Old Horth leaned heavily on his talking staff
Walking with the weight of years and worry
His 47 anos have not been kind to him, but he stays in good spirit
And now with the coming of the winter circle welcoming God’s gift
The return of the Sun cycle
Placing the twelf totem, the massive pillar on its way
With the markings from the water carriers, Zethines
Soon all twelve tribes from all of the villages and the outlying hunters
Would gather on the plane of the ancestors
Near the mouth of the creation delta
The Henge mounds have been tended
Meat and grain have been laid aside
His apprentices have been schooled
Why did this script need to raise its hairy head again?
Capturing speech in markings in the dirt
Tales are to be told
Symbols on a tablet will cause the People to worship the clay
Not listening to the stories of God
Horth had learned all of the speech symbols from his teacher, Gareth
Gareth had been a great warrior priest, keeper of the scared tales
Hunting the lion that attacked Arrack with Gareth is how Horth
Became lame
On that hunt in the dust while waiting out the lion in the hills
Is where Horth learned these symbols
Gareth convinced Horth that the People must not create this false God
Or God would surely punish the People
Horth promised Gareth
The lion circled back on the pair and took Gareth and Horth’s calf muscle
Before Horth could strike a fatal blow
Horth fingered his talking staff, feeling the mark for Gareth
The marks on the talking staff were just memory devices for stories
They were not the same as the marks in clay
Children played near the wall, kicking a goat-belly ball
It was always good to hear their laughter
The Mothers were meeting in the fire circle this evening
They would be planning the lineage, arraigning unions, determining education
The intermingling of tribal blood was essential
Girls and beardless boys would be given places within
A village’s walls
Horth needed to see to the completion of the pillar’s position
This new one would align with the winter’s setting sun
The calendar would be complete
The first of the three was for the rising of the summer’s sun
The last of the second three marked its setting
The first of the third three aligned with the rising winter sun
This last one would mark its setting
These sacred days set aside to worship God and to praise his
Creative power and our thanks for his gifts
The summer festival is for life and creation
The winter festival to mourn our dead and show the strong connection
To our ancestors
Horth’s talking staff handed down from tale keepers of the long past
Leads the People in worship and praise
He wanted Zontan to follow him, but that may not be God’s will
Zontan remains an enigma to old Horth
After checking on the proceedings for the Mother’s meeting
He will head down to the grove of trees during the evening’s breezy time
To listen to the whispered words
Friday, November 7, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
An Ancient Tale #135 (part 4)
Weasels and jackals were active tonight
Zontan and Uris could see the distant glow of the fire circle
Three full moon’s from tonight would be the winter’s end
A time for both putting the year’s dead to eternal rest
And when the Mother’s would select mates for the hunters
And farmers, toolmakers, priests, and others of each settlement of the People
The Mothers determine who we are; the Fathers what
Zontan had avoided Bibe’s choices, so far
He was well past the time for starting a family
Even Uris had fathered two children by Bethe
They were fatherless now, but the Mothers would take up their care
The People’s tradition of the line determined by the mother
There were twelve settlements, descendents of the twelve daughters of Orb
Soon all would be walled villages along the river
Sumer’s wall was nearly finished and all of the stilled homes
Would be abandoned
Quetin was not comfortable about leaving his family home
He enjoyed the solace of living on the edge of the river and village
Near his obsidian store
Quetin did not have the solitude of the hunters in the hills
On the platitude above the river’s banks was the circle
One entrance pointed to sunrise in middle anos; the other to sunset
In the end of anos
This end of anos, the People would raise the last, the twelf pillar
Each one carved to match each totem village
The inner circle would be complete
Horth, a son of Greathe and the keeper of the tales,
Would speak on the beginning of time and our placement in it by God
Stories handed down from the time of Aamdam and Evean
Zontan was there last month with the debate to expel Uris
He knew the symbols that Uris knew and the abomination that it meant
Capturing speech in symbols for all to see and not hear
Put in clay with no interpretation
The Fathers felt the fear; the Mothers knew it
Zontan and Uris could see the distant glow of the fire circle
Three full moon’s from tonight would be the winter’s end
A time for both putting the year’s dead to eternal rest
And when the Mother’s would select mates for the hunters
And farmers, toolmakers, priests, and others of each settlement of the People
The Mothers determine who we are; the Fathers what
Zontan had avoided Bibe’s choices, so far
He was well past the time for starting a family
Even Uris had fathered two children by Bethe
They were fatherless now, but the Mothers would take up their care
The People’s tradition of the line determined by the mother
There were twelve settlements, descendents of the twelve daughters of Orb
Soon all would be walled villages along the river
Sumer’s wall was nearly finished and all of the stilled homes
Would be abandoned
Quetin was not comfortable about leaving his family home
He enjoyed the solace of living on the edge of the river and village
Near his obsidian store
Quetin did not have the solitude of the hunters in the hills
On the platitude above the river’s banks was the circle
One entrance pointed to sunrise in middle anos; the other to sunset
In the end of anos
This end of anos, the People would raise the last, the twelf pillar
Each one carved to match each totem village
The inner circle would be complete
Horth, a son of Greathe and the keeper of the tales,
Would speak on the beginning of time and our placement in it by God
Stories handed down from the time of Aamdam and Evean
Zontan was there last month with the debate to expel Uris
He knew the symbols that Uris knew and the abomination that it meant
Capturing speech in symbols for all to see and not hear
Put in clay with no interpretation
The Fathers felt the fear; the Mothers knew it
Friday, October 24, 2008
An Ancient Tale #135 (part 3)
It had been rainy and lonely those first few nights
With only some cold grains to eat
Chasing him out with stones
Sending him out of the walls into the wilderness
Bidding him to never return
Driven out like that first couple from their maternal grounds
Uris felt that the people had stolen the fire from him
He had stayed angry
On the fourth sunrise as his wounds healed,
He dried out and let that madness evaporate
With the water from his skin
He found flint, obsidian, wood, and the will to move on
It was a time to hunt, not just for meat, but for a way to continue
He could not fashion the spear tips to match Quetin
Using the obsidian and striking stones he made smaller tips
And with strands pulled from his tunic
Was able to make the smaller striking sticks
He twisted the twine into a string, bending a strong shaft
Made a bow as he had seen a northern man carry once
It would do
The hare on the spit that night tasted like victory
If not vindication
Uris tried to understand the elders reticence in drawing words
Betheadeeon had first showed him how to make some of the symbols
He didn’t know why it was blasphemous if he only pictured praise for God
Or showing the exploits of Gilgamesh
Some of the elders didn’t want these tales easy for everyone to see
Without them to tell them the tales
Control
He would ask Zontan why the speech spinner-elder, Horth, had turned on him
Uris knew that Zontan could draw speech and hunted alone
He would track him when he came to the hills to hunt
They both knew how to set the symbols in wet mud to keep the words
Uris knew that it was death to be caught on the hunting paths
He knew how to hide his smoke in the hills
Damp leaves of the Tigrus tress suspended over small flames from hardwood
Skins from the hares would cure well and keep him clothed
But he missed his mother’s spinning
Maybe he could find a mountain tribe and hunt for them
Teaching them of God and Gilgamesh and of his people who descended from Eden
And cultivated the crescent
From one full moon to the next, he planned and hunted and scratched symbols
In far hills
Uris knew that Zontan would hunt the hills during the full face of the moon
He knew his rock
With only some cold grains to eat
Chasing him out with stones
Sending him out of the walls into the wilderness
Bidding him to never return
Driven out like that first couple from their maternal grounds
Uris felt that the people had stolen the fire from him
He had stayed angry
On the fourth sunrise as his wounds healed,
He dried out and let that madness evaporate
With the water from his skin
He found flint, obsidian, wood, and the will to move on
It was a time to hunt, not just for meat, but for a way to continue
He could not fashion the spear tips to match Quetin
Using the obsidian and striking stones he made smaller tips
And with strands pulled from his tunic
Was able to make the smaller striking sticks
He twisted the twine into a string, bending a strong shaft
Made a bow as he had seen a northern man carry once
It would do
The hare on the spit that night tasted like victory
If not vindication
Uris tried to understand the elders reticence in drawing words
Betheadeeon had first showed him how to make some of the symbols
He didn’t know why it was blasphemous if he only pictured praise for God
Or showing the exploits of Gilgamesh
Some of the elders didn’t want these tales easy for everyone to see
Without them to tell them the tales
Control
He would ask Zontan why the speech spinner-elder, Horth, had turned on him
Uris knew that Zontan could draw speech and hunted alone
He would track him when he came to the hills to hunt
They both knew how to set the symbols in wet mud to keep the words
Uris knew that it was death to be caught on the hunting paths
He knew how to hide his smoke in the hills
Damp leaves of the Tigrus tress suspended over small flames from hardwood
Skins from the hares would cure well and keep him clothed
But he missed his mother’s spinning
Maybe he could find a mountain tribe and hunt for them
Teaching them of God and Gilgamesh and of his people who descended from Eden
And cultivated the crescent
From one full moon to the next, he planned and hunted and scratched symbols
In far hills
Uris knew that Zontan would hunt the hills during the full face of the moon
He knew his rock
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
An Ancient Tale #135 (part 2)
The moon rise is cool in the hills above the river
It’s large, round, white lion face lights up the land and village
Dark rimmed eyes stare down
Seeing all
The dark will grow cold and long
I am grateful for the company while I sit on a rock, waiting;
Spears at the ready
Using a non-lethal end to make pictures of words
It is still forbidden to do so
Urisabethe was stoned for it, after only last moon rise
He has been banished and lives in these hills, alone
I will meet him tonight while I am on guard duty
The jackals are active tonight and I must stay aware
There is another lion pride that has killed our cattle
They hunt at sun rise when God sends us the new day
My people once only lived off of what God gave us
Now we are able to plant and grow;
Raise and herd cattle, sheep, goats
As well as hunt with skill; using knowledge gained from
The fall of Eden
The tale of the Gil – Gilgamish – has taught us how
I rub out the picture speak with my foot and take up the trail again
Of the lion pride
Wolves howl at the night’s light
I hear the cattle’s concern from far below
The first summer night when I took my man-lion’s tuff, I was 16 anos
My father had fashioned me a strong, sharp spear
I tracked the pride to its lair, Eathis taught me well
I did not pick out the old lion as I was told
But the alpha; I wanted the pride’s best
When I baited him to charge – I place the shaft’s butt in the sand
Holding it fast with my foot and drove its head deep into his chest
As he fell at my feet, I was not prepared for the roar of rest of the pride
At his demise
Only the fire circle that I lit with my flint kept them at bay
I took the beast’s head in my hands, and praised his spirit to God
Knowing the when I ate his meat and wove his main into my hair
I would grow from his strength
Uris taught me to draw that story in the ground
Someday, I will place that in wet clay and let it dry so that it lasts forever
Horth and other tale-tellers will pass it in the circle of fire
These talk pictures will one day be inscribed for descendents
Ancestors and descendents will be able to live in the same moments
Knowledge and stories
Something moves to my left – I heft a spear, ready
This night will be long
It’s large, round, white lion face lights up the land and village
Dark rimmed eyes stare down
Seeing all
The dark will grow cold and long
I am grateful for the company while I sit on a rock, waiting;
Spears at the ready
Using a non-lethal end to make pictures of words
It is still forbidden to do so
Urisabethe was stoned for it, after only last moon rise
He has been banished and lives in these hills, alone
I will meet him tonight while I am on guard duty
The jackals are active tonight and I must stay aware
There is another lion pride that has killed our cattle
They hunt at sun rise when God sends us the new day
My people once only lived off of what God gave us
Now we are able to plant and grow;
Raise and herd cattle, sheep, goats
As well as hunt with skill; using knowledge gained from
The fall of Eden
The tale of the Gil – Gilgamish – has taught us how
I rub out the picture speak with my foot and take up the trail again
Of the lion pride
Wolves howl at the night’s light
I hear the cattle’s concern from far below
The first summer night when I took my man-lion’s tuff, I was 16 anos
My father had fashioned me a strong, sharp spear
I tracked the pride to its lair, Eathis taught me well
I did not pick out the old lion as I was told
But the alpha; I wanted the pride’s best
When I baited him to charge – I place the shaft’s butt in the sand
Holding it fast with my foot and drove its head deep into his chest
As he fell at my feet, I was not prepared for the roar of rest of the pride
At his demise
Only the fire circle that I lit with my flint kept them at bay
I took the beast’s head in my hands, and praised his spirit to God
Knowing the when I ate his meat and wove his main into my hair
I would grow from his strength
Uris taught me to draw that story in the ground
Someday, I will place that in wet clay and let it dry so that it lasts forever
Horth and other tale-tellers will pass it in the circle of fire
These talk pictures will one day be inscribed for descendents
Ancestors and descendents will be able to live in the same moments
Knowledge and stories
Something moves to my left – I heft a spear, ready
This night will be long
Friday, October 17, 2008
An Ancient Tale #135 (part 1)
The first time the men took me into the circle of fire and
I heard the full tale of the hero, the Gil
I was 48 seasons or 12 anos
Smooth faced and just beginning to learn the hunt
The full gray beards sat closest to the red leaping flames
And told about time before history
The circle of fire was the night time circle of time
The straight tall polls arraigned to time the seasons
Letting us know when the sun will lower in the sky
And when it will begin its rise in the sky again
Here in the Tigerus valley this time table determines our
Plantings and when we bury our dead
Our river provides us plants and meat
Plants grow, animals come to water
I am Zontanabide, son of Quetin, the spear-tip maker
And Bibe, my mother, herb mistress, knowing the property of plants
My father can see into the heart of obsidian stone
Chipping out the strongest tips with flesh slicing sharpness
The flutes he fashions fit tight into the split-top pole
He knows when the sinew is chewed enough and will dry
To hold it all together
He made my spears special for me to kill my lion and
Taught me how to throw straight and true with keen eye
I have my lion tuff tied to my hair
And I’m around to prove both his worth as a spear-maker,
My courage as a hunter
I’ve heard the story of the Gil for six winters
Each time I see into our past with better understanding
The word spinner, Horth, is the wisest man the people
His beard is white and long, his days as hunter are past
I heard the full tale of the hero, the Gil
I was 48 seasons or 12 anos
Smooth faced and just beginning to learn the hunt
The full gray beards sat closest to the red leaping flames
And told about time before history
The circle of fire was the night time circle of time
The straight tall polls arraigned to time the seasons
Letting us know when the sun will lower in the sky
And when it will begin its rise in the sky again
Here in the Tigerus valley this time table determines our
Plantings and when we bury our dead
Our river provides us plants and meat
Plants grow, animals come to water
I am Zontanabide, son of Quetin, the spear-tip maker
And Bibe, my mother, herb mistress, knowing the property of plants
My father can see into the heart of obsidian stone
Chipping out the strongest tips with flesh slicing sharpness
The flutes he fashions fit tight into the split-top pole
He knows when the sinew is chewed enough and will dry
To hold it all together
He made my spears special for me to kill my lion and
Taught me how to throw straight and true with keen eye
I have my lion tuff tied to my hair
And I’m around to prove both his worth as a spear-maker,
My courage as a hunter
I’ve heard the story of the Gil for six winters
Each time I see into our past with better understanding
The word spinner, Horth, is the wisest man the people
His beard is white and long, his days as hunter are past
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Lottery
Eduard came night after nightAnd sat at his table to take in a view
Those bangs, the straight nose, the hour glass
And waited for her to sigh
But it was only that green liquor to take him away
But could not forget that down-ward gaze
Her painted face couldn't hide her beauty
The milk-maid nee' bar-maid
And that small mouth
That he could only guess would taste of
Garden peaches
The only way to capture her for himself would
Be to put her on canvas
Because he would never be able to capture her between his sheets
Her downward cast gaze matched his forlorn stare
Ah well, Eduard knew that there two-franc women
And that was a lottery he could win
Monday, October 13, 2008
Wet Socks
I’ve had wet feet since we hit the beach
Eight days ago
I’m sitting in a dirt hole, cold; it’s getting dark
And I can move back and try and sleep on the ground
When the night gets black
I have seven kills
Must think of them as Germans and not other men
I’m trying not to think of home
It seems like a long time ago I was playing football
In high school
But, it was just six weeks ago
I had never shot a gun before
Now I have seven kills
I hear my mom’s voice once in a while
But only her tone and not her words anymore
It was either me or them
The fire fight seemed to go in slow motion and
Last forever
I scan the field with my glasses
There must have been wheat here before...
It’s only a memory now
My feet are cold, but at least I made it inland
I’m only up from the beach somewhere in Italy
I remember reading about the Romans
And that’s all I know of Italy
Except that the Germans came and killed Italians
And now we must kill the Germans
I have killed seven of them, and they killed a bunch of us on
The beach
Eight days ago
I’m sitting in a dirt hole, cold; it’s getting dark
And I can move back and try and sleep on the ground
When the night gets black
I have seven kills
Must think of them as Germans and not other men
I’m trying not to think of home
It seems like a long time ago I was playing football
In high school
But, it was just six weeks ago
I had never shot a gun before
Now I have seven kills
I hear my mom’s voice once in a while
But only her tone and not her words anymore
It was either me or them
The fire fight seemed to go in slow motion and
Last forever
I scan the field with my glasses
There must have been wheat here before...
It’s only a memory now
My feet are cold, but at least I made it inland
I’m only up from the beach somewhere in Italy
I remember reading about the Romans
And that’s all I know of Italy
Except that the Germans came and killed Italians
And now we must kill the Germans
I have killed seven of them, and they killed a bunch of us on
The beach
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Touch #531
He lightly brushed the back of his hand against her cheek
And she responded smiling, brushing back
As he titled her chin up to kiss her lips
She pulled him into her
More than moist lip to lip
Exchanging electrical charges
Her laugh was like a light breeze that seems
To sneak in through an open window
The sheets still held the memory of last night
But the room was charged with the laughter of the morning
Too soon they would wash and dress and leave
They lay back on the bank, resting shoulder to shoulder
As languid as the smooth surface of the late summer creek
She whispered something that the dragonfly flew close to hear
But just missed it
He smiled that deep type of smile
Slowly leaning into her
And she responded by laughing and leaning into him
When they touched palm to palm and chest to chest
Even the breeze stilled to watch
The sun felt warm, but did not match the heat on the blanket
And she responded smiling, brushing back
As he titled her chin up to kiss her lips
She pulled him into her
More than moist lip to lip
Exchanging electrical charges
Her laugh was like a light breeze that seems
To sneak in through an open window
The sheets still held the memory of last night
But the room was charged with the laughter of the morning
Too soon they would wash and dress and leave
They lay back on the bank, resting shoulder to shoulder
As languid as the smooth surface of the late summer creek
She whispered something that the dragonfly flew close to hear
But just missed it
He smiled that deep type of smile
Slowly leaning into her
And she responded by laughing and leaning into him
When they touched palm to palm and chest to chest
Even the breeze stilled to watch
The sun felt warm, but did not match the heat on the blanket
Monsters
I want to know that my monsters are hiding behind closed
Doors
I want them lurking in the shadows ready to pounce and
Devour
I want them in books and on the screen
I don’t want them running banks or congress
In charge of manufacturing or making decisions about my
Health care
Scary monsters should live in my head and not head of companies
That make people work long, hard hours creating wealth for the few
I want my monsters chasing Scooby-doo or Ripley
Not putting my friends on the street with little hope of work
Or housing
Running numbers that are so large that none of us can comprehend them
Using industrial fillers for baby formula or children’s’ toys or pet foods
Sowing fear and selling guns on the cheap
In another time he would have been the head of some organized crime
Organization
But, that’s not where the money is anymore
Illegal drugs are too risky, better to work with the pharmaceutical companies
Cholesterol and diet medications are the wave of the future
Organizations have always owned politicians – it’s all in the donations
Master of the Universe is just another name for Godfather
Where once upon a time big Al would have wiped his competition out
Now, it’s just easier and cleaner to bankrupt them
And what they did and who worked there are of no concern
And when his game time ends
He knows who and how much
His holdings will be safe and his bank account fat
His buyout will be big
Doors
I want them lurking in the shadows ready to pounce and
Devour
I want them in books and on the screen
I don’t want them running banks or congress
In charge of manufacturing or making decisions about my
Health care
Scary monsters should live in my head and not head of companies
That make people work long, hard hours creating wealth for the few
I want my monsters chasing Scooby-doo or Ripley
Not putting my friends on the street with little hope of work
Or housing
Running numbers that are so large that none of us can comprehend them
Using industrial fillers for baby formula or children’s’ toys or pet foods
Sowing fear and selling guns on the cheap
In another time he would have been the head of some organized crime
Organization
But, that’s not where the money is anymore
Illegal drugs are too risky, better to work with the pharmaceutical companies
Cholesterol and diet medications are the wave of the future
Organizations have always owned politicians – it’s all in the donations
Master of the Universe is just another name for Godfather
Where once upon a time big Al would have wiped his competition out
Now, it’s just easier and cleaner to bankrupt them
And what they did and who worked there are of no concern
And when his game time ends
He knows who and how much
His holdings will be safe and his bank account fat
His buyout will be big
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Little Streams
The summer stream barely covers the rocks and stones
In its winding bed
The long grasses that reach out of the water no longer
Bend to its current
Dragonflies rest and sun themselves lightly
Tadpoles no longer part of the foodchain
Frogs slide slowly under the surface
Up or down stream take about the same effort
And they only worry about the occasional bird
Or barefoot boy aiming to make his first conquest
Cattails grow to heights above the road
And brown
Each morning the sun rises a bit later and each evening sets earlier
Everything is hoping to collect that last bit of extra warmth
He blankly stares out of his high-rise apartment window
Lucky to pay for an eastern river morning view
Soon the undergrounds would disgorge gray creatures
That would fill the streets and look like ants around
A piece of discarded candy
Even women dressed in their colored uniforms looked
Dark from up here
He fingered the smooth slightly greasy metal in his pocket
Today
He lit another cigarette and blew and smoke against the glass
It looked like pictures he’d seen of cosmic explosions
As the white cloud dissipated all around him
Time to go
Lock the door, ride the elevator, take a cab
It all seemed so ordinary
Not actually a chill in the air, but that first day after days of heat
And humidity
When the dry air is a relief, when the heavy air of August breaks
And you know that summer is over
The coffee shoppe was full and active
Suits, three piece, double button, pants and dress
Steam coming from behind the scurrying coats on the other side
Of the counter
It was a study in black and white
Normal
The gun’s magazine held twenty rounds
It was empty in ten seconds
Scattering, falling people; screams; shattering glass and broken lives
Filled more than coffee cups
In its winding bed
The long grasses that reach out of the water no longer
Bend to its current
Dragonflies rest and sun themselves lightly
Tadpoles no longer part of the foodchain
Frogs slide slowly under the surface
Up or down stream take about the same effort
And they only worry about the occasional bird
Or barefoot boy aiming to make his first conquest
Cattails grow to heights above the road
And brown
Each morning the sun rises a bit later and each evening sets earlier
Everything is hoping to collect that last bit of extra warmth
He blankly stares out of his high-rise apartment window
Lucky to pay for an eastern river morning view
Soon the undergrounds would disgorge gray creatures
That would fill the streets and look like ants around
A piece of discarded candy
Even women dressed in their colored uniforms looked
Dark from up here
He fingered the smooth slightly greasy metal in his pocket
Today
He lit another cigarette and blew and smoke against the glass
It looked like pictures he’d seen of cosmic explosions
As the white cloud dissipated all around him
Time to go
Lock the door, ride the elevator, take a cab
It all seemed so ordinary
Not actually a chill in the air, but that first day after days of heat
And humidity
When the dry air is a relief, when the heavy air of August breaks
And you know that summer is over
The coffee shoppe was full and active
Suits, three piece, double button, pants and dress
Steam coming from behind the scurrying coats on the other side
Of the counter
It was a study in black and white
Normal
The gun’s magazine held twenty rounds
It was empty in ten seconds
Scattering, falling people; screams; shattering glass and broken lives
Filled more than coffee cups
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Whistling again
I had drifted away from the green and lush river district
Wandering around on the savannas
I became as parched and the dry, late summer, thrice-browned grasses
My tongue, so dry and swollen, stuck to the roof of my mouth
Desiccated lips drawn together and fused
As if my teeth were wired shut
Even my eyes became so moistureless that the lids fused together
I traveled on only feeling the heat of the sun
Providing me direction by its passing overhead
But, my ears remained opened, hearing the sounds, cries, shouts, songs, and whispers
The deep base profundo of the earth
Keeping time with the universe, slow and low
The rustle of some creature in the distant, warning, loving
The calls and shouts of joy, fear, loneliness, laughter
The wind playing tones and offering them up so that I could
Imagine my own tune
I would have whistled if I’d had some spit
I was isolated, but not alone
Then a friend came along and convinced me to sip and splash from
Their water sack
And they took me to comfort under the shade of their shadow
It’s been a while since I’d visited an oasis
The greens are so much more vivid, the cool blues of the water deeper
I think that I’ll sit by this date palm
Wondering about the balance between silence and words
Wandering around on the savannas
I became as parched and the dry, late summer, thrice-browned grasses
My tongue, so dry and swollen, stuck to the roof of my mouth
Desiccated lips drawn together and fused
As if my teeth were wired shut
Even my eyes became so moistureless that the lids fused together
I traveled on only feeling the heat of the sun
Providing me direction by its passing overhead
But, my ears remained opened, hearing the sounds, cries, shouts, songs, and whispers
The deep base profundo of the earth
Keeping time with the universe, slow and low
The rustle of some creature in the distant, warning, loving
The calls and shouts of joy, fear, loneliness, laughter
The wind playing tones and offering them up so that I could
Imagine my own tune
I would have whistled if I’d had some spit
I was isolated, but not alone
Then a friend came along and convinced me to sip and splash from
Their water sack
And they took me to comfort under the shade of their shadow
It’s been a while since I’d visited an oasis
The greens are so much more vivid, the cool blues of the water deeper
I think that I’ll sit by this date palm
Wondering about the balance between silence and words
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Word Catalyst Magazine proudly announces its first printed chapbook with selections from our first year of online publishing.The book contains the work of 29 authors chosen by the editor. We would like to thank each and every contributor to the magazine for their input. Your purchase of this year's chapbook will help enable us to include more authors in our next volume.
The chapbook is a 48 page half-letter, saddle-stitched booklet with a full-color backdrop cover featuring the art of John D Moulton, a featured artist on Word Catalyst Magazine. The full-bleed cover is printed with a scratch, water, smudge and fade resistant micro-pigment ink. All inside text is black and white.
Each Keepsake Edition Chapbook is being hand assembled and published on demand.
If you plan to order more than one copy of the chapbook as gifts etc. please order them in advance so I can set a printing schedule. Thank you.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
To You
I’ve walked among the broken and handed out biscuits
And smiles
As I’ve wondered down the streets of the town
From block to block and slow side street to busy corner
And stoop
Greeting your eyes with a kind word or directions, if I knew
Them or you cared to hear
My whispered wishes riding the winds reaching your ears
“Lift up your heads and nod to one another”
I shook hands or waved to those of you that I knew
Or wished to know me
Encouraged those of you who sit, not knowing what you
Wait for
Sang with the street musicians, roaming about for dimes
I shared what was in my lungs with you
And you, others that are to come
The plants that kept me alive, their ancestors will you
What I breathe in at fall, their seed in your spring delight you
When there were parks I would watch the young parents
Watching their wards
Or feed the squirrels with those who had passed that time
Before me
But I feel your pulling away like the moon moving away from
The earth at only millimeters a decade
I feel the stretch of the universe, that movement of time
The town has become a city and there are too many streets for me
To cross
I leave those to you
I’ve sang my songs and now it is up to you to carry and call the tune
What materials that I was blessed to use is yours
I’m reduced to the atoms from which I rose
And into the silence that I was
And smiles
As I’ve wondered down the streets of the town
From block to block and slow side street to busy corner
And stoop
Greeting your eyes with a kind word or directions, if I knew
Them or you cared to hear
My whispered wishes riding the winds reaching your ears
“Lift up your heads and nod to one another”
I shook hands or waved to those of you that I knew
Or wished to know me
Encouraged those of you who sit, not knowing what you
Wait for
Sang with the street musicians, roaming about for dimes
I shared what was in my lungs with you
And you, others that are to come
The plants that kept me alive, their ancestors will you
What I breathe in at fall, their seed in your spring delight you
When there were parks I would watch the young parents
Watching their wards
Or feed the squirrels with those who had passed that time
Before me
But I feel your pulling away like the moon moving away from
The earth at only millimeters a decade
I feel the stretch of the universe, that movement of time
The town has become a city and there are too many streets for me
To cross
I leave those to you
I’ve sang my songs and now it is up to you to carry and call the tune
What materials that I was blessed to use is yours
I’m reduced to the atoms from which I rose
And into the silence that I was
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Stephen Hawking Dances
Sitting on the cusp of my extinction
I’m perched on the cliffs of my uninhabited isle
Throwing bottles into the sea
Some are corked, some are not, some contain messages, others not
No two messages are the same, I think linearly
Because of the undertow, the rocks below are littered with glass
And some wet paper
And the beach down the way
Is covered with returns
I’ve been taking my living out of bottles again and I have plenty
I had over-understood your kindnesses
So all of the messages are about or to you
I have lived in exile too long and have only heard the
The rushing of the wind or only my heartbeat in my ears
Orange turning to red, cooling to green and then blue
I darn not close my eyes and watch what is on the inside
Projected onto my lids
At night I stare up into the stars as they dance around
I saw Stephen Hawking dance once
And the music that he stepped to was
“Nothing produces nothing, it produces something”
He proved, mathematically, what we’ve all known all along
There is nothing
Black holes don’t suck in all of time and space and
Turn them into nothing
They emit Hawking radiation
And begin the dance again
There is no end, just different states of being
So nice that equations are made to sing so eloquently
Like stars we’re all slamming into one another at the speed of light
Or traveling away from one another
Deeper and deeper into dark mattered space
Degrading as time takes its toll
I need to slam into other bodies and emit positive energy
Not just to sit and stare into space and drink and fart
I’m perched on the cliffs of my uninhabited isle
Throwing bottles into the sea
Some are corked, some are not, some contain messages, others not
No two messages are the same, I think linearly
Because of the undertow, the rocks below are littered with glass
And some wet paper
And the beach down the way
Is covered with returns
I’ve been taking my living out of bottles again and I have plenty
I had over-understood your kindnesses
So all of the messages are about or to you
I have lived in exile too long and have only heard the
The rushing of the wind or only my heartbeat in my ears
Orange turning to red, cooling to green and then blue
I darn not close my eyes and watch what is on the inside
Projected onto my lids
At night I stare up into the stars as they dance around
I saw Stephen Hawking dance once
And the music that he stepped to was
“Nothing produces nothing, it produces something”
He proved, mathematically, what we’ve all known all along
There is nothing
Black holes don’t suck in all of time and space and
Turn them into nothing
They emit Hawking radiation
And begin the dance again
There is no end, just different states of being
So nice that equations are made to sing so eloquently
Like stars we’re all slamming into one another at the speed of light
Or traveling away from one another
Deeper and deeper into dark mattered space
Degrading as time takes its toll
I need to slam into other bodies and emit positive energy
Not just to sit and stare into space and drink and fart
Monday, March 31, 2008
And More Rain Comes Down
We’ve stopped watching the news
All they say is that more rain is coming
But I knew because of the heavy winter snows
And if the rains came all at once
We’d see the river roar outside its banks
The river is running fast and angry
Swallowing all of our fields and streets
Taking back what we had stolen
My great-great grandfather had escaped the trail of tears
And became European to settle this land
But he secretly kept the spirit of the people
And it’s been handed down to me as I have
Passed it along to my sons and daughters
Spring planting will be late this year
The river doesn’t bring riches to our fields anymore
Just mud that hardens like cement in the sun
We spent last night sandbagging the river bank
And I heard someone’s dog go by yelping at the dark
I moved as much as I could upstairs
Our second floor is groaning over the amount of stuff
That we have
And hope to keep
The wife is worn with worry
Over more than her great-grandmother’s porcelain
But we’re the lucky ones
Charlie’s house was taken
It sat on a bluff that the river ate away and then
His house fell into the muddy waters
The state guard would have been here to help
But no one is left here in our state
They’re all over there, fighting
Just another administration killing others on a path of tears
I’m tired and this is the last flood that I’ll battle
What’s left will be left – time to move to higher ground
All they say is that more rain is coming
But I knew because of the heavy winter snows
And if the rains came all at once
We’d see the river roar outside its banks
The river is running fast and angry
Swallowing all of our fields and streets
Taking back what we had stolen
My great-great grandfather had escaped the trail of tears
And became European to settle this land
But he secretly kept the spirit of the people
And it’s been handed down to me as I have
Passed it along to my sons and daughters
Spring planting will be late this year
The river doesn’t bring riches to our fields anymore
Just mud that hardens like cement in the sun
We spent last night sandbagging the river bank
And I heard someone’s dog go by yelping at the dark
I moved as much as I could upstairs
Our second floor is groaning over the amount of stuff
That we have
And hope to keep
The wife is worn with worry
Over more than her great-grandmother’s porcelain
But we’re the lucky ones
Charlie’s house was taken
It sat on a bluff that the river ate away and then
His house fell into the muddy waters
The state guard would have been here to help
But no one is left here in our state
They’re all over there, fighting
Just another administration killing others on a path of tears
I’m tired and this is the last flood that I’ll battle
What’s left will be left – time to move to higher ground
Friday, March 28, 2008
Touching the Stone
Two spirits hearing the same distant plaintive train’s whistle
Feeling captured in amber
Words are sometimes without meanings
Spoken as light as air and with the same consequences
Whispered in that mindless wind that won’t settle
Circling each other with the majestry of love-sick cobras
One move life
The other death
You leave me an emotional puddle
Curled up on the floor
Weeping dry tears because there is no more moisture
Switch
Focus
The dirty bedraggled unkempt poet still in the clothes he’s worn for months
Mutters at his clubfoot as he crosses in the middle of the busy street
Carrying all of his belongings in plastic bag
Over his shoulder
The tin cans rattle as he limps away creating their own song to the heavens
And her words hung on the edge of his ears, whispering
“You were probably good looking once”
Switch
Focus
He reaches out to touch her shoulder
And hopes her skin doesn’t tighten and her back curl away, this time
He pictures rubbing lotion on her burnt back
To comfort her for her lack of discretion flying too long near the sun
He knows what he is not and that he can never be that bright light
She holds nature above nurture
And follows the sight line of the horizon
As clouds spill over the edge of the world
Switch
Focus
An elderly couple sit on the park bench
Sharing the sound of the song coming from the children at play
On the swings
Back and forth
Giggles reaching for high squeals
From joy to easily forgotten terror
Theirs is a shared smile
The contentment of his hand on her shoulder
Teenagers holding hands never realize how important that can be later
In life
Feeling captured in amber
Words are sometimes without meanings
Spoken as light as air and with the same consequences
Whispered in that mindless wind that won’t settle
Circling each other with the majestry of love-sick cobras
One move life
The other death
You leave me an emotional puddle
Curled up on the floor
Weeping dry tears because there is no more moisture
Switch
Focus
The dirty bedraggled unkempt poet still in the clothes he’s worn for months
Mutters at his clubfoot as he crosses in the middle of the busy street
Carrying all of his belongings in plastic bag
Over his shoulder
The tin cans rattle as he limps away creating their own song to the heavens
And her words hung on the edge of his ears, whispering
“You were probably good looking once”
Switch
Focus
He reaches out to touch her shoulder
And hopes her skin doesn’t tighten and her back curl away, this time
He pictures rubbing lotion on her burnt back
To comfort her for her lack of discretion flying too long near the sun
He knows what he is not and that he can never be that bright light
She holds nature above nurture
And follows the sight line of the horizon
As clouds spill over the edge of the world
Switch
Focus
An elderly couple sit on the park bench
Sharing the sound of the song coming from the children at play
On the swings
Back and forth
Giggles reaching for high squeals
From joy to easily forgotten terror
Theirs is a shared smile
The contentment of his hand on her shoulder
Teenagers holding hands never realize how important that can be later
In life
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Beyond
Beyond language, learning, science, and knowledge
I feel your existence, uncomplaining
Incorporeal
Taking me to where I know that I can’t walk
Riding vapors, updrafts of drafts
No mortised joint holds anything
I’d cry at this beauty, but its reach exceeds tears
Breath is so bright it burns
But there is no flesh for it to sear
As I look out of old eyes
You lead me back in and out of time
There is no metered measure
So there is no beginning or end
Beyond speech, we nod in agreement
As I bow to the power of no words
No concealment or congealment
Floating past the boundaries that would have been placed
On these thoughts or movements
We dance upon the tips of grass in summer
Before the dew forms in morning
Forming and reforming with wisps of clouds in the
Afternoon
I lose myself in the formation of your thoughts
Hearing the music that comes from your unblinking eyes
A rose bloom waits on a song you might sing
You return me to what was myself and won’t be again
I feel your existence, uncomplaining
Incorporeal
Taking me to where I know that I can’t walk
Riding vapors, updrafts of drafts
No mortised joint holds anything
I’d cry at this beauty, but its reach exceeds tears
Breath is so bright it burns
But there is no flesh for it to sear
As I look out of old eyes
You lead me back in and out of time
There is no metered measure
So there is no beginning or end
Beyond speech, we nod in agreement
As I bow to the power of no words
No concealment or congealment
Floating past the boundaries that would have been placed
On these thoughts or movements
We dance upon the tips of grass in summer
Before the dew forms in morning
Forming and reforming with wisps of clouds in the
Afternoon
I lose myself in the formation of your thoughts
Hearing the music that comes from your unblinking eyes
A rose bloom waits on a song you might sing
You return me to what was myself and won’t be again
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Ode to the Chocolat Cookie
Tasty siren calling to my heart and soul
Peeking peaks of rich dark gooey chocolat
Melting in a warm brown confection of delight
I place a piece on my tongue and press it to the roof
Of my mouth
I do not chew it, but let it dissolve
Enjoying the sweet sugars, buttery flavors, and
Slight bite of the semi-sweet chocolat
I take my time and each piece is its own reward
Satisfying like
A summer night at the ball game
The giggles of your child at the sight of a caterpillar
The smile in the eyes of your lover
And then the last piece
Not lamented because it’s gone
But celebrated because it was there at all
Those moments added to a life well spent
Ah, so much in the conviction of a confection
Peeking peaks of rich dark gooey chocolat
Melting in a warm brown confection of delight
I place a piece on my tongue and press it to the roof
Of my mouth
I do not chew it, but let it dissolve
Enjoying the sweet sugars, buttery flavors, and
Slight bite of the semi-sweet chocolat
I take my time and each piece is its own reward
Satisfying like
A summer night at the ball game
The giggles of your child at the sight of a caterpillar
The smile in the eyes of your lover
And then the last piece
Not lamented because it’s gone
But celebrated because it was there at all
Those moments added to a life well spent
Ah, so much in the conviction of a confection
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
On Poetics (part 1) – the poem
Spinning atoms around atoms in the first black darkness
Swirling about the dark matter of gravity
Creating universes
Until there is the denseness of the spark of light
And time
Unseen atoms to molecules to the majesty of surroundings
Fired in heat and pressure until carbon and quartz
Become mountains reaching upwards
A chunk broken off of the Mountain of Poetry
Hurling into the flow of time
Sinking,
Waiting,
Flowing waters sent from the crying sky
And weeping mountain snows
Wandering their way, creating mystic canyons cut through the sandstone
The poetry chunk using the water’s flow to hone its sharp edges
Smoothing out the language of the spark of star-stuff
The quartz flakes grab the light and shine up through
Defused muddy H2O
Using the time’s seasons to work its way up from the depths
Each cycle of time, flood to drought to flood to drought
And on and on
Moving a millimeter per cycle, up
Slowly creeping to the river’s edge and poking a smoothed, honed
Head out of the water towards sun and shine of time
The rock became a gemstone
A definition of time and existence
Working its way to wait and dry to be found
And shine in someone’s hand
It’s taken eons to work its way towards the shore
From the depths of what once was solid and hidden
Ah, but wait...
They’ve flooded the canyon to wash silt down river
The stone is picked up by the unrelenting white-water rush
Weight and worth slams it to bottom
It will need to spend the next eons of ebb and flow
And attempt to work its way back to the light and edge
Until found and seen
But, here’s the question – who or what will understand
What it offers... its unique explanation of beginnings and eternity
Or will they just see another wet rock?
Swirling about the dark matter of gravity
Creating universes
Until there is the denseness of the spark of light
And time
Unseen atoms to molecules to the majesty of surroundings
Fired in heat and pressure until carbon and quartz
Become mountains reaching upwards
A chunk broken off of the Mountain of Poetry
Hurling into the flow of time
Sinking,
Waiting,
Flowing waters sent from the crying sky
And weeping mountain snows
Wandering their way, creating mystic canyons cut through the sandstone
The poetry chunk using the water’s flow to hone its sharp edges
Smoothing out the language of the spark of star-stuff
The quartz flakes grab the light and shine up through
Defused muddy H2O
Using the time’s seasons to work its way up from the depths
Each cycle of time, flood to drought to flood to drought
And on and on
Moving a millimeter per cycle, up
Slowly creeping to the river’s edge and poking a smoothed, honed
Head out of the water towards sun and shine of time
The rock became a gemstone
A definition of time and existence
Working its way to wait and dry to be found
And shine in someone’s hand
It’s taken eons to work its way towards the shore
From the depths of what once was solid and hidden
Ah, but wait...
They’ve flooded the canyon to wash silt down river
The stone is picked up by the unrelenting white-water rush
Weight and worth slams it to bottom
It will need to spend the next eons of ebb and flow
And attempt to work its way back to the light and edge
Until found and seen
But, here’s the question – who or what will understand
What it offers... its unique explanation of beginnings and eternity
Or will they just see another wet rock?
Friday, March 7, 2008
come Sailing
Come sail the azure sea with me
Feel the pull of the pulsing waves
The whisper of the breeze singing softly
Tasting the salt from the spray as we knife
Through the water
Seeing past the curve of the horizon
Skin warmed and shining in the Caribbean sun
Gleaming under the night sky’s swirling stars
Barefoot wet flaps as we run around
The small deck like children chasing dreams
Laughing
Sitting after dinner, chatting about what we read
As the day grew long, becalmed
Bobbing in the ocean like the last Cheerio in the bowl
Holding fast, lashed to the mast using a short rope
Wet in raingear as the summer storms beat the bow
Wave after wave
And after years of tacking back and forth
Laughing into the wind and crying to the lee
And keeping those storms at bay
With our hands callused from the ropes
Twining our lives to one purpose
Your smile that holds the blazing heat
Tilting our heads together over the tiller
We’ll pull in port
And say what a ride it was
Please don’t say no
Feel the pull of the pulsing waves
The whisper of the breeze singing softly
Tasting the salt from the spray as we knife
Through the water
Seeing past the curve of the horizon
Skin warmed and shining in the Caribbean sun
Gleaming under the night sky’s swirling stars
Barefoot wet flaps as we run around
The small deck like children chasing dreams
Laughing
Sitting after dinner, chatting about what we read
As the day grew long, becalmed
Bobbing in the ocean like the last Cheerio in the bowl
Holding fast, lashed to the mast using a short rope
Wet in raingear as the summer storms beat the bow
Wave after wave
And after years of tacking back and forth
Laughing into the wind and crying to the lee
And keeping those storms at bay
With our hands callused from the ropes
Twining our lives to one purpose
Your smile that holds the blazing heat
Tilting our heads together over the tiller
We’ll pull in port
And say what a ride it was
Please don’t say no
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Love In Masonic Time
Theirs was a family of masons
There is no mystery of the square and trowel
Just its practice
Somewhere back in history
A great-grandfather to the tenth power
Fit one rock on top of another and the family building trade
Began
His dad was a block layer who could hold four blocks
In one hand
A huge man who saw life in black and white
Mortar and block
He started out as a brick layer who now built brick facades
For luxury apartments
Wondering how the world is moving at the speed of light
The level line was his measure and mean
His daughter is an architect designing eco-tech high rises
Using pre-formed Chicago concrete materials
Understanding stresses that he could no longer comprehend
His brother was a crane operator who use to swing the ball
And now runs a demolition team
Bringing down in a single blast what it took men at one time
Years to construct
His son owns a green materials company
Using methods that didn’t exist when he was born
Layer by layer, craft on craft
Coral build on the layers of the living to sustain life
Continually building on the past
Sustaining a life in motion for existence
Reaching ever up and adapting to increasing light and warmth
Understanding the golden mean without ever knowing a
Square or level line
Parent to child with love and mastery of the trade
Building on the past without setting the crushed stone for the base pour
Will topple the structure
There is no mystery of the square and trowel
Just its practice
Somewhere back in history
A great-grandfather to the tenth power
Fit one rock on top of another and the family building trade
Began
His dad was a block layer who could hold four blocks
In one hand
A huge man who saw life in black and white
Mortar and block
He started out as a brick layer who now built brick facades
For luxury apartments
Wondering how the world is moving at the speed of light
The level line was his measure and mean
His daughter is an architect designing eco-tech high rises
Using pre-formed Chicago concrete materials
Understanding stresses that he could no longer comprehend
His brother was a crane operator who use to swing the ball
And now runs a demolition team
Bringing down in a single blast what it took men at one time
Years to construct
His son owns a green materials company
Using methods that didn’t exist when he was born
Layer by layer, craft on craft
Coral build on the layers of the living to sustain life
Continually building on the past
Sustaining a life in motion for existence
Reaching ever up and adapting to increasing light and warmth
Understanding the golden mean without ever knowing a
Square or level line
Parent to child with love and mastery of the trade
Building on the past without setting the crushed stone for the base pour
Will topple the structure
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Dream In Prime Numbers #351
A body at rest tends to stay so
One in motion goes until it runs out of energy
It runs into another object
Or it dies
The sun sat on the horizon as if it couldn’t take
It’s eye off of the site below it
Burning and tinting just
The edges of the high wisps of clouds
Melting away the layer of smoke and sweat
The field was littered with men,
Dead, dying, or wounded
There were no victors, no parades, no songs of conquest
I heard the sound of moans from the dying
And the cries of those they left behind
I held your sagging and baggy, craggy face in my hands
And could not wipe away the sardonic silent sadness
From your eyes
What was passing as my friend
Was hanging with the sun, holding onto that last
Instant of light before the dusk
But there was a small smile on his lips
Welling up from somewhere from your broken body
Whispering the joy that you once were
Could there be laughter again?
Having played the fool so long to the brave
It’s hard to have a joke puff out of my mouth
However, I know that you would want to hear
One last silly collection of words
Making fun of meaning and language
One in motion goes until it runs out of energy
It runs into another object
Or it dies
The sun sat on the horizon as if it couldn’t take
It’s eye off of the site below it
Burning and tinting just
The edges of the high wisps of clouds
Melting away the layer of smoke and sweat
The field was littered with men,
Dead, dying, or wounded
There were no victors, no parades, no songs of conquest
I heard the sound of moans from the dying
And the cries of those they left behind
I held your sagging and baggy, craggy face in my hands
And could not wipe away the sardonic silent sadness
From your eyes
What was passing as my friend
Was hanging with the sun, holding onto that last
Instant of light before the dusk
But there was a small smile on his lips
Welling up from somewhere from your broken body
Whispering the joy that you once were
Could there be laughter again?
Having played the fool so long to the brave
It’s hard to have a joke puff out of my mouth
However, I know that you would want to hear
One last silly collection of words
Making fun of meaning and language
Friday, February 22, 2008
Selected Silence
Selected Silence
If a Buddhist monk falls in Myanma Naingngandaw
And Chairman of the State Peace and Development Council
Smashes cameras and lets no sound out of the country
Do the NCGUB still cry for change?
If a women in the jungle Bukavu villages of Congo stops screaming
Will anyone know it’s still rape?
If a Hutu is born is it genetic that they hate and will grow up
To kill a Tutsi?
If a refugee camp in Durfar is overrun by the painted white Janjaweed trucks
And al-Bashir double-speaks about someday soon
Do the Fur, Zaghawa, and Massaleit ethnic groups still die?
If a Kikuyu is hunted down with rocks and an ax
Can he love his neighbor Kalenjin?
When a Shi'ite joins the militia to wipe out the past of Sunni domination
Does it make a ripple in the number of who’s dead?
If the US waterboards someone who dies
And the tapes are destroyed
Does any admit that it’s torture?
If a father from Detroit dies early because they have no health insurance
Is it mass murder or mass indifference or neglect?
A child’s eyes tears up, but they’re silent
For fear of retribution
Their burn marks are covered so as not to cause
Suspicion
And what don’t we hear that happens
With denied plausibility?
The sirens wail in our dark night
And it’s not the all-clear signal
What do we hear that crashes us on the rocks?
What don’t we hear that eats at our beings?
Who is listening to the cries of our mothers?
My ears are defended from the decibels of the afflicted
My eyes glaze over from the sheer numbers of the dead
And the missing
I can’t comprehend the suffering
I find no path that is not screaming to be heard or
Littered with the fallen
We can only start and comfort one voice at a time
And raise our voices to be heard by those causing this voice of silence
If a Buddhist monk falls in Myanma Naingngandaw
And Chairman of the State Peace and Development Council
Smashes cameras and lets no sound out of the country
Do the NCGUB still cry for change?
If a women in the jungle Bukavu villages of Congo stops screaming
Will anyone know it’s still rape?
If a Hutu is born is it genetic that they hate and will grow up
To kill a Tutsi?
If a refugee camp in Durfar is overrun by the painted white Janjaweed trucks
And al-Bashir double-speaks about someday soon
Do the Fur, Zaghawa, and Massaleit ethnic groups still die?
If a Kikuyu is hunted down with rocks and an ax
Can he love his neighbor Kalenjin?
When a Shi'ite joins the militia to wipe out the past of Sunni domination
Does it make a ripple in the number of who’s dead?
If the US waterboards someone who dies
And the tapes are destroyed
Does any admit that it’s torture?
If a father from Detroit dies early because they have no health insurance
Is it mass murder or mass indifference or neglect?
A child’s eyes tears up, but they’re silent
For fear of retribution
Their burn marks are covered so as not to cause
Suspicion
And what don’t we hear that happens
With denied plausibility?
The sirens wail in our dark night
And it’s not the all-clear signal
What do we hear that crashes us on the rocks?
What don’t we hear that eats at our beings?
Who is listening to the cries of our mothers?
My ears are defended from the decibels of the afflicted
My eyes glaze over from the sheer numbers of the dead
And the missing
I can’t comprehend the suffering
I find no path that is not screaming to be heard or
Littered with the fallen
We can only start and comfort one voice at a time
And raise our voices to be heard by those causing this voice of silence
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
A Day at the Beach, Night under the Eclipsed Moon
Blue-green, emerald-azure water
Drinks at the white shore
Quartz-crystal reflects in passing moments
Blazing sunshine
The wind whispers a melody whose
Notes come from a past
As the sand dunes’ grasses change them into a song
Of the future
A young couple with searching fingers for each other’s
Hands, electric touch
A young mother sits watching her son
Build his sandcastle at the edge of the receding surf
It’s gleaming parapets daring the tide
An old man leaves three tracks behind him
And smiles down on the boy
Seeing both the past and possibilities
Like dolphins swimming between the waves
I was told that I was not tall enough
But I reached for the sky
They told me that I was too small
But I fit inside my skin
I was told that I wasn’t tough enough
But I fended off their slings and arrows
They told me that I wasn’t smart enough
But I could put one foot in front of the other
Each challenge, each test, each moment
Is another defining event
I’ve not yet reached every goal
But I’ve seen the gold of the sunshine
The strength of an eagle in flight
The sparkle of a gem in hand
The growth of an idea becoming reality
The beauty in your eyes
Drinks at the white shore
Quartz-crystal reflects in passing moments
Blazing sunshine
The wind whispers a melody whose
Notes come from a past
As the sand dunes’ grasses change them into a song
Of the future
A young couple with searching fingers for each other’s
Hands, electric touch
A young mother sits watching her son
Build his sandcastle at the edge of the receding surf
It’s gleaming parapets daring the tide
An old man leaves three tracks behind him
And smiles down on the boy
Seeing both the past and possibilities
Like dolphins swimming between the waves
I was told that I was not tall enough
But I reached for the sky
They told me that I was too small
But I fit inside my skin
I was told that I wasn’t tough enough
But I fended off their slings and arrows
They told me that I wasn’t smart enough
But I could put one foot in front of the other
Each challenge, each test, each moment
Is another defining event
I’ve not yet reached every goal
But I’ve seen the gold of the sunshine
The strength of an eagle in flight
The sparkle of a gem in hand
The growth of an idea becoming reality
The beauty in your eyes
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Thursday
He felt the eyes on him when he woke up
He heard little doors opening
By the time he finished his coffee he could
See the little demons coming out of the walls
And they were throwing little pebbles and weaving
The strands
Of doubt, insecurity, discouragement, hopelessness, intimidation,
apprehension, worry...
Within the hour
He was being pelted by their stones
As the little demons grew and laughed at him
He was anchored to his chair by
The strands of fear, dread, despair, horror, terror...
Woven into a net
Of ropes
He felt the bonds of Gulliver
By noon the demons were larger than life
Beating him with boulders of dejection and loss
He sat staring wide-eyed into the void of himself
A tear ran down his cheek
One drop of hope to turn the mountain into sand
Tomorrow, he would close their eyes
And keep the portal shut
He heard little doors opening
By the time he finished his coffee he could
See the little demons coming out of the walls
And they were throwing little pebbles and weaving
The strands
Of doubt, insecurity, discouragement, hopelessness, intimidation,
apprehension, worry...
Within the hour
He was being pelted by their stones
As the little demons grew and laughed at him
He was anchored to his chair by
The strands of fear, dread, despair, horror, terror...
Woven into a net
Of ropes
He felt the bonds of Gulliver
By noon the demons were larger than life
Beating him with boulders of dejection and loss
He sat staring wide-eyed into the void of himself
A tear ran down his cheek
One drop of hope to turn the mountain into sand
Tomorrow, he would close their eyes
And keep the portal shut
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The Six Pathways
An adult daughter brings her failing father to the doctor
The news is not good
He’s loosing his nervous system to disease
He soon will loose his sight and hearing
Then his sense of smell and taste
And his sense of touch will falter and he’ll lapse into a coma
Tears run down her cheeks as she weeps for him
The man comforts her and says:
“Dry your tears and don’t weep for me
I’ve seen the most marvelous of sights
The golden sunsets over the ocean
Where the clouds are painted in colors that stay painted on
The inside of your eyes
I watched your mother, pure beauty in motion
As she danced with abandon and joy in her existence
I’ve seen mathematical equations come true
And watched man walk on the moon
But I’ve seen the horrors of our science unchecked
Destroying forests and melting human endeavors as well
I’ve heard the music of the quiet star filled night
Standing outside of a field and hearing corn grow
As the cicadas serenaded, calling to mate
I’ve listened to the rain as it’s made the grass sing
And I’ve marveled at operas and heard the soaring ‘I’ve got a dream’
I was there when you sang in grade school and
Heard the joy of you as a child singing because you could
And we laughed together – and there is no better sound
Then the laughter of joy from a child
I’ve heard the cries of the oppressed and growl of hungry bellies
The wailing of a mother whose lost her child
I’ve smelled the deep musk of the garden and the earth in spring
When all is renewed
The scent of your mother as she readied for her day
The early morning flowers sending their aromas to the wind
Calling for the bees to come
I’ve been on the field of battle when the corpses are lined up
Sending one last message to the world of how we’re all corruptible
That scent of decay
I’ve worked the garbage dumps and smelled the wastes of man
I’ve tasted the fine meals made with your mother’s best ingredient
Love
I’ve had chocolate melt on my tongue and swilled fine wines in
My mouth
I’ve tasted victory and defeat
And dined on crow because of the evil that flowed from me
I’ve felt the touch of your mother
And walked hand in hand with you
Feeling your small hand hold on to me as walked on our way
I’ve touched silk and wood feeling their beauty and strength
I’ve felt the richness of the soil
And the parchment skin of a fallen friend
I’ve touched death and now it’s death’s turn to touch me
So don’t weep, dry your tears
I live on in the songs of your daughter
In the coded messages she sings about her experiences
Five of six paths may fade but I still have one
This full contact sport we call life
Can have my senses but it shall not take my memories
Or what lies beneath
It can not recall where I’ve been and what
I am”
The news is not good
He’s loosing his nervous system to disease
He soon will loose his sight and hearing
Then his sense of smell and taste
And his sense of touch will falter and he’ll lapse into a coma
Tears run down her cheeks as she weeps for him
The man comforts her and says:
“Dry your tears and don’t weep for me
I’ve seen the most marvelous of sights
The golden sunsets over the ocean
Where the clouds are painted in colors that stay painted on
The inside of your eyes
I watched your mother, pure beauty in motion
As she danced with abandon and joy in her existence
I’ve seen mathematical equations come true
And watched man walk on the moon
But I’ve seen the horrors of our science unchecked
Destroying forests and melting human endeavors as well
I’ve heard the music of the quiet star filled night
Standing outside of a field and hearing corn grow
As the cicadas serenaded, calling to mate
I’ve listened to the rain as it’s made the grass sing
And I’ve marveled at operas and heard the soaring ‘I’ve got a dream’
I was there when you sang in grade school and
Heard the joy of you as a child singing because you could
And we laughed together – and there is no better sound
Then the laughter of joy from a child
I’ve heard the cries of the oppressed and growl of hungry bellies
The wailing of a mother whose lost her child
I’ve smelled the deep musk of the garden and the earth in spring
When all is renewed
The scent of your mother as she readied for her day
The early morning flowers sending their aromas to the wind
Calling for the bees to come
I’ve been on the field of battle when the corpses are lined up
Sending one last message to the world of how we’re all corruptible
That scent of decay
I’ve worked the garbage dumps and smelled the wastes of man
I’ve tasted the fine meals made with your mother’s best ingredient
Love
I’ve had chocolate melt on my tongue and swilled fine wines in
My mouth
I’ve tasted victory and defeat
And dined on crow because of the evil that flowed from me
I’ve felt the touch of your mother
And walked hand in hand with you
Feeling your small hand hold on to me as walked on our way
I’ve touched silk and wood feeling their beauty and strength
I’ve felt the richness of the soil
And the parchment skin of a fallen friend
I’ve touched death and now it’s death’s turn to touch me
So don’t weep, dry your tears
I live on in the songs of your daughter
In the coded messages she sings about her experiences
Five of six paths may fade but I still have one
This full contact sport we call life
Can have my senses but it shall not take my memories
Or what lies beneath
It can not recall where I’ve been and what
I am”
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
In Defense of Older Men
Looking at the little streams cascade down your back
I slowly brush the beads away
With both hands
And gently shampoo your hair
Stroking each handful
And soap your slender neck
As it leans back towards me
Gliding my hands over your shoulders
As they move under my fingers
I lowly sing “Positively 4th Street”
Rubbing your arms and reaching around to cup
Your breasts
Feeling their energy
Moving my hands over your smooth belly
I feel your backward’s embrace
Knowing that there is nothing better than this moment
And wetly kissing you between the shoulder blades
Letting the hot water run over both of us
I slowly brush the beads away
With both hands
And gently shampoo your hair
Stroking each handful
And soap your slender neck
As it leans back towards me
Gliding my hands over your shoulders
As they move under my fingers
I lowly sing “Positively 4th Street”
Rubbing your arms and reaching around to cup
Your breasts
Feeling their energy
Moving my hands over your smooth belly
I feel your backward’s embrace
Knowing that there is nothing better than this moment
And wetly kissing you between the shoulder blades
Letting the hot water run over both of us
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Revel- ation
I revel in the skin that I’m in
Define myself by what I am and not
What I am not
This sagging bag of water that I call a body
Is my means to go where I can
Like the bar of soap sitting in the dish
It no longer is large and solid, but
Small and soft
Still, it is the essence that once made it desirable
It still cleans and offers that past whiff of what it was
I’ve been listening to Sir Paul
And I do need more silly love songs
As I sing with all of this craggy voice
And the notes that I can no longer hit, I just sing the louder
Even though I’ve become more like Statler and Waldorf
They are happy and satisfied being coggy old grumps
Sitting in their balcony on the side
Commenting on the absurdity of the players
I sing in my cogginess, I am a happy grump
I will watch the blue sky and not look for clouds
And the rain that puddles behind the wall should amuse me
Laughter dances easily on my lips
And I pass it along to you
I don’t feel like a poor excuse for anything
And this large glass of vodka helps
Define myself by what I am and not
What I am not
This sagging bag of water that I call a body
Is my means to go where I can
Like the bar of soap sitting in the dish
It no longer is large and solid, but
Small and soft
Still, it is the essence that once made it desirable
It still cleans and offers that past whiff of what it was
I’ve been listening to Sir Paul
And I do need more silly love songs
As I sing with all of this craggy voice
And the notes that I can no longer hit, I just sing the louder
Even though I’ve become more like Statler and Waldorf
They are happy and satisfied being coggy old grumps
Sitting in their balcony on the side
Commenting on the absurdity of the players
I sing in my cogginess, I am a happy grump
I will watch the blue sky and not look for clouds
And the rain that puddles behind the wall should amuse me
Laughter dances easily on my lips
And I pass it along to you
I don’t feel like a poor excuse for anything
And this large glass of vodka helps
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Warmth of Laughter
The cold shadows of the past play across the floor
Dancing pale gray in mirror images
Low
Like the bit of melody of some long lost song
As I remember the whispers of your voice
Sliding over my memory like the wind
Plays across the summer grass
Gently bowing their heads
Reaching for the sun
I try again to drink deeply the draft from your eyes
Seeing into the strengths and sorrows of your soul
Feeling the warmth of your laughter
I hold that memory tightly
Move on, move on
The effort the day outweighs my resources
Does an oak tree need to be true to its nature
Or does it really want to be a maple tree
Or a blade of grass singing in the wind?
What bird or fish is confused by what it is?
Walt I hear you
I try and go forth each day and become
Attempting to be what I am inside my head
Defined by the double helix that I am
Just be
I want to reach out and touch your hand
Feeling the warmth of unconditional love
Entwined in your fingers
It’s long past time to create more than new memories
And dispel the shadows
I dance to the notes of laughter I’ve not yet heard
Reaching for shadows not yet there
In new moments creating new resources
Dancing pale gray in mirror images
Low
Like the bit of melody of some long lost song
As I remember the whispers of your voice
Sliding over my memory like the wind
Plays across the summer grass
Gently bowing their heads
Reaching for the sun
I try again to drink deeply the draft from your eyes
Seeing into the strengths and sorrows of your soul
Feeling the warmth of your laughter
I hold that memory tightly
Move on, move on
The effort the day outweighs my resources
Does an oak tree need to be true to its nature
Or does it really want to be a maple tree
Or a blade of grass singing in the wind?
What bird or fish is confused by what it is?
Walt I hear you
I try and go forth each day and become
Attempting to be what I am inside my head
Defined by the double helix that I am
Just be
I want to reach out and touch your hand
Feeling the warmth of unconditional love
Entwined in your fingers
It’s long past time to create more than new memories
And dispel the shadows
I dance to the notes of laughter I’ve not yet heard
Reaching for shadows not yet there
In new moments creating new resources
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Just Another Day In Paradise
This transient frame of atoms
Spinning around each other in a random
Accident
I know that on some level I’m mainly space
With limited bits with the possibilities of being
A collection of carbon molecules bumping into one
Another
The hawk screams that it is tired of tranquil isolation
Longing for a noisy party
Of people spinning around one another
Speaking words forgotten as they leave the mouths
Of babes
The killer trying to look innocent stood by the side of the road
It was a hot airless humid night
That starshine could not penetrate
Time showed on her face like waves in deep sea
And she was moist and damp beneath her clothes
She felt in her purse for the cold oily comfort of her gun
He was driving home after a town meeting
To reduce their carbon footprint
He saw her just in the edge of his car’s headlamps
Stopping to give her a lift
Some mistakes are worse than others
She shot him from behind blowing his face off into a field
And took his twenty-three dollars
And his car
Placing one foot in front of the other I try to move forward
I have such small feet it’s a wonder that I can stand
At all
Man, I have to stop drinking so much coffee
Late at night
Spinning around each other in a random
Accident
I know that on some level I’m mainly space
With limited bits with the possibilities of being
A collection of carbon molecules bumping into one
Another
The hawk screams that it is tired of tranquil isolation
Longing for a noisy party
Of people spinning around one another
Speaking words forgotten as they leave the mouths
Of babes
The killer trying to look innocent stood by the side of the road
It was a hot airless humid night
That starshine could not penetrate
Time showed on her face like waves in deep sea
And she was moist and damp beneath her clothes
She felt in her purse for the cold oily comfort of her gun
He was driving home after a town meeting
To reduce their carbon footprint
He saw her just in the edge of his car’s headlamps
Stopping to give her a lift
Some mistakes are worse than others
She shot him from behind blowing his face off into a field
And took his twenty-three dollars
And his car
Placing one foot in front of the other I try to move forward
I have such small feet it’s a wonder that I can stand
At all
Man, I have to stop drinking so much coffee
Late at night
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Groundhog Day 2008
Another bad back blues day
Vacuuming with a cane to stay upright
But at least I am upright
Cleaning the bathroom mirror hoping for a better
Image
But this not so beautiful mask looking back
At me from beyond
Seems old and beat-up and ugly and sagging
But at least my insights are perfect
Old joke
Stepping outside for a smoke
Someone has taken my beer-bottle ashtray
I hope they don’t try and drink it
The ice crystals on the mudflow
Reflect the early morning sun
Silvery shiny coat flecks on the dark dead dirt
Not the Jack Frost of childhood playing patterns
On the windows creeping across the glass
Our windows to the world
Full of optimisms
I remember the safety cone protecting the pothole
Road crews come out once a week to check it
Making sure that the cone is still safe
Maybe it’s chooky day on the African continent
Poor chookies are being trampled and crumbled
By herds of us heading in some direction
With no cones to protect them
I can no longer cry out in pain
Just whimper
Oh well, time to scrub the floors
At least I don’t need a cane to do that
I’m closer to the ground in so many ways
I hope that damn rodent doesn’t see his shadow
But I hope the same thing every year
And after all what is there if there is not hope
Well, maybe a cold beer on a hot day
Vacuuming with a cane to stay upright
But at least I am upright
Cleaning the bathroom mirror hoping for a better
Image
But this not so beautiful mask looking back
At me from beyond
Seems old and beat-up and ugly and sagging
But at least my insights are perfect
Old joke
Stepping outside for a smoke
Someone has taken my beer-bottle ashtray
I hope they don’t try and drink it
The ice crystals on the mudflow
Reflect the early morning sun
Silvery shiny coat flecks on the dark dead dirt
Not the Jack Frost of childhood playing patterns
On the windows creeping across the glass
Our windows to the world
Full of optimisms
I remember the safety cone protecting the pothole
Road crews come out once a week to check it
Making sure that the cone is still safe
Maybe it’s chooky day on the African continent
Poor chookies are being trampled and crumbled
By herds of us heading in some direction
With no cones to protect them
I can no longer cry out in pain
Just whimper
Oh well, time to scrub the floors
At least I don’t need a cane to do that
I’m closer to the ground in so many ways
I hope that damn rodent doesn’t see his shadow
But I hope the same thing every year
And after all what is there if there is not hope
Well, maybe a cold beer on a hot day
Friday, February 1, 2008
Short Forms
Short forms
Quiet storms
Slowly building
Furrows tilling
Mounding sounds
Love abounds
Listing sideways
Two-lane byways
Give and take
Too hard to fake
Open forms provide me with my voice and breath
However, that doesn’t mean I don’t hear the patterns
Of other lilting songs swilling abundantly around
Like the songs of the majestic forest tall trees
They resonate in and excite my synapses
Just standing on the floor of this cathedral, in awe
And being the better person for having this experience
Thanks to all who have let me walk down these pathways
And hear this marvelous music
Quiet storms
Slowly building
Furrows tilling
Mounding sounds
Love abounds
Listing sideways
Two-lane byways
Give and take
Too hard to fake
Open forms provide me with my voice and breath
However, that doesn’t mean I don’t hear the patterns
Of other lilting songs swilling abundantly around
Like the songs of the majestic forest tall trees
They resonate in and excite my synapses
Just standing on the floor of this cathedral, in awe
And being the better person for having this experience
Thanks to all who have let me walk down these pathways
And hear this marvelous music
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Dream 687
We danced last night on a white gleaming snowflake
As the haf-moon played across a field
I heard some melody playing in the background
Soft and low, I didn’t know the tune
It could have well only been in my ears
We walked in the woods after it beckoned to us
Following its shimmering leaves wet with desire
Deeper into the
Glen
You kissed me gently and long
I felt the heat of your lips moving just below mine
You wore gold, I silver – I think
Pre-raphael empire waistcoats and ribbons
If there’d been a stream it wouldn’t have mirrored
Delight
It transversed well beyond any of that
A blink and a flutter, a smile and a stutter
There was not time for a chorus
How long did this last?
An instant at best
But it was a best instant at that
As the haf-moon played across a field
I heard some melody playing in the background
Soft and low, I didn’t know the tune
It could have well only been in my ears
We walked in the woods after it beckoned to us
Following its shimmering leaves wet with desire
Deeper into the
Glen
You kissed me gently and long
I felt the heat of your lips moving just below mine
You wore gold, I silver – I think
Pre-raphael empire waistcoats and ribbons
If there’d been a stream it wouldn’t have mirrored
Delight
It transversed well beyond any of that
A blink and a flutter, a smile and a stutter
There was not time for a chorus
How long did this last?
An instant at best
But it was a best instant at that
Once More Into The Breach
He walked up stream during the noon-day rush
Looking down on the walkway he saw
The crumbled receipt sitting on the cold sidewalk
I’ve been fading for years
My cells translucent, my voice a whisper,
I’m a memory in others
Something in the past lodged in some synapse
People look through and past me
No one hears me anymore
They ask me the same questions over and over
I’m no longer part and parcel in my own life
Not yet invisible, just an outline
This is something I did moving into the background
I’ve been slogging through the swamp for...
The muck is pulling at my feet trying to swallow me
The thick black water offers no reflection
It’s dark overhead and the sun seems lost
I’m forcing myself through dense dark underbrush
But I get glimpses of patches of pale light ahead
I fight for steps, one in front of the other
Feeling like the faded ink on the crumbled receipt
He knew he was different
He didn’t need to wait on the wind to move
He could create his own breeze and continue on
As he stepped forward into the fray
Smiling
Looking down on the walkway he saw
The crumbled receipt sitting on the cold sidewalk
I’ve been fading for years
My cells translucent, my voice a whisper,
I’m a memory in others
Something in the past lodged in some synapse
People look through and past me
No one hears me anymore
They ask me the same questions over and over
I’m no longer part and parcel in my own life
Not yet invisible, just an outline
This is something I did moving into the background
I’ve been slogging through the swamp for...
The muck is pulling at my feet trying to swallow me
The thick black water offers no reflection
It’s dark overhead and the sun seems lost
I’m forcing myself through dense dark underbrush
But I get glimpses of patches of pale light ahead
I fight for steps, one in front of the other
Feeling like the faded ink on the crumbled receipt
He knew he was different
He didn’t need to wait on the wind to move
He could create his own breeze and continue on
As he stepped forward into the fray
Smiling
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Ancestor Dance
I saw my ancestors last night
They were standing around outside the wall of a castle
Waiting
(This surprised me, because for the longest time
I was sure that I was, in a previous life, in Hannibal's army
Following the elephants over the Alps
Helping to fertilize the countryside)
I was pretty sure that they weren't waiting for me
But I was looking down on them
Not because of any social status I had acquired
But, from the wall above them
I seemed to have been tethered to the outer
Walls - Like a poor man's Prometheus
I started worrying about my liver
Below me were all manner of men and women
These were people responsible for the genetic materials
That made me
Whatever uniqueness I was was from the combinations of those
Before the stone wall
As I watched them drift off into the mists
(It must have been English heaths, why not–It was my dream and it beat the
Shitty Alps)
I felt as though my tethers were snapping one at a time as they left, looking
Back over their shoulders as they walked away
Rather than a fear of falling
I knew that once they were gone
Or forgotten
I would drift off
Not tied to earth or the past or
Connected to the future
Set adrift in the air like the ether
Unattached
Sharing both ultimate freedom
And eternal entrapment
They were standing around outside the wall of a castle
Waiting
(This surprised me, because for the longest time
I was sure that I was, in a previous life, in Hannibal's army
Following the elephants over the Alps
Helping to fertilize the countryside)
I was pretty sure that they weren't waiting for me
But I was looking down on them
Not because of any social status I had acquired
But, from the wall above them
I seemed to have been tethered to the outer
Walls - Like a poor man's Prometheus
I started worrying about my liver
Below me were all manner of men and women
These were people responsible for the genetic materials
That made me
Whatever uniqueness I was was from the combinations of those
Before the stone wall
As I watched them drift off into the mists
(It must have been English heaths, why not–It was my dream and it beat the
Shitty Alps)
I felt as though my tethers were snapping one at a time as they left, looking
Back over their shoulders as they walked away
Rather than a fear of falling
I knew that once they were gone
Or forgotten
I would drift off
Not tied to earth or the past or
Connected to the future
Set adrift in the air like the ether
Unattached
Sharing both ultimate freedom
And eternal entrapment
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Death in Pumpkin Time
I'll just take this small one, no is looking
The day is so clear and almost warm
A harvest day delight
I saw the field from the road and
Mama always said what good eating
A fall pumpkin makes
We can use the seeds to make our own
Patch next year
What's that noise?
Oh no, he has a gun
I'll run like a rabbit to ground
But the vines grab at my legs
And the sandy soil holds my feet
As this damn pumpkin will weigh me down
The fence is just a hundred feet way
What's that burning feeling in my back
I'm going down
The pumpkin splats on the ground
I'm going down
Over a gourd?
I can taste sweet pumpkin juice
So it was worth it
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Paper, Rock, Scissors
The emaciated singer sat bent over with his legs crossed
His eyes sat back in dark sockets
Hands shook as he tried to smoothly lift a cigarette to
His lips
“Why do they taste like formaldehyde?”
His long thought sealed doors tore open in the
Deep, dank, dark night, oozing dreams of images
In black and gray, the fog of recognition just beyond a light
All of the old daemons with stale breath tumbled out
Sprung loose
Running amok again, gleeful at their freedom
Screaming failure, pointing out flaws
Grimacing smiles eating out conscienciousness
Ingratiating themselves into all seven synaptic layers
“It’s not the big ones that are hard to fight
“It’s the little niggling little ones that creep up
“And in stick in your skin’s pores
“And whisper doubts in your ears
“Causing burning tears to well up
“Longing for the quiet and blankness of nothing
“I’d slit my wrists, but I don’t want to leave a mess
“Poor, poor, pitiful me; weeping for no one
“I’ve indeed outlived a usefulness”
America, wake up...
Our youth are dying the death of million small cuts
It’s not just the dead on a battlefield drawn in some sand colors
But those whose values left vague
Like a drunk who stumbles into the restroom
Starring confused between the mirror and the urinal
Wondering whether he came in to pee or wash his face
Pyramids were not built from the top down
The golden point can only shine if the blocks at the bottom
Stand strong and hold firm
Where are our stone cutters who understand the importance
Of a clean hued block
The daemons have hefted it pockmarked
Pollution has ate into its once clean lines so that it teeters
Just waiting for some final push
Until a dust puff and gone
His eyes sat back in dark sockets
Hands shook as he tried to smoothly lift a cigarette to
His lips
“Why do they taste like formaldehyde?”
His long thought sealed doors tore open in the
Deep, dank, dark night, oozing dreams of images
In black and gray, the fog of recognition just beyond a light
All of the old daemons with stale breath tumbled out
Sprung loose
Running amok again, gleeful at their freedom
Screaming failure, pointing out flaws
Grimacing smiles eating out conscienciousness
Ingratiating themselves into all seven synaptic layers
“It’s not the big ones that are hard to fight
“It’s the little niggling little ones that creep up
“And in stick in your skin’s pores
“And whisper doubts in your ears
“Causing burning tears to well up
“Longing for the quiet and blankness of nothing
“I’d slit my wrists, but I don’t want to leave a mess
“Poor, poor, pitiful me; weeping for no one
“I’ve indeed outlived a usefulness”
America, wake up...
Our youth are dying the death of million small cuts
It’s not just the dead on a battlefield drawn in some sand colors
But those whose values left vague
Like a drunk who stumbles into the restroom
Starring confused between the mirror and the urinal
Wondering whether he came in to pee or wash his face
Pyramids were not built from the top down
The golden point can only shine if the blocks at the bottom
Stand strong and hold firm
Where are our stone cutters who understand the importance
Of a clean hued block
The daemons have hefted it pockmarked
Pollution has ate into its once clean lines so that it teeters
Just waiting for some final push
Until a dust puff and gone
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Blue Dragon
She walked in with an assurance of ownership
Wearing a red dress to match
It flowed from the happy death of silk worms
Giving their lives for a greater cause
He sucked in a breath like it was his last
And his eyes feasted and nearly exploded from desire
Following the easy rhythm that she created with that walk
He was a three-piece wearing broker
She took stock on trade
As they met, it was a mongoose sizing up a cobra
Waiting to do the tango to death
Dinner served as an appetizer
A pre-limb before dessert...
On the other side of town
He pulled up to curb in his five-year old Ford
It shook before it finally turned off
The driveway was full of bikes and toys
She stirred things as she sat them down to dinner
They pecked on the cheeks and hoped that
They would ask each other about their day, later
It was a full-contact meal with kids chittering and chattering
About...
She told him that Mom could watch the kids Saturday
Early
If they wanted to go catch a movie
He said that would be nice if there was something
She wanted to see
It was his turn to clean up with the help of the seven-year old
It was her turn to wash up the twins
Night settled as so did the house
Tomorrow she’d lunch at the Blue Dragon
Wearing a red dress to match
It flowed from the happy death of silk worms
Giving their lives for a greater cause
He sucked in a breath like it was his last
And his eyes feasted and nearly exploded from desire
Following the easy rhythm that she created with that walk
He was a three-piece wearing broker
She took stock on trade
As they met, it was a mongoose sizing up a cobra
Waiting to do the tango to death
Dinner served as an appetizer
A pre-limb before dessert...
On the other side of town
He pulled up to curb in his five-year old Ford
It shook before it finally turned off
The driveway was full of bikes and toys
She stirred things as she sat them down to dinner
They pecked on the cheeks and hoped that
They would ask each other about their day, later
It was a full-contact meal with kids chittering and chattering
About...
She told him that Mom could watch the kids Saturday
Early
If they wanted to go catch a movie
He said that would be nice if there was something
She wanted to see
It was his turn to clean up with the help of the seven-year old
It was her turn to wash up the twins
Night settled as so did the house
Tomorrow she’d lunch at the Blue Dragon
Monday, January 21, 2008
A Rowboat At Sea
A few notes from a melody so long ago a favorite
A catch-phase that drifts through the air that once caused laughter
A partial memory half thought that drifts like snowflakes in a storm
I see the pale blue of your eyes reflected in a puddle
I hear that lilt of your voice from an overheard conversation
I awake and a dream lingers that we shared
Half asleep I feel your warm breath on my pillow
And see the outline of your hair
But I know that there is no dent in the mattress
I know that the space on the sheets is still cold
There is no voice that can call me
I only hear echoes of my own
No soft skin to reach out to
There is no “honey” when I’m home
Yeah, the eyes that I see now are not the eyes of reproach,
Disappointment
That look of displeasure
I don’t hear the disdain in your remembered voice
I don’t feel for the hand that pulled away
This wound is still open and bleeds
No matter how often its stitched
I try and keep it covered and hid
I’m not sure that it will ever heal
No matter how long I keep licking it
My eyes well up when I touch it
When I’m alone after dark
I miss you so deeply
A catch-phase that drifts through the air that once caused laughter
A partial memory half thought that drifts like snowflakes in a storm
I see the pale blue of your eyes reflected in a puddle
I hear that lilt of your voice from an overheard conversation
I awake and a dream lingers that we shared
Half asleep I feel your warm breath on my pillow
And see the outline of your hair
But I know that there is no dent in the mattress
I know that the space on the sheets is still cold
There is no voice that can call me
I only hear echoes of my own
No soft skin to reach out to
There is no “honey” when I’m home
Yeah, the eyes that I see now are not the eyes of reproach,
Disappointment
That look of displeasure
I don’t hear the disdain in your remembered voice
I don’t feel for the hand that pulled away
This wound is still open and bleeds
No matter how often its stitched
I try and keep it covered and hid
I’m not sure that it will ever heal
No matter how long I keep licking it
My eyes well up when I touch it
When I’m alone after dark
I miss you so deeply
Friday, January 18, 2008
Haiku’s for You
A gentle breeze turns the leaves away from reaching towards the sun
Late afternoon in a damp field
Where the wheat has gone fallow, wild
No longer a home for grouse or pips waiting to feed on
Hairy heads of barley
The stream’s water slowly moves silt along its bed catching on rocks
With a memory of children playing on the bank
And trout holding their own against the flow
Waiting for flies to land in pools in which they waited
There had been famine hiding within the furrowed land
Moisture rose along the lines of the damp grass tops
A single copse of broken branched trees
Knowing more than nature should have allowed
A lone brave bird called out
There is no answer
Men had once hid among those now silent trees
Waiting
An advancing group of boys didn’t see the sunset
They last looked upon the flash
And felt the burning pain rip through their tunics
Worms are the only thing fed by the fields as fall approaches
Somewhere wolves brought down a doe and her faun
And eat ripped flesh on the bone
The pack will move into the hills to winter
When the wind ceases at sundown
The tree’s leaves will again turn to what sun light that is left
Late afternoon in a damp field
Where the wheat has gone fallow, wild
No longer a home for grouse or pips waiting to feed on
Hairy heads of barley
The stream’s water slowly moves silt along its bed catching on rocks
With a memory of children playing on the bank
And trout holding their own against the flow
Waiting for flies to land in pools in which they waited
There had been famine hiding within the furrowed land
Moisture rose along the lines of the damp grass tops
A single copse of broken branched trees
Knowing more than nature should have allowed
A lone brave bird called out
There is no answer
Men had once hid among those now silent trees
Waiting
An advancing group of boys didn’t see the sunset
They last looked upon the flash
And felt the burning pain rip through their tunics
Worms are the only thing fed by the fields as fall approaches
Somewhere wolves brought down a doe and her faun
And eat ripped flesh on the bone
The pack will move into the hills to winter
When the wind ceases at sundown
The tree’s leaves will again turn to what sun light that is left
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Letters from Afar
Turning from black to white
Or fading into gray
A moist lover’s kiss turning dry
Music fading over the horizon
Smoke drifting over the dim lamp
He walks away from shadows cast by a car’s lights
Muttering something about shaving
As he reaches up to touch his face without thinking
That single star in house’s window
Catches his eye
She’s most likely sitting watching some movie
There is no rain
There may be clouds, but he can’t see the sky
He’s not looking
The shadow that had followed him
Began to crawl out in front
As he silently passed under a street light
He thought of the cards in solitaire
A black number on a higher red card
And he saw what he needed
On the three that he turned over
The black nine lay behind the red seven
He could cheat, but was that really winning
Or fading into gray
A moist lover’s kiss turning dry
Music fading over the horizon
Smoke drifting over the dim lamp
He walks away from shadows cast by a car’s lights
Muttering something about shaving
As he reaches up to touch his face without thinking
That single star in house’s window
Catches his eye
She’s most likely sitting watching some movie
There is no rain
There may be clouds, but he can’t see the sky
He’s not looking
The shadow that had followed him
Began to crawl out in front
As he silently passed under a street light
He thought of the cards in solitaire
A black number on a higher red card
And he saw what he needed
On the three that he turned over
The black nine lay behind the red seven
He could cheat, but was that really winning
Sunday, January 13, 2008
One More Wet Kiss
He heard the soft crunch of the frozen snow underneath his feet
He saw the light flickering from the parking lamp
Lighting the edges of the falling flakes
He bent down and felt the cold ground become wet at his touch
He could smell the crisp air that he saw briefly before him
He knew what was growing within him
And it wasn’t a sense of well being
She whispered into a gentle wind
As gleaming snowflakes melted on her skin
Her large moist eyes were from Zhavago
Longing for long forgotten references
The beautiful mask that she used
No longer held back the stratosphere
It had been eaten away by acid rain
Pretty was not her adjective anymore
Time tested came to mind
The color in her eyes had faded with her time
However, there were years left in her sight
He wanted to replace this winter wonderland
With the sandy beach that they had last visited
Who had said what two weeks before
Didn’t matter there
The day’s heat had matched the night’s
Geckos lightly running through the shrubs
Slightly making the leaves move
Mirrored the way that they had laughed at his stupid jokes
Standing together on the edge of the peer
Watching the sun play with reflections on the sea
Of well being and the sense that they had shared
That at that moment all would be as lasting as their
Kiss
He saw the light flickering from the parking lamp
Lighting the edges of the falling flakes
He bent down and felt the cold ground become wet at his touch
He could smell the crisp air that he saw briefly before him
He knew what was growing within him
And it wasn’t a sense of well being
She whispered into a gentle wind
As gleaming snowflakes melted on her skin
Her large moist eyes were from Zhavago
Longing for long forgotten references
The beautiful mask that she used
No longer held back the stratosphere
It had been eaten away by acid rain
Pretty was not her adjective anymore
Time tested came to mind
The color in her eyes had faded with her time
However, there were years left in her sight
He wanted to replace this winter wonderland
With the sandy beach that they had last visited
Who had said what two weeks before
Didn’t matter there
The day’s heat had matched the night’s
Geckos lightly running through the shrubs
Slightly making the leaves move
Mirrored the way that they had laughed at his stupid jokes
Standing together on the edge of the peer
Watching the sun play with reflections on the sea
Of well being and the sense that they had shared
That at that moment all would be as lasting as their
Kiss
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Screaming in the night again
note: sorry for the language, but ...
Each cell screams out in pain
Madness sits just behind my tearing eyes
She came to me again last night
Dancing on the white moonlight
In gossamer clothes
Her hair was soft and long
Framing her face in shadows
Her smile invited me to join her
But her eyes were not blue like a Carolina sky
They were steel gray and hard
Tearing into my broken soul
When I reached for her she was gone
Faster than an instant
I stood gazing over the precipice into black
Nothing
Geez, he thought, as he put the book, Rushing Into Madness, aside
That guy is fucked up
Why would anyone read this shit
Each cell screams out in pain
Madness sits just behind my tearing eyes
She came to me again last night
Dancing on the white moonlight
In gossamer clothes
Her hair was soft and long
Framing her face in shadows
Her smile invited me to join her
But her eyes were not blue like a Carolina sky
They were steel gray and hard
Tearing into my broken soul
When I reached for her she was gone
Faster than an instant
I stood gazing over the precipice into black
Nothing
Geez, he thought, as he put the book, Rushing Into Madness, aside
That guy is fucked up
Why would anyone read this shit
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
For Abby
I don’t know what enabled fates had you enter through my doorway
You were wanted and wished for
Dragged into existence
Kicking and screaming, colicy, jaundiced, days and nights mixed up
Setting you on the window ledge
Watching you sleep, just to check
Only nursing, fearing that whole summer because I could not
Your young lungs true tested all of those long days
Then
Clear big pale green eyes, always watching
Your fear or hatred of water
Bath time battles, like trying to wash a cat
Screams rushing through open windows
Hoping that the neighbors wouldn’t call authorities
Then
Sandy hair soaking in the sunshine, glowing
Stroller walking for hours
Parenting by diversion, hoping beyond hope that I’d open your mind
Reading you just one more story
Somewhere-time musical notes entwined with out shared DNA
Bonded us together, a life long love
Holding your hand the first day of kindergarten
No hesitation as you let go to walk in through that door
That screaming past seemed so long ago
Then
Skipping around the country, you were willing to travel on
Even as your mother and brother weren’t
Social, open to new friends, who were always your best ones
Long haired little girls, smiling as through the sun lived in your teeth
Dancing, swimming, gymnastics, the beginning of a full-contact life
Good-byes and hello’s
Then
You shot the basketball into the hoop
You made all of the stars in school
Your open acceptance of me when your friends asked you why
I was not like the other daddies
You scored all of the firsts from grade school
And this was just the first of firsts
Repeated in high school, repeated in college
Then
It all seems fast-forwarded, your beaming open acceptance
Continue on large pale-eyed traveler
Seeking, searching, questing, learning,
We’re all a better people because of your existence
You were wanted and wished for
Dragged into existence
Kicking and screaming, colicy, jaundiced, days and nights mixed up
Setting you on the window ledge
Watching you sleep, just to check
Only nursing, fearing that whole summer because I could not
Your young lungs true tested all of those long days
Then
Clear big pale green eyes, always watching
Your fear or hatred of water
Bath time battles, like trying to wash a cat
Screams rushing through open windows
Hoping that the neighbors wouldn’t call authorities
Then
Sandy hair soaking in the sunshine, glowing
Stroller walking for hours
Parenting by diversion, hoping beyond hope that I’d open your mind
Reading you just one more story
Somewhere-time musical notes entwined with out shared DNA
Bonded us together, a life long love
Holding your hand the first day of kindergarten
No hesitation as you let go to walk in through that door
That screaming past seemed so long ago
Then
Skipping around the country, you were willing to travel on
Even as your mother and brother weren’t
Social, open to new friends, who were always your best ones
Long haired little girls, smiling as through the sun lived in your teeth
Dancing, swimming, gymnastics, the beginning of a full-contact life
Good-byes and hello’s
Then
You shot the basketball into the hoop
You made all of the stars in school
Your open acceptance of me when your friends asked you why
I was not like the other daddies
You scored all of the firsts from grade school
And this was just the first of firsts
Repeated in high school, repeated in college
Then
It all seems fast-forwarded, your beaming open acceptance
Continue on large pale-eyed traveler
Seeking, searching, questing, learning,
We’re all a better people because of your existence
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