Sunday, May 30, 2010

Cain & Abel & Ishmael & Isaac & Esau & Jacob & Today



Acrid vestige
Smoke cloaked carnage

Hell’s residue remarks the ruins
Eyes blink open to reality
Souls burned, broken, buried, blown to acuity

Ages’ cinders
Never blow clean
Death-soaked soil germinates its filthy seed


Divided from the first jealousy
Until the final trump
Shocked streets in a
Time without pity.



Illustration: Photo by N. S. M., Iraq, 2003




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video

Saturday, May 29, 2010

When I was Young I Played with trains





Over the border where only woods once were
Are the gray lands on a once country road
Developments landscaped and carefully planned
With rocks and ruts, rills and artificial streams
Upturned dug out stones transformed to fortress walls
Gazebo porches laced with gingerbread trim
And mailbox crosses like the fields of Flanders

When I was young I played with trains,
Lionel and American Flyer
And quite often I would go to the five and dime
And spend my allowance on another kit that snapped together,
And then, I too, lived in Plasticville.


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video


Rain


video
Please scroll down and turn off my music player if you choose to watch the video.





Sh-h-h-h!
Tune in to the din.
There is no shadow
In the dim of the rush
In the hush,
Of the rain.

This
Is the gloom of sin
In a cowl of cloud.
We wallow in the splash,
In the lash
Of the rain.

Drips of spirit had gurgled down some drain,
Or slid in slow droplets from the window
Of my eyes to puddle upon my hands,
Writhing together in an empty pain
Like the weeping limbs of some willow
Who in summer-flooded fields sways, but stands.

Within this twilight in the middle day
Of later life, I hear the patter and ping,
The roar and crash and splatter. I listen
To the rain in its musings and its fury,
To its whisper, its shout and each tingling
Change of mood, then I catch the puddles glisten

Sh-h-h-h!
There is no thrashing.
Only bright silence
And the breaking quiet scream
Of the beam
Of the sun.


Thus
Comes the refreshing
Salvation of soul
That says today I don’t die.
In the sky
Shines a sun.






Thursday, May 27, 2010

Young Poets




Young poets write words wet with angst
And angry whipsnaps at the world.
Hissed whispers harangue injustice
With facile manipulation.
Phrases, like white-foaming river
Rapids, rushes revelation;
Revolutionary in their
Mind. Their paths of poetic truth
Symbolized by their pacing feet,
Disrupted by four-letter words
As if the sludge and flux of slang
Was less cliché than moon and June.
They’re def in their rap, stringing things
Still damp from camp on lines of twine
For the sky to dry.

I could cry
From the rhythmic monotony.





Written 2004 with tongue firmly in cheek. There are many fine young poets doing Slam Poetry with clever rhyme and rhythm, poets much better than I. This is aimed only at those who rhyme over and over the same simplistic moon-June of old time hacks or think stringing curse words together is the height of witticism.





Illustration: Parnassus by Raphael [Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino], 1510-11

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Among the Stones


Listen to the voices,
So still upon the hill,
Whisper in the grasses
And sigh across the leaves.

Look upon the faces
That form across the clouds
In a moment sudden
When the rain tears and grieves.

Find the past aside you
As you stand among stones
That speak in muted tones.





Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Bird Lust



I sat by the sea
And watched a gull,
Who watched a girl
In a bikini.

She ate a weinie.
Sometimes she would hurl
A piece to the gull.
He would wink at me.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Following a Path of Poetry




RAIN
(to the memory of Bill Manchester)
Sh-h-h-h!
Tune in to the din.
There is no shadow
In the dim of the rush
In the hush,
Of the rain.

This
Is the gloom of sin
In a cowl of cloud.
We wallow in the splash,
In the lash
Of the rain.

Drips of spirit had gurgled down some drain,
Or slid in slow droplets from the window
Of my eyes to puddle upon my hands,
Writhing together in an empty pain
Like the weeping limbs of some willow
Who in summer-flooded fields sways, but stands.

Within this twilight in the middle day
Of later life, I hear the patter and ping,
The roar and crash and splatter. I listen
To the rain in its musings and its fury,
To its whisper, its shout and each tingling
Change of mood, when I catch the puddles glisten

Sh-h-h-h!
There is no thrashing.
Only bright silence
And the breaking quiet scream
Of the beam
Of the sun.


Thus
Comes the refreshing
Salvation of soul
That says today I don’t die.
In the sky
Shines the Son.

WIND
(a double acrostic)
Silence filled both hill and hollow
Perpetual emptiness enticed I
Icy winter seemed a yearlong season
Repeating dully throughout all my mind
It was the slate colored cloud that was I
Then through this valley blew a reason
It was a mystery stirring my spirit
Not just the breeze that chilled me through
This was deeper, something seeped inside me
Held my heart tight within its angel fists
Eased the flame I stoked under the deep
Wicked furies against past hurts that I
Imagined caused my agony and fear
Now forgiving all who punished me, I
Danced away under God on lighter feet.

FOG
A stroll after the rain of a humid day,
On this path I toddled since naissance.
I knew it well.

It curved and twisted throughout my mind.
And in the heat a mist began to dance.
It had a smell

Moist and pungent. Primordial this perfume.
Miasma shallow, pretending romance.
I knew it well.

Just an ambiance of earthly delight,
An enticing wisp come to entrance,
Like Pavlov’s bell.

It would reward my imagination
If I traveled after its promised chance.
I knew it well.

But a vapor is never grasped and held.
Now a murkiness started its advance,
It began to swell.

I know this twisted path so picturesque.
I won’t get lost but for a moment glance.
I know it well.

But my path of good intent is but smog
and this pleasurable road the entrance
Straight down to Hell.
I know this well. 


Cain & Abel & Ishmael & Isaac & Esau & Jacob & Today

Acrid vestige
Smoke cloaked carnage
Hell’s residue remarks the ruins
Eyes blink open to reality
Souls burned, broken, buried, blown to acuity

Ages’ cinders
Never blow clean
Death-soaked soil germinates its filthy seed


Divided from the first jealousy
Until the final trump
Shocked streets in a
Time without pity.

 AMONG THE STONES
Listen to the voices,
So still upon the hill,
Whisper in the grasses
And sigh across the leaves.

Look upon the faces
That form across the clouds
In a moment sudden
When the rain tears and grieves.

Find the past aside you
As you stand among stones
That speak in muted tones.

PROGRESSING TOWARD TRUTH
  
If
One
Looks for
Perfection
It is hid in nature’s number
On the petals of the stalk; distance of eyes to chin
In the spirals of our bodily coding this intelligence of eternity
Is the trinity of the designer and the mind, body and spirit of existence into the continuation of infinity...

WHAT OTHERS WISH

I know what they’d have me write.
No rhyme; no sunshine bright days,
Clothes white upon my lines.

This woman not old, not young
Hasty in her labor, exuberant,
Should be bent and bellicose.

I should find murkiness
In the attic, not an owl,
Stuffed, who never blinked.

My fright should be daily fed
Not by my imagination,
But the reality they’d have me have.

Why must my memories,
As dusty, creaky events now,
Be unmercifully mordant as well?

It wasn’t always gleeful, true,
But why only moments miserable?
Is that the past all poets embrace?

Who are these arbiters of the craft
Insisting on cluttered dim alleyways
Littered with our trashcan lives

Instead of with the beauty of words
And the Grace of God?

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Bones


Incident Along I-95 near Bellevue Park
(A True Story)


All trees in brief leaf.
Shadow fresh. Lush spring grass.
Lingering eve light
Glistens in red sundown rage
Upon apparent rib cage.

Seen in disbelief
Along the highway. Sped past
Homeward bound each night:
Vertebrae, discarded spine.
Accident victim or crime?

Each day and a week.
Bones lie exposed and ignored.
White, unhid by weed.
Is it only I who pay
Heed to death by the highway?

With son and daughters,
We drive to the skeleton,
Approach with shudders.
The murdered corpse we fear
Is but carcass of a deer.




Saturday, May 22, 2010

Wind

WIND
A Double Acrostic





Silence filled both hill and holloW
Perpetual emptiness enticed I
Icy winter seemed a yearlong seasoN
Repeating dully throughout all my minD
It was the slate colored cloud that was I
Then through this valley blew a reasoN
It was a mystery stirring my spiriT
Not just the breeze that chilled me througH
This was deeper, something seeped inside mE
Held my heart tight within its angel fistS
Eased the flame I stoked under the deeP
Wicked furies against past hurts that I
Imagined caused my agony and feaR
Now forgiving all who punished me, I
Danced away under God on lighter feeT.



Please scroll down and turn off my music player if you choose to watch the video.

video


Fog

FOG
 Photo by Ronald W. Tipton, 2005

A stroll after the rain of a humid day,
On this path I toddled since naissance.
I knew it well.

It curved and twisted throughout my mind.
And in the heat a mist began to dance.
It had a smell

Moist and pungent. Primordial this perfume.
Miasma shallow, pretending romance.
I knew it well.

Just an ambiance of earthly delight,
An enticing wisp come to entrance,
Like Pavlov’s bell.

It would reward my imagination
If I traveled after its promised chance.
I knew it well.

But a vapor is never grasped and held.
Now a murkiness started its advance,
It began to swell.

I know this twisted path so picturesque.
I won’t get lost but for a moment glance.
I know it well.

But my path of good intent is but smog
And this pleasurable road the entrance
Straight down to Hell.
I know this well. 




Friday, May 21, 2010

Progressing Toward Truth






PROGRESSING TOWARD TRUTH
A FIBONACCI



















If
One
Looks for
Perfection
It is hid in nature’s number
On the petals of the stalk; distance of eyes to chin
In the spirals of our bodily coding this intelligence of eternity
Is the trinity of the designer and the mind, body and spirit of existence into the continuation of infinity...


Squeezed Oranges


Rhyming Orange
by
Diane Stirling-Stevens

Orange for my foot-man; you lazy old pup
Orange for my carrier to pick me up
Orange is not a word that can rhyme
Unless you orange for the Queen - with her accent - it's time
To orange for Linda (no word can I find)
A rhyme for Linda - but no poet shall bind
Me to such lingo - such restriction can I 'foller'
When I decide on what is proper; and what I'll allow her!

Linda - that lady - how she does inspire
Linda - that woman - in no single day does she tire
Linda - the inspiration to all who live
Linda - she does all; she is all that can give

Linda - the inspiration; late at night ... ever active
Linda - the lady - not only productive, but reactive
Linda - my precious - how you do labor...
Linda - my goodness, I do wish you were my neighbor!

I wrote this for LINDA HUBER - IMAGINEE - she is just about the most terrific sketch artist I've ever seen!














When Diane Claimed She Rhymed Orange
By
Larry Eugene Meredith

Ah, how Ogden Nashian
To rearrange the pronunciationian
Of orange to O-Range.
How perplexian and strange
Is this PUNishment to our language.

But technically this change,
Did not even rhyme O-range.
You used it as polypunlingo,
But never end line rhyme though

Excuse my poetic hubris,
By the same disarrangement
Of rules then, its no sin ta
Force a rhyme with Linda.
May Ms Huber excuse us
For our derangement...






Photo from thedailygreen.com

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Morning

It’s the dewy woe of morning
Under the rising dawn sun drear
Green leaves sit hush and still
After birds cease worm song

The ants of society twitch in bed
Rub their eyes and try to clear
Away the sand hills of sleep
After birds have flown along.

And elsewhere where birds gather
It’s not the early worms which scatter.
But the wounded and bleeding dead,
The fleeting flicker of freedom fled.

It’s the moment, not outcome, should matter.



Written during the Iranian Election Uprising, 2009

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

What Others Wish


I know what they’d have me write.
No rhyme; no sunshine bright days,
With clothes white ‘pon the lines.

All women old. Never young,
Hasty in labor nor exuberant.
Just beat, bent and bellicose.

I should find murkiness
In my attic like an owl,
Stuffed, who never blinks.

My fright should be daily fed.
Not by my imagination,
But the reality they’d have me have.

Why should my memories
Be dusty, creaky events now,
And unmercifully mordant as well?

Life wasn’t always gleeful, true,
But why only moments miserable?
Is that the past all poets embrace?

Who are these arbiters of the craft
Insisting on cluttered dim alleyways
Littered with our trashcan lives

Instead of just the beauty of words?



Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Elegy Is A Five-Letter Word For Deception


Poets old.
Poets bold.
Poets carry a heavy load
When eulogizing.
Their fooligizing;
Writing words in liar mode

What is said,
‘Bout the dead,
Is pondered with foreboding
Saying Party Bore
Or Wall-Street Whore
Are truths too corroding

He was a guy
Nice as pie,
Poets grit their teeth and write.
But poets old
And poets bold
Rejoice he’s buried out of sight.




Monday, May 17, 2010

Manchester Memories


To Bill Manchester

Fellow poet and friend
Who led a sometimes harsh life
For such a gentle soul.
Last seen in his deterioration of body
At Franko's on a Saturday night.
Who died too young, too unfairly.






 MANCHESTER MEMORIES


There are memories of monsters, ain’t there Bill?
They float on the air and flaunt us our past;
‘Bout a future never was.

Fiends in the fields of our heart,
Wave like ghost grass with each puff of breath
Poison blades that sever us.

Memories of monsters,
            Ain’t there, Bill?
                        Secrets of the soul,
            Hidden crimes hoping we lie.

We’re poets truthful to the end, ain’t we Bill?
But it’s you float on air and I lift the glass
To the gone days of cleverness.