Sunday, March 31, 2024

Poem: Bedsheets

 

Bedsheets

 

lovers

engendered this topology,

wrestling earthquakes

over a quilt of worlds.

 

passions

writhed, pressed, bumped,

climaxed, caressed,

hidden as magma at first,

only to roil the cottony shale.

 

they engraved Rodin’s thinker

into fibonacci-less ridges of sheet,

then littered him at the gates of hell,

rumpled and tossed from fitful hips.

 

what a gift,

 

this tension of pent-up dreams,

released in a dishevel of wormholes,

to embrace the bliss of shangri-la

after months of doubts and moods--

 

finally

every nook of blanket full of smiles,

delight at its best.




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









3/31 ... changed title to "Bedsheets" from "Unmade Bed"

Friday, March 29, 2024

Poem: Orange In the Desert

 

Orange In the Desert

 

squashed by internal rot,

glaucous from mildew,

 

it played a solar role

three days ago, perched

on a raku plate

next to kiwis, guavas

raspberries and mangos.

 

“these orbit the orange’s Ra,”

blurbed the artist, canting

toward their latest gouache

on slate.

 

next day they sped south,

inhaled coke and wine,

impaled the kiwis

on a saguaro,

 

smashed the guavas

against a trilobyte,

danced on the mangos

with sharp heels,

threw the raspberries

into bat goop—

 

left the orange on grey stone

to be excoriated by the sun.




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




Monday, March 25, 2024

Poem: Panther, Lion, Wolf

 

Panther, Lion, Wolf

 

under pitiless stars,

crickets desperate of chirr,

i wandered forks of branches

though a thicket without hope,

ripe with antediluvian pain.

 

witnessed, blamed,

moon-luminous within the thorns,

i had left the city’s squirmy flesh,

a procession of shadows now,

slunk to mourn,

wilting into the circled dungeon below.

 

and as they drained

through that vertical Grate,

crime by crime,

 

eyes accused them from the dark,

blazoned as the six buttons

on the coat i had worn,

showier than all the gold

counted and coffered.






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3/26... edits for clarity etc etc etc

Dantean theme from Canto I

Genocide continues in Gaza

 Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez makes the case that it is, yes, genocide, that is taking place in Gaza.  See her interview with Jake Tapper on CNN  (starting at 5:25 or so):


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=szU9lofyoS4  


I've already written on this absolute horror a few times and I will probably write more.  It is disgusting that Joe Biden is supplying weapons to Israel.  The Gazan people are forced to eat grass, and fight each other for food, while headed for utter starvation.  Many other atrocities are taking place as well.  The homes and communites have been razed, the people herded into a tiny corner of Gaza, so much more:


https://owlwholaughs.blogspot.com/2023/12/op-ed-biden-is-wrong-to-support.html


Tell Biden to stop supporting Netanyahu/Israel.  This monumental Evil will come back to damn us here in the USA.  But the main reason to speak up is not a selfish one--it is simply to challenge Evil and be part of the cosmic Good (which transcends any one religion, just as Evil does, too)


OWL

Thursday, March 21, 2024

Poem: Icy Evolution (triggering)

 

Icy Evolution

 

icy evolution.

humans enslaved their kind

and said it was okay

for thousands of years;

 

and scholars defend them still,

our species so young, after all,

barely cutting its teeth on

an epoch or two;

 

how could the slavers know?

and the scholars go on

 

to blame the fool of phylogeny,

and tut-tut ‘mother nature,’

if only ‘she’ weren’t so fond of ants and wolves

and their cruel ways;

 

it’s in our mitochondria,

and splitting hairs about means and ends

is something that should be left

for bad hairdresser days.

 

i look into the eyes of said scholars

and watch daylight

disappear down their pupils,

as if to follow tentacles of biology,

 

back to some irrefutable kraken.

 

but really there's nothing there,

only the fake surface up top,

that altar of ignorance,

vanity unwilling to thaw.

 

 

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


3/22 ... smoothing edits everywhere... 



3/21 ...

This poem concerns a debate in ethics:  are people in the past blameworthy for, say, committing slavery, or were they just products of their culture?  Today, more and more, we are assigning blame to some historical figures, like Thomas Jefferson.  But how far back should we go? What about Christopher Columbus?  Columbus seems to be losing his holiday.  What about the Roman empire?  Are they to blame for enslaving others?  

This poem, actually, was originally about rape. You can see that version below.  But I thought that the poem in this version, with rape as the specificed evil, might be received very differently by whatever puny audience I have for this blog.  My reasoning on this is as follows:  we are still today more likely, as a civilization, to countenance rape than we are slavery.  Despite rape being considered a horrific crime, like slavery, sexual harrassment and assault of over half the human population goes on everywhere at epidemic levels, and relatively few perpetrators are brought to justice.   

Maybe future humans will look back at us and say we are not to blame for our toleration of so much abuse of over half the human population.  Why?  Because our culture is primitive.  It is similar to how today some scholars say that the Roman Empire's culture was primitive, and so they are not to blame for committing slavery.

But I think the opposite.  If humans do exist in the future, it will be because our ethics technology has evolved to a much higher level, enough to overcome the threat of tyrants and war.  Future humans will see us as people who are deservedly labeled as blameworthy for our wicked, cruel acts such a rape.  

I agree with this line of thinking.  We are not innocent because our culture is primitive.  We deserve condemnation.  We know sexism is wrong, as we know racism is wrong, and oppression, in general .   But we continue to oppress.  

Another issue is the torture of animals, such as pigs, in factory farms.  We do this casually and continuously in our culture.  Again, future generations will say we are blameworthy, even though it is built into our culture so completely that most of us don't even think about it, the torture of these animals, and when we do, it is quicky overridden by habit.

In general, humans conform far too much to evil standards when they have the ability to see in their heart that what they are doing is wrong by a simple, ancient measure, the Golden Rule:  Do to others as you would them to you.

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




Icy Evolution

 

icy evolution.

men raped women

and said it was okay

for thousands of years;

 

and scholars defend them still,

our species so young, after all,

barely cutting its teeth on

an epoch or two;

 

how could the rapists know?

and the scholars go on

 

to blame the fool of phylogeny,

and tut-tut ‘mother nature,’

if only ‘she’ weren’t so fond of ants and wolves

and their cruel ways;

 

it’s in our mitochondria,

and splitting hairs about means and ends

is something that should be left

for bad hairdresser days.

 

i look into the eyes of said scholars

and watch daylight

disappear down their pupils,

as if to follow tentacles of biology,

 

back to some irrefutable kraken,

 

but really there's nothing there,

only the fake surface up top,

that altar of ignorance,

vanity unwilling to thaw.


==========



Until 1975, every state in the nation considered a husband’s rape of his wife an exception to its rape laws. Legal codes of the time either defined rape as a man having non-consensual sexual intercourse with a “woman not his wife” or defined the victim of the offense to exclude the wife of the actor

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/making-sense-chaos/202005/the-bizarre-legal-loopholes-surrounding-spousal-rape


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













 

Wednesday, March 20, 2024

Poem: Wand

 

 

Wand 

 

a ladle stirs silver

till stars feed the bubble of dawn;

a crescent in a whirlpool’s navel,

when fire bleeds onyx

for radiant blooms.

 

down, down, down plummets the moon,

nowhere except back up again,

to conduct leaf and beast, earth and flesh,

passion, air and rain,

this fitful baton of the mercurial stage

 

whose actors babble and seethe,

wander and cry through a gauntlet

of transformations, scene after act

after play, curtains of light and lack and love,

cut and birthed and gone.




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




















All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.  They have their exits and their entrances; and one soul in its time plays many parts.  As You Like It, Shakespeare

Saturday, March 16, 2024

Poem: Touched

 

Touched

 

fingerprints of god,

spiderwebs

sun-gilded and shadow-pinched,

 

tatterdemlions in some,

others

an impeccable piety of lace.

 

to walk alongside

these irregular trestles,

each an orb-weaver’s pearl,

 

invokes joy and abyss,

the sinister and the seraphic;

and as well a manic curiosity:

 

why such a bright trap

placed just so? 

why endow a wing-catcher

 

right here. 

and there.

and here …





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








...3/26 ... "trestles" replaces "trestleworks"  

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Poem: Arthritic

 

Arthritic

 

a splitting, stabbing branch

through fissures and crooks.

fireworks inflame muscle,

pain’s puppet show,

conducted by sparks of nervous system. 

tophus on toe, joints hobbled,

karma’s ridicule,

shunned by angels,

sins seep through winces.

where is god?

does hell even care?

‘what did i do??’

a vise irremovable,

invisible and callous,

heartless of judgement,

stranding the victim

solo.




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



























Off to get an MRI today.

"solo" instead of "alone," offers a little psychic hope, a potential for beauty and a 'making music' out of misery.   Meaning in pain.  Confrontation with 'god.'


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

Friday, March 8, 2024

Poem: Unchiselled

 

Unchiselled

 

a sparrow curls to die,

while the people know only fear.

knees bow to sterile priests,

quickly to heavenize death.

 

fragile bones kiss

a dwindle of sinews

yet ants banquet

among the feathery slips.

 

in the graveyard

vaults project defiance,

slabbed stone isles,

lone bulwarks of peace.

 

the sparrow’s last breath

forsook its breast

 to soar whirling once more 

among the everything,


this cauldron of life.




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


 










3/10 ... "quickly" replaces "quick"  ... removed "into" ln 11

Tuesday, March 5, 2024

Poem: Price

 

Price

 

fed up

with the unwillingness

of society,

 

i fed the verbal robotics

to an owl

 

and found it was possible

to look without lying,

 

but only

in a flash pan of sobs. 

 

the charge was the slavery

of my heart,

 

though it wasn’t as if justice

offered the sweet breasts

of a muse. 

 

no.

 

it stood on chilly street corners,

wet and detested

by the sirens that came.




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



















Imagine making the decision, as a citizen in Russia, to protest loudly against Putin.  That would end up far worse than what happens to the person in this poem (?); but the person in this poem is also cast out, like a prophet who will never be heard, and who knows no god is going to enforce justice, and the world is ... just going to be this.  A world run by the Putins and the Trumps and the Xis.  Keep your head down.  And shut up.  Billions of humans have had to learn this lesson.  Billions and billions for over ten thousand years of civilization.  Shut up or die or worse.  But the person in the poem refuses.  The person in this poem is a fool or maybe something more, depending on your point of view.    

Monday, March 4, 2024

Poem: Here

 

Here

 

playfunless of light,

a skitter and scatter,

dapples atumble,

alert beyond lesson,

quick as a wow,

beyond riches,

too valuable to possess

 

and so it is gone

sifted into the next,

each casual sense

a roll of sun and sparkle,

moon and speckle;

and here we are, you and i,

for the tiniest of infinite whiles

afloat.





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
















3/12 ... changed first two lines to remove 'ing' verbs .....

Saturday, March 2, 2024

Poem: Death Stroke

 

Death Stroke

 

a quake

rocked the depths of the how.

 

wrinkles of canyons,

victims of long-ago practice,

across the tableau of the brain.

 

an epitaph for duplicitous lips,

etched years before their death;

 

for the clay knew it was not innocent.

 

the original sculptor

turned subtle fingers into pliers of fate.

 

many years had been lost,

gone down those rutted roads,

specter-bound,

 

spade after spade after spade.

 

a multitude without vary,

much lack of rainbows

in the stygian mist.




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








3/4 ... took out a word

3/3/24...  added a word, removed one