Macroscopic Death [poetry reblog]

Faces fading like new literature,
soft and pale,
sink into the quicksand of poverty.
Their government turned their dollars into pennies.
One hundred George Washingtons won’t buy a fistfight today.
But a hundred Ben Franklins can get you murdered…
Franklin kicks Washington’s ass every time.

But whose city park does big Ben stand in?
Philadelphia?
Tiananmen Square?
DC, where the crackle of old flesh inside the White House
grows loud above the vomiting whispers from a Chinese whorehouse
fronting the CCP,
UN,
and WTO?

Oblivious,
Washington’s carved face remains proud and noble
in his green erection
where he stands alone in the town park I sit at.
Alabaster pigeon poop covers his broad shoulders.
Cell phones twitter at his feet with news that does not educate;
a horror brought about by the theft of a billion gold Franklins
when our infected financiers sold America at the First World War
for a hero’s seat at Versailles.

Washington died the day Franklin was fitted as bridegroom
for the multiple marriage of our country to the World Bank,
to OPEC,
to the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development,
to the World Economic Forum,
to the World Council of Churches,
to the World Health Organization,
for unity by assimilation
for control by one government worldwide.

Apple Orchard [poetry repost]

Apple Orchard
Apple Orchard, Oil Painting

In small acreage on a hilly clearing,
Sunny morning shines golden on chalky-pink blossoms;
I pause and prolong my hike to watch sunbeams lick away dewdrops
Soaking in shaded greenery of an apple orchard.

Craggy, crabby branches nod jaggedly at a breeze dashing across the way;
Wasps complain from gray papery hives swaying above me;
A hummingbird pauses and peeks inside a blossom—
Perhaps she smells the jellies, pies and cider clearly on my mind.

I head away on journey once more,
Longing to return and sample ripe fruit from the trees.

© 2006

Night [poetry]

Night came tapping at my door,
But I with book heard not a sound;
It entered on its own accord,
Trespassing on my private ground.

Night crept about my house with ease
And darkened everything from sight,
’Til through my study’s door it squeezed
And skirted past my candle’s light.

I did not peer to watch its plight
Across my shelves and down my wall;
I know not if it bade goodnight;
I heard not if it spoke at all.

With book aside I pondered why
That one so strong as dark of night,
Who snuffs the life from day’s bright light,
Could not put out my candle light.

Insight

I wrote this whimsical poem many years ago when I was at college and studying the classics in literature. I rarely write rhyming poems, but this one came to me out of the blue, so I jotted it down with no changes. I imagined the protagonist as a child in a long ago era, observing the coming of night.

Cold Is the Night [poetry]

Alone
Cold is the night
Lonely silence until she hums music
Sweet songs in her head
Humming hymns and strumming chords of her favorite songs
Fingers playing music
Pressing hot reflections of a time gone by

A door slams somewhere far away
Footsteps fade away
No sound but her humming
She
Alone again
Shivers in the cold behind closed doors

Someone enters and lights a fire
A lover spreading warmth
Blankets of heat make life cozy
Love makes all music more attractive

All the same
Cold is the night
For musicians playing alone


Penned July 22, 2007

New World Slavery [poetry]

A woman from a fishing village
slaves in a sweatshop,
making shirts for retail stores,
selling them at low prices
to help save shoppers money to spend at McDonald’s
after the Little League game tonight.

She makes barely enough money
to pay the rent of her shared one-bedroom apartment in the city
where hucksters scramble
day and night
to sell away her corner of the world
to anyone wanting a piece of the New World Dream.

She doesn’t dream asleep tonight,
but works to make enough money
to buy one of her nine daughters
a new dress this month,
to wear at the new school
Christian missionaries built last year
down the road from her home.
They convinced her government
to make school education mandatory
for everyone’s future welfare.

Now she sews and goes without eating
so her daughters are not left behind
when the corporate and political tsunami
crushes her world,
her life,
her heart.

For Whom Everything Is In Question [poetry]

Rain bundled like hay,
hit like bricks that obliterated homes to sea;
now she lives home-wrecked with her bony children
and colorless neighbors on a tropical dune
where they search for old haunts
in sand,
on waves
and in the sky.

I tell you this in memory of dancing bears
and the drunk in the furnace—
they who look for the old
always find the past,
but when they look for the new,
whatever they do has just begun.

Night Falls Swiftly [poetry]

Night falls swiftly on us—
It is the secret bits of life to do yourself the way you do—
A flash in the sinking sun,
Ten thousand years rebounded,
Vibrations—
It is hell.

Wild you are but ripe for life
In the gray and raging glee—
Nobody likes to die, but it is evening here all the same,
And there is silence.

No more color,
No Hawaiian girls dancing—
All the knots and softness are gone.

A girl retreats her gaze—
What lover keeps her song?

Perfect Moment [poetry]

For a perfect moment
I turn to touch you with my lips
I give you sweet kisses down
making you tremble with anticipation
I take you to the edge of a precipice—
a teeter at the edge of a fall

You cling to me
but you fall in the rush of your sweet release
crying your passion
into a beautiful embryonic abyss of mind and soul

You open your eyes and smile at me
You tell me how perfect everything feels
making us sigh and wish it were so
We return from the depths of our reverie
taking our time while we go

Passing [poetry]

Sunday mirrored light of a hot sun reflecting off of brick buildings and parkways
where a hospital sits deep brown and yellow in its last degree,
fading like the old woman inside dying with a smile on her face,
happy to be leaving.

But I with a burlesque smile am sad to watch her go.

She should be dying without the day outdoors calling me,
pulling at me to be carefree.

I close the curtains and watch her leave
with no one else in the room to bear witness to her final breath,
one last windstream passing over silent lips
while mine tremble out a shackled goodbye.

Her hand falls softly away from mine
for she has the stars to touch now.

Big [poetry]

You’re so big—
the internet made you huge

We decipher your candy whining at your blog every day—
we’re some of your best teased hairfriends at your facebook

We know your TV faves
movie faves
favorite faves
and all your playlists

You like short shorts, bikini jeans, and certain days wrapped in Jamawar

You love Mickey D’s sweet tea
smoking weed
teen romances
mean mosh dances, crushes, slushes, fireworks, and ferris wheels

We love that you’re an internet cannibal
snapping off selfies in front of your cathedral mirrors
singing how you’re so famous and how we’re so far far far up your anus—
and we are
because you’re so big … so huge … so tremendous
and delicious
we eat you up 24/7—
Yum!

We love that you love sleeping in after late nights and breakdowns
and that you wear Lola & Coco by La Senza and go on long car rides in 3D…
or something like that!

The internet made your Ts-&-A tremendously huge
so if you break yo boo-tay
your posse is big enough to put it all together
so you can do it again tomorrow for your paparazzi
and us

War and Rain [poetry]

War and rain are long;
our patience is gone and burns much faster in the zone.

War and rain are long;
our broken bones and lullabies char the path to your home
where your war torn love bears a daily weight for years alone.

War and rain are mean;
their dirty green and red are always messing with your head

War and rain are mean;
a life unclean and too much pot put a hole in your head—
now your pothole brain is the next best thing to being dead.

You say it’s just a state of mind
and the weather there is fine.
But you can’t hear me call your name
above the drone of bomber planes.

War and rain are his:
an awful dizzy man with piles of money in his plans.

War and rain are his;
your life with him and too much weight put a hitch in your stance—
now your lovesick soul waltzes by in a broken dance.

You say it’s just a state of mind
and the weather there is fine.
But you can’t hear me call your name
above the drone of bomber planes.

No one hears me above the war and rain that fall…
on us all.

Rightful Heirs [poetry]

Man’s abstraction is his mad reality—
His crazy reality is our despair

His ruin-prone proud national heritage
befalls us for a wretched dream

Ancient fires fuel his greed made savage by marketeers

A proprietor evicts a family struggling to make ends meet
No compassion
He says he needs his money to pay his bills—
but his bloated bank account kisses his fat rolls
The biggest dollar is his queen—
see how fast he drops to lick her toes

He robs the land from the true inheritors—
rapes human lives for cash
He would sell the fleas and clothes off their backs
to profit from his attack
His abstractions are his mad reality—
His methods are our despair

The homeless seek shelter in the streets
until the lawman locks them up
in care of tax dollars hard at work

Ancient fires fuel the greed made savage by marketeers