperity caved.

 

sullen, pitted, wind-mocked,

not-so-modern now,

this plateau of the broken:


nuggets of castles, crushed idols,

eremites on weathered shards  

of barnacled piles.


a chartreuse crab

fat as a silver dollar

ambles over the stubs.

 

bladderwrack flogs them.

a pillory of gulls

swoops to berate.


ever so quiet,

a single pristine rectangle 

hides its rusty fame.




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6/20/24 ...edits


4/8 took  out an adjective

1/1/23  more changes later in the day ... 

1/1/23  massive changes to the crap awful poem

Tuesday, December 27, 2022

Poem: Fallen Pine Needles

 

Fallen Pine Needles

 

they were born incomplete,

and when they fell,

it wasn’t like Lucifer at all.

 

if some God noticed,

it was only to ensure that each needle

comprised its own pinnacle,

 

never to be higher

or seek victory greater

than a clue among splinters,

 

a fragment from some benighted Basket,

some ominous Ark.



=================================

Sunday, December 25, 2022

Still Here

 

Still Here


Six decades after the Cuban Missile Crisis, we had 2022.  It was a scary, pivotal year of comparable danger.  At stake was the fate of the world, determined by US elections.  If democracy had lost the vote, fascism would have risen, with the geopolitical balance teetering into darkness.

But the American people did not support the hate-cult worship of a tyrant.  Because of this, all of us, everywhere, have been given a gift this season, a certain hope:  that we are not necessarily doomed, that our better angels can prevail.

One prolific historian, speaking on a newscast (Jon Meacham, I believe), said that this is the most hopeful he has felt in six years.  The New York Times posted an article yesterday on the survival and surge of democracy:

 

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/12/24/us/politics/democracy-voters-elections-2022.html

 

From the article:

 

Whatever their reasons for voting against candidates who parroted Mr. Trump’s election claims, Republicans who did so often spoke of a more general estrangement from a party that had broadly turned those claims into a loyalty test — and of their distaste for both the party’s indulgence of Mr. Trump and of a no-holds-barred brand of politics that they said favors winning at all costs.

 

I never thought fascism could rise in my country, much less on the shoulders of a flagrantly despicable man.  No wolf in sheep’s clothing, just an obvious egotist of avarice and prejudice.  Despite his sadistic lack of morality, or perhaps because of it, he seemed a political juggernaut, someone who possessed the ability to obsess others, someone with the dark charisma of a Hitler.  One third of the American populace bowed down.

What I’ve learned of fascism, during this ugly six-year trial, is that it is an old strategy:  warlords with truthless loyalty tests.  It is what Plato sought to refute when he challenged Thrasymachus.  He argued that reason should govern, not an egomaniac who had turned a portion of the people into fawning worshippers, and cowed the rest with readily used swords.

Can reason govern, without being subverted by a demagogic monster?  That is the big question facing humanity in the 21st century.  It is tantamount to, “Will we survive?” 

The right to ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,’ based on the innate dignity of every person, is beautiful intellectual bedrock.  If such wisdom steers us, moving forward with honesty and integrity, a wonderful future awaits. 

Imagine robots that have been engineered with limitations, so that they have no capability to inflict hurt or harm.  Robots that promote happiness.  Contrast that with a different future, one where robots surveil and police us, robots that kill easily and swiftly, at the merciless whim of a paranoid warlord.

2022.  It was a huge test for democracy.  To quote Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, “We are still here.”  He made this announcement in February, right after the Russian army, under the iron-grip of a tyrant, invaded Ukraine to annex and assimilate it.  

Just a few days ago, Zelenskyy gave an historic speech to the US Congress.  Democracy still struggles onward in Ukraine.  And for now, it struggles onward here, in the United States, as well.



=================================

 

Saturday, December 24, 2022

Poem: Snow Melts Off Spruce

 

Snow Melts Off Spruce

 


Orphan Annie eyes

slip into grottos of one-armed bandits

who bob in wind;

silver coins, Charon's fare,

coruscant as they go,

not afraid to die like this,

to weep in fever,

sieved by the ribcage

of a silent forest.





=============================

Friday, December 23, 2022

Poem: St. Anthony's Fire

 

St Anthony’s Fire

 

a scream cuts through the dance,

begging the centrifugal fury to stop,

bellies braided into a jerk of snakes. 


and yet the danse macabre

yanks and twinges on,

until we are all as rotten as leaves

groping each others' dogeared yelps.

 

the holy fire lifts us,

bruised, clattered, lacerated, mangled, falling 

and we shriek as one sound,

locked in the torturous rigor mortis

 of our zealous conglomerate.

 



=================================














 anti-conformity poem, among other things, like nature's sheer cruelty

 

Tuesday, December 20, 2022

Poem: Right As It Gets

 

Right As It Gets

 

beneath a beautiful, blindfolded woman

cookie-cutter politicians 

gather votes by casting hate.


and yet to confront them is to suffer,

logic no defense.

which truth gets through

their hateful mindlock, one hell of a verbal wall?


will anything less than civil war do?


maybe the path is hidden 

somewhere in this torture-field of stupid, stubborn egos,

lying broken in some unlikely ditch?


no.

 

no one is going to find it,

the corpse of compromise lost.


the righteous politicians

are as right as it gets, always so right,

those firebranded fire-eaters,

those able stewards 

called to carry the divine torch 

through the very darkness they spread.


they are as right as it gets,

when their lies court lies

between and within hearts,


as right as it gets 

when they cultivate blame in dried-up gardens

brought about by a drought of compassion,

where they water the invidious soil

with the salt of their contempt,

and  their lickspittle ddrool.



======================================







6/20/24 ... mods . lots of mods

3/29 ... better poem now, more mods


3/24/23  ... major changes .. tried to take the confused POV out of the poem 

12/21 ... significant mods to the poem in the "stewards" stanza


Still grading papers... 

Friday, December 16, 2022

Lots of Grading

 I am grading lots and lots of papers, so can't get any poems up on this blog.  I work as an Adjunct Professor and am paid poverty-level wages.  By this, I mean, it is less than a living wage.  I have a PhD in my field, teach college students, and I make less than $15 an hour.  Right now, for instance, I am grading papers over eight hours a day, starting in the morning, ending around 10:00pm.  Then I start all over tomorrow.  It would take less time, if I limited my comments to the students.  But then I'm not doing the job I love with the quality of professorial engagement the students deserve.

I also don't get affordable healthcare from my employer, the University.  They want about $300 a month from me to pay for my own insurance.   The only medical insurance I have is catastrophic insurance through Obamacare.

The good news is that I find my job very meaningful.  I've also had time.  Time to write thousands of poems in my life.  And a novel.  And there is more planned.  This is my calling.  Even though I live in poverty now and it may get far worse.  

The USA needs to start treating its teachers better.   All teachers, except those at the very top, the tenured professors, are treated like dirt.  This when education is needed more than ever, as we move into a complex, tech-heavy, world-shaking future.


OWL


A victory for adjuncts at one university:


https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2022/12/13/new-school-adjuncts-strike-wages/

========================

Saturday, December 10, 2022

Poem: What It Was Like

 

What It Was Like

 

light sockets stare,

minimalist zombies,

 

unfazed by the zeal of a flower.

 

leaves

dance, blush, scurry or mope.

 

walls languish,

as continuous as they are anodyne.

 

a poem, written in such a home, 

is just a séance


conducted on the altar of the fake.

 

fugues of inky phantoms

who pretend to remember


what it was like to bloom,

or to fly.



==============================================












6/21/24 ... "fake" replaces "slain"


4/8/23 ... chopped off half the poem and reworked the rest.  Completely different, new title, etc.

12/12  "an altar" replaces "the altar"

Friday, December 9, 2022

Poem: Ant Sting

 

 

Ant Sting

 

an irksome sockful of ants

swells my ankle to realize that 

mandibles are the forerunners of war.

 

i curse

 

the unsoothing graveyard of sun above,

and the crumbly switchbacks below,

 

unappeased by tender whiffs of sage,

or summery musks of rosemary.

 

yes, i curse both sun and earth,

 

and too the loathsome nettles,

those phacelia and longspur,

projecting from every niche.

 

as if the drained soil 

were nothing but a chuckle of cracks

daring seeds and insects

to call its scorn their home.


... 

 

seeds and insects, yes,

decillions and decillions of them,

accreted and attrited over eons and eons

to stir a slow pot,

 

thus the genesis.  thus humanity.

 

i am kin of the arid proboscis,

consigned to the desert,

jealous and bitter,

stung more than i sting.

 

i fret and pinch, knowing full well 

that we human stole primordial secrets,

grew them into cities.



=======================================






6/21/24 ... heavy mods

12/10 ... lots of modifications to the second half.  brutal. 

Wednesday, December 7, 2022

Poem: Field Day

 

Field Day


meek the blushed green sighs,

harebells and heathers,

and the flirty banter of sparrows:

 

hundreds of honeyed natural notes

dim to dusk, serene

in the deep sunken hum

of a sunset cello.

 

seeds of moonlight

dissolve into lambent cymbals

on a strummed pond,

 

to effloresce, 

to glissando,

 

when night swells to enact lacewings

purple of anticipation,

whirrs and chirrs of a soft timpani,

 

so jubilant,

so susurral,

 

and such untethered flourishes

nebulous of firefly.




======================================











6/21/ 24 ... flow fixes


4/19/24 ... mods

Scottish meadow theme ... I think ... 

Friday, December 2, 2022

Poem: Unseasonal Xmas

 

Unseasonal Xmas

 

mutton clouds

wrap an eyeball of sun.

filet-white stare

which overlords the trapped sinews

of a meekening winter.

 

in the yard,

bleachers of half-flaxen stick figures,

icy, droopy, dirty,

heralds of translucent daze.

 

and the people 

bent in pews, offices, theaters, stores,

acquiescent in the humdrum,

suffering their unthoughtful poses,

their staid, forgettable gamuts.

 

it is, all of it, a blizzard of fallen wings.

a challenge match of sugarcoated angels,

laminate sundry ornaments

available at the dime store.

 

hope has been known to survive such fiascos,

half-starved and hurt,

braving one crevasse-like punchbowl, then the next,

amid the avalanches of fake smiles

and forced laughter.





=================================================








6/21/24 ... mods

1/6/23   "forced" replaces "fake"

12/4   switched positions of "false" and "fake" 

12/3   "ornaments" replaces "tchotchkes"

12/2 ... changed the prepositions in the "pews" stanza ...