Monday, August 15, 2022

Poem: To the Gods

 

To the Gods

 

i send trinkets of my life

in a basket of unloyal tears.

 

my armor of wounds,

more feeling than blood--

that i place first.

 

next i fold with care,

and tuck in place,

such brutalized truths:

 

those cities of cursed children,

whom i sobbed to invoke,

and yet never dared to see.

 

dawn’s ocean,

rain-voices of songful spring,

the sage aromas of chaparral,

and prism-sprinkled forests--

 

these go in.

 

i place an enduring kiss, too,

one that I received long since,

and yet it has healed me of decades.

 

finally a dandelion of sunlight,

and dances of joyous breeze.

 

the gods, they will not respond,

or even understand, i know,

this difficult gift.

 

but by offering,  i have some hope,

faint as an angel feather,

to forgive the gods.






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On first glance, this is one of the best poems I have ever written.  Of course, as is usual with such things, I am probably wrong.

Friday, August 12, 2022

Poem: Once More

 

Once More

 

to idolize the warmth

on the roof of the mouth,

while the rest of the body hides.

 

the tea drains lukewarm,

thick down a throat,

softened feathered phrases,

while a tarantula with arthritis

captures and scratches,

with pencil to bind.

 

a whole pot of earl  

passes through the urethra

before the writing is just okay. 

 

some of the words breathe, lissome,

nectarine with hope,

if not the verve of pleasure.

 

caffeine and steam, now dead,

unparalyze a tense drama,

releasing the tarantula.

 

fingers quibble with tremors, then,

whether to screw the thermos lid,

or whether like the brain

it is drained of purpose,

any last semblance of emotion--empty now. 

 

empty.

 

empty as a lake

that turned to sand

long before the first mammal cried.

 

eyes sizzle-fizzle,

moving zeros next to other zeros

under lids gone wild.




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Thursday, August 11, 2022

Poem: Last Call

 

Last Call

 

the upheaval of bliss in the elixir

massaged the world

with biochemical paws.

 

it was appealing, indeed,

this dearth of confusion

in a lack of tomorrowness--

 

the paychecks mere math,

without grace or art.

 

which up was up, really,

and why so much descent?

why kneel sad yet glib

before a magistrate of illusion?

 

but

 

if a lion ant lurked

in a toothpick-skewered olive,

it had to be a trap,

 

a smooth slide of sinking allure

in a funnel of gin.

 

maybe this eerie dizzy banquet

lacked euphoria, after all,

no longer steep,

 

neither seductive,

just along for the cab ride.




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8/15 corrected typo

Sunday, August 7, 2022

Poem: Haunted

 

Haunted

 

doors tilt to spin walls,

but the no-way-out victim-

hood shifts denials, no way

to get clean, this uninten-

tional roulette, to run

faster around corners in

more panic to achieve less, yes, 

you are the spin, the pill, the drug

in curves of halls that hunt

and yet still falter into mold, mirrors, yes,

it is you who must press your skele-

ton to your beating chest,

you who must not feel the bones,

none of the bared ugly,

zero pitfalls, no chance

to outchallenge the lurking

cellar of risk.

 


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Aug 15  ... added "yet"

Aug 7/22 ... minor changes hours after posting



 

Thursday, August 4, 2022

The White-ness and Male-ness of the GOP Sickness

 This image from the Washington Post today sums up the Republican prejudices and ignorances (self-defeating and country-destroying strategy).

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2022/08/04/dana-milbank-republican-destructionists-book-excerpt/





Monday, August 1, 2022

Poem: Before The Court

 

Before The Court

 

pleas of truth

before a caterwaul of lies.

 

against the bruxism of empire

to fight and declaim.

 

to cast logic out,

amid knives of buzzy scorn.

 

to argue that armies

slay hope in the name of freedom. 

 

to call out tyrants,

who salivate above drooling dogs.

 

to lament scared citizens,

whose rush erodes the very streets.

 

to acknowledge a rubbish of vagrants,

eyes as smoky as bullet casings.

 

to remark on the loyalty of altars

irrational of sacrifice,

 

and the loud fanatic arenas,

drunk with hate-thirsty grunts.

 

to dare kindness,

and deprive cruelty with love--

 

and, for such acts, to pay,

to be accused and entombed.

 

 

 

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August 12 more changes... 

August 5 "dare kindness" replaces "dare advance kindness"

August 2, structural changes for better flow

Friday, July 29, 2022

Poem: Her, Too

 

Her, Too

 

she spoke in a slaughtered language;

otherwise the audience forgot

the price of their good-natured front.

 

her effort was no doubt futile,

though perhaps tweaked a few wrinkles,

and salted some hairlines.


judged by the pale shadow

of many a buried bone,

white was the color of death.

 

whether on a proclamation,

treaty, deed, scalp-wanted poster,

or the robe below a missionary’s waist,


always white.

 

they listened, the audience,

but of course were innocent;

for their own whiteness

came from settlers beyond memory.

 

they watched her

with eyes as wide as the Earth:

a nod to the value of the land

and maybe a few trees.


there were no tears, of course,

even less the sort that carved a path

of exile and pain.  mostly 

what they saw was blue.


blue on white.




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Inspired by a guest speaker at UMM 

8/12  .. fixed second stanza

7/30/22 .. huge changes to flow and structure of poem

The Incredible Craziness of One Quarter of USA Citizens

 

At this point most political observers simply accept it as a fact of life that an overwhelming majority of Republicans accept the Big Lie that the 2020 election was stolen — a claim with nothing to support it, not even plausible anecdotes.

 

What I don’t think is fully appreciated, however, is that the Big Lie is embedded in an even bigger lie: the claim that the Democratic Party is controlled by radical leftists aiming to destroy America as we know it. And this lie in turn derives a lot of its persuasiveness from a grotesquely distorted view of what life is like in blue America.

 

The Dystopian Myths of Red America: [Op-Ed]

Krugman, Paul. 

New York Times, Late Edition (East Coast); New York, N.Y. [New York, N.Y]. 26 July 2022: A.22.

Sunday, July 24, 2022

Poem: Looking Up

 

Looking Up


night parades

its bouquet of lush cosmos.

 

a silver pistil ladles ocean,

sickles a slip of star.

 

my eyes humbled,

small as the merest trilobite. 

my heart the fossil of a rose.

 

these wild campfires of scattered universe

always melt the stone.

 

Earth itself borne intimate,

partnered to sail

on heavenly flame.




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7/25/22  "slip of star" replaces "streaking star"

7/24/22  multiple changes after poem goes up, within hours

Friday, July 22, 2022

Poem: Broom

 

Broom

 

flaxen bouquet

of robust leaping grass.

 

hips fluent over floor,

a swish of rosettes.

 

as lithe and sure

as svelte as swift.

 

stark in the corner, stoic

one moment,

 

hectic and topsy-turvy

the next.



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