Poems Stuck in the Self-Censorship Filter (let the reader beware!) June 12, 2021
On Sunday morning Full Measure is better than Meet the Press – a sonnet
I don’t really know or care what “troll” means
and I have lost track of who follows me
on Facebook. What I know about events
in Michigan could fill a thimble, maybe,
though what I do know is that the far left
and the far right have consensual sex
whenever it suits them. All these group names
are a distraction – focus on the signal,
not the noise. The volta is late, it seems,
but don’t count it out. Good disruption hides
beyond the fear and hate that plague us,
that’d nail us to a tree. All that’s left
is the resolution couplet – the close,
a dangling modifier lost in space.
Calling forth the Muses
I can’t figure out what to do with these
Facebook stories. And it's just as well –
I’m only here until this war is done.
There are other things that escape me still:
like whatever happened to my third year
of MS Office; and why no one dies
from the flu anymore of any cause
but COVID; and why these Spanish
machines screwed up our elections so bad.
It’s been too long since my last fourteen
liner – writing blog posts and tasteless tweets
and Facebook statuses has silenced my
Muses’ voices. I need to get them back:
Convince them our meetings are worth their time.
Fourteen liner on the current crisis, pt. 1
Most Americans don’t know scarcity –
the store shelves are always stocked
and there’s plenty in the land of plenty.
But when supply chains weaken – and they
will with the coming reset –
there will be empty shelves.
The first casualty has already fallen:
election ethics. Half our citizens
ignore it because their favored guy won.
What shortage can that cause? It can’t be
like that run on toilet paper last Spring.
What empty shelves? What about the voters
defrauded by stuffed ballots and algorithms?
How are you ever gonna make them whole?
Fourteen liner on the current crisis, pt. 2
The second casualty is honest people
participating in the electoral process.
Next year or next election they’ll stay home,
leaving empty places at polling stations.
Zuckerberg’s money won’t be there to pay
off thugs. The third and greatest casualty
will be truth. With our reputation razed,
we’ll be one more banana republic
with kangaroo courts. No white wash will work.
Our place in history will be preserved
among the ignoble – the sacrifices
of our ancestors flushed down the toilet.
And we, this generation, shall be known
by history as the sellers of our birthright.
voting is a joke – the end of the Republic
The jig is up. Les jeux sont faits. The chips
are down, the cards are on the table.
The Founders had a good run.
They developed a fine system of governance,
steeped in enlightenment truth and ancient logic.
But did they make one too many compromises
based on human frailty? And in the end was it
that same human weakness that brought about
the demise of their great experiment?
Was “Shall not perish from the earth”
just a hyperbolic expression of hope?
Nothing was ever written in stone.
Maybe they never really meant
for it to last forever?
What’s next? The best outcome at this point
is a slow, controlled and managed decline –
a gradual loss of the freedoms we take for granted,
an imperceptible deterioration in services we expect.
Oh, there will be hiccups. Folks won’t take
these changes laying down. There will be songs,
and plays and parades and peaceful protests.
But in the end, we get what we deserve.
Thank God things are not always as they appear
Jupiter and Saturn appear to be
close together because the light
they reflect from the sun comes from
the same direction in the night sky.
But their proximity to each other
is merely an optical illusion
in our mind’s eye. There is no danger
of collision or collusion in the heavens.
Similarly, the COVID virus that haunts
and interrupts our lives is medically
an impossibility – a non-living thing
weaponized in a subtle act of war.
Its design is to shatter and fragment
our spirits and our faith in the future
of our dreams.
DM me when you are in town.
We’ll meet face-to-face and remove
our masks after too long a year
of social distancing. I’ll buy the coffee
(or beer) and we’ll plot out what remains
of our sweet and certain victory.
Installation: Live from the Green Zone
Weather report: High in the low 40’s. Partly cloudy.
Winds from the NW at 8mph. Zero precipitation.
High fences topped with concertina wire blocked
the routes of my normal morning walks. They say
it’s only for a few days. Some say 65,000 National Guard
soldiers were bused in, 21,000 to protect the ceremony,
to keep the people out, to keep politicians in. An impressive
show of force – I guess that’s the new normal.
Spirit cooker Lady Gaga sang the National Anthem,
and Jennifer Lopez did what she does to entertain
the TV audience at home. I was represented by a flag
on the Mall, a final resting place for patriots like me.
How did we arrive at this point in the land of the free,
home of the brave? People voted. Dead people voted.
Living people voted multiple times. Black poll workers,
lest we forget, tossed out ballots for the other guy.
And when, despite their best efforts, the other guy
surged ahead, they “paused” the vote count and
trucked in pre-prepared ballots from warehouses
to swing state polling places to make up the difference.
We have the evidence. We have all the receipts.
It will soon be against the law to talk about it,
but this poetry lives forever. The election was a psy-op,
the attack on the Capitol, a live action role play
designed to fake out the people, the real voters,
and members of Congress. Regretfully, both worked.
The Library of Congress sent the National Youth
Poet Laureate to deliver the Inauguration Poem.
Maybe in her youthful innocence some poetic truth
emerged. But maybe she served as a virgin sacrifice
to the gods of political compliance. I hope, I pray
for the former. You decide. Live from the Green Zone.
The Death of Poetry
My poetry blog has been empty
For over a month. I still write
But can’t publicly post since
Being identified an enemy of the state –
At least so they tell me because
I question the legitimacy
Of a presidential election
That had several patterns of fraud.
Now I must censor myself
If I want to stay out of jail –
There’s no longer freedom of speech
In the home of the brave.
Poetry is dead in a land where
Diversity of thinking is not allowed.
Place poetry in a pretty box.
Lower her gently into her grave.
Prompt: Robert Frost poem, "The Road Not Taken."
The cherry blossoms are
in full display today. A gift
To perpetuity from the Japanese.
We didn’t have to end
that war the way we chose.
I can’t make up for what
the people lost but still
I feel their pain.
We fought another war
that both sides lost:
A sacred cause that should have
been resolved by Jefferson,
Madison and Hamilton
over dinner in New York,
not on battlefields.
(How much might it have cost
To cut a deal? 620,000 lives lost
Is a price we cannot fathom,
a mortgage that forever haunts us,
A note that has no maturity date.)
Dogwoods remind me
of cherry blossoms,
white petals, not pink.
The tree that formed
the cross where Jesus died –
A passing Easter thought
not inappropriate.
Too much is lost in war,
too many lives foreclosed
the fruit of labor spoiled
on the vine. I think about
their roads and choices lost.
– April 2, 2021
For Gil Scott-Heron’s birthday party
I was so close to the stage
I could smell the afro-sheen
In his hair.
I skipped off my boat
And slipped into my car
For the show at ODU.
The guys in the band started
Warming up. Always my favorite part
Of a concert or performance.
What is it about the stage
That steals your art, robs you
Of its ritual value?
Or is it in the reproduction
Where the purity gets distilled
Out and discarded?
It’s winter in America - the empire
has fallen, crashed under
the weight of its own corruption.
You got your exit strategy?
There’s still time to plan,
to jump off this sinking ship.
The final act won’t be televised.
it won’t be on the 6 o’clock news.
But you will know. Yes, you will know.
Fed up with the news - #7
Three years from now, as the crow flies,
We plan to make our trans-Atlantic relocation.
My favorite coffee cup has a hairline fracture -
It may not survive the rigors of the journey.
There’s a lot to plan, to organize. Why are
So many folks developing pancreatic cancer?
Can living in Washington DC kill you directly,
(Let me check my thermoluminescent dosimeter)
Or it is the bad habits you pick up trying to cope?
Knowing what goes on behind the scenes
Is a curse, not a blessing, not a benefit.
I’ve always hated American-made B movies.
(What is Morgan Freeman selling? Please? )
Studio actors, musicians are living on borrowed time.
SAG awards their lifetime achievement trophy
To Joe the rapist, the bad dad, and his first mate,
Who literally screwed her way to the very top -
(Betrayed by laughter that seeks to shields her shame)
Proving to women everywhere that it can be done.
The Academy Awards are taking a different tack.
Joe gets best costume design for his mask
That grins and lies. The rest of the crew (including
those I use to know and respect) share
Best ensemble for dramatic imitation - a new award
This year. They imitated a white house. Imitated
A cabinet. Imitated a government. And all our
Adversaries knew it. And all our allies shivered
In fear for what might happen when they turn
The lights on and turn the cards over on the table.
(“Damn, what happened to the Americans?” They ask
Me in emails that self-destruct in thirty seconds.)
It’s way past time for this one to end. Please, no
Overtime, no keeping the crowd in suspense.
Two minute warning. Leave early and beat the traffic.
April 6, 2021
Shadorma - a Spanish form
the lockdown
has folks real grumpy.
Murder rate
is sky high
in the city and nearby
villages and towns.
the mayor -
obsessed with statehood -
dropped the ball
on crime stats.
Criminals get a free pass -
the streets are not safe.
the crisis
on the south border
is Biden's -
no matter
what gets televised tonight
on the 6 o'clock news.
do not fear
their threat to cancel,
to deny
your freedom
of expression. This is still
the land of the free.
————— April 7, 2021
Moon Poem #17
They say there’s a moon
Overhead at night.
I couldn’t tell you truly
As I haven’t been outside at night
Since the lockdown came.
This poem’s about the moon
In theory. The prince is dead.
How did he die? He died like this:
A waxing crescent moon guides
A navy man back home.
The queen is now alone,
With her lady in waiting smiling
and bank accounts galore.
But the Beatles already told us
Money can’t buy me love.
I could never be a royal.
Their lives are open books.
Except when there’s an eclipse,
and darkness and cold
For a passing moment in time.
Community Gardening #19
Weekend community gardening
Is mainly a social thing. Folks gather
to work on group projects, exchange
seeds sometimes, maybe cast
furtive, secret glances at each other
while tending to their garden plots.
There may be discussions of politics.
Do you have your vaccines done?
But on Mondays, cool cloudy Mondays
like today, the garden plots are empty,
except for mine. I can unmask if I
want to, work at my own pace.
The ground is still soft from tilling
last week. It rained, but the clumps
of dirt are dry, hard. I break them
up again, stirring in compost, bat guano
and old coffee grounds from last week
to enrich the soil. Building the rows
is repetitive and mindless. Four vertical
and five horizontal. The rows I make are
crooked because I‘m not paying attention.
Not that much. I‘m thinking about planting,
about the future. I’ve broken a sweat.
April 20, 2021
Sijo - A Korean form
They promised us a cure
but the vaccine makes us sicker.
So now what’s the solution?
Is there a way out of this mess?
Meanwhile, elected officials
Need to STFU.
I am ready to de-mask.
The big guy can’t protect the children -
Wants to be judge and jury,
plagiarized his way through law school.
Never forget what they did,
How they sold out freedom for a song.
Let’s never forget what they’ve done -
They sold our freedom for a song.
It needn’t all weave together -
But a stitch in time saves nine.
I really don’t mind staying at home,
It’s all in how you frame it.
——————————-April 20, 2021
Hedley’s Blues
They ask us to accept this sacrifice.
Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Blood for blood.
The sacrifice will somehow make us whole,
Cure our ailments, fill the gaps you left
When they sold you down river for a song.
Those who bought you never knew stolen goods
Was all you were, living on borrowed time
And leaving casualties in your wake.
You were the sacrifice, the fatted calf,
your unwilling blood a fitting offering
To the gods. Once. Spilled on the seeded ground
Of hopes and dreams - your intoxication.
There’s no balm in revenge. So there’s no need
For a present value calculation.
Earth Day 2021
She said whale songs sound sad.
I felt the same way about the blues
For years. I only heard the mourning,
And never focused on the swing,
The affirmation at its core.
This is a short poem for Earth Day,
A reminder that the whales’ song
Is a swinging celebration:
A modal mixture from the deep,
Interacting with all life in its rise.
Listen to some whale songs today.
You will see what I’m saying here.
There’s a turning and a healing,
A discovery, a coordination.
Grandola Villa Morena
It’s a song that fills my eyes with tears
Whenever I hear it. Grandola
Villa Morena. The sound of soldiers
Marching, a signal on the radio
To free men in the countryside
To rise up against corrupt government.
“It is the people who lead!”
Not leaders who buy expensive houses.
The villanelle reminds us what freedom
Used to sound like, used to be, used to seem.
Place a carnation in the barrel
Of their rifle. Here in freedom land,
We march in step with the machinery.
Disaster lurks as rivals bide their time.
Live from the 2021 Oscars
If you stay long enough at the fair
You’ll see played out in living color
The many intersecting timelines
Of projected realities right in your face.
They always return to the scene
Of their crimes - or to be biblical,
The dog returns to his vomit:
The fool repeats his folly.
I went to bed early and missed
The Glenn Close live action short -
Hey, you lose when you snooze!
But I have School Daze around here
Somewhere, probably on cassette.
I’ll have to dig it up and check it out.
From the dictionary of obscure sorrows
Midsummer, n. A feast celebrated on the day of your 26th birthday, which marks the point at which your youth finally expires as a valid excuse—when you must begin harvesting your crops, even if they’ve barely taken root—and the point at which the days will begin to feel shorter as they pass, until even the pollen in the air reminds you of the coming snow.
I don’t recall when I turned twenty-six:
There would have been no feast, just supper
As normal in the crew’s mess - pot roast
Maybe, with carrots and potatoes.
But I do remember when the days
Started feeling shorter as they passed,
When the tide rushing in for a quick kiss
Began to ebb, the twilight of our time
Together. Youth, the wasted source of strength
Spilled over the top of the containers
We carried, whether cup or bucket,
Then hastened its retreat into the depth
Of our experience. It shows up now
And then, a trace of paths we didn’t choose.
NaPoWriMo 2021 #31 - End of Another Cycle
Always there’s an upbeat to end on –
A U-shaped curve. Life’s narrative arc
Is a comedy, at least we hope,
In the strictest sense of the word.
Another Cycle comes to an end –
A resolution and a denouement
That gathers and ties up every loose end
like rope, whipped to prevent unravelling.
A free body diagram dangles
In space, never showing its constraints
Or the forces it exerts. Good drama
Is the same. It withholds conclusions
Until every jot and tittle is laid bare –
And the finish is as clear as the start.