Friday, December 21, 2012

Let Go - poem

The exquisite sadness and joy of letting go,
of handing the baton on,
the torch,
to those who will carry it forward.

One moment I had hubris enough to see
blood in my tears,
as I traveled my old lanes and sound hallways;
comportment gone,
only a self centered indulgence,
in sensory whispers
of scents and fabrics and images.

Ahh, it’s difficult to let go;
unfinished seams to sew,
doghouses still to paint,
hoeing to be done, and bills to pay,
all that writing to be cajoled.

But, a new age, a new sensation comes,
the digital generation will be had,
while cynicism coils
looping over its young neck,
the cold comfort of electronic isolation,
ash in their supple mouths.

Wrench away like a spooked horse,
heat yourselves instead
in the warm exchange of ideas,
creative enterprise and community.

Sadness will ebb then,
seasons will be praised,
empathy will be composted,
and then I can let go,
really let go.

Monday, November 26, 2012

What happened to the thanks in Thanksgiving?

Before we all indulge in what has become culinary gluttony, we should spend a little time reflecting on what we have in our lives to be thankful for. Four hundred or so years ago, people were just trying to survive, and they sat down with several Native Americans to have a mostly meager dinner of corn, squash, wild turkey, venison and flat bread. And then they prayed in thanks, to their native friends for showing them how to grow most of what was on their table.

How far we’ve come and how far we’ve lost sight of gratitude and thanks giving. If I see one more ad about Black Friday, I’m going to scream. This blatant materialism is shameful. It has no part in the meaning of Thanksgiving. Crass commercialism is unfortunately invading most all of our holidays. I think I know why.
Corporate America drives and oils the consumer machine, of which we are the end part.
I know our society functions that way, but there is a time and place for it.

It’s difficult to be thankful when you’re disabled, but we must be. Never mind the consumer frenzy, never mind the stomach fill to bursting, remember what you do have.
Look around, see not things, see family love, appreciate the trees and gardens, the mountains and the power of the sea. Look up, notice the amazing sky, the sparkling stars at night. Appreciate your part in it. Even though you may not dance anymore, you still have love in your life.

Have gratitude your situation is not worse than it is. You are reading or hearing this article and can read or hear more, in any genre, and that’s good. If you can move your limbs, be thankful. If you are part of a support group, tell them thank you.

Thanksgiving is not about busting your seams, or running to the superstore or mall, it’s about thanks, appreciation, gratitude, and what that means for you, and in you.  

Suburban Chapter

poem from my old house on Windsor Ave.:

                     Suburban Chapter
                Municipal street maintenance boys
                cut the huge dying cedar out front
                as if it was so much refuse.
                From their boom buckets
                they jolly the day away
                as I watch a friend
                carried away by loud coroners.

                Strangled by a sloppy gas leak
                its choked roots succumbed under asphalt
                like a coal miner without legs.
                Malfeasance on an elder.

                Earlier in the week  up the nice street,
                under a burgeoning banana tree,
                a man’s body was dumped,
                tossed in the azaleas like a used six pack,
                his dress was torn.

                looping feline whines fissure the dark
                forcing my audience,
                boasting pathetic territory.
                Not far away, slipping from buses
                come the desperate, who sometimes
                accost gold watched men
                returning home
                as they park their maroon cars.
                Further east
                clapboard slung bungalows
                weather eighty-five years
                of particulate haze
                only to be pelted by semi-automatic bullets.
                Vertical irons manacle homes,
                unnoticed as seeds on a bun.

                But, angry old women still make their way
                to market,
                people walk their dogs
                putting fear aside,
                battling far worse odds on the freeway
                than the caustic curb outside.


Sunday, July 22, 2012

Late August - poem

As nights cool darkness finds you,
and mysteries of mortality creep in,
surround you,
that beseeching hollow refrain about your paltry worthiness,
resonates as an awful tightening
rendering you stunned and stricken.
What wonders are there still to be played out?
If any.

Troubling accounts of destiny,
wrestle in your chest,
welt the heart like a whip,
while morbid fingers pull on your dreams at night,
shifting shadows haunt your deeds done.
Sleep anyway, night brings the cool,
the paradox,
and the rest.

Kingdom of Sea

The Kingdom of Sea Shore swells compelled by the moon, driven by massive currents crest, curl and thunder down, a process of eons, carving the rock into sand, making a shelf in the rugged continent. Light strewn coral beds form, a divine circus of lively function, where colours have fins, where eels sway their grotesque heads, jellies drift in, mollusks sieve the waves, and big lipped groupers idly fan the water, while ocean turtles stop in for rest pausing over orange stars, purple urchins and frenetic crabs. Further out in that cobalt blue, bullet nosed swift hunters abound, slicing through the water, screaming towards prey. They shatter schools in frenzy, eat and gorge, the bloodied column now littered with flesh. Those bits sift down and settle in the abyss, where meters long ribbon fish, anglers and bizarre bioluminescent fish reside in blackness, where molten vents host strange worms in the starless midnight of the fathomless deep. Way above, world traveling cetaceans fly though in brighter light. They glide as whales, whacking the surface when discovering krill, family types and the dolphins too, sonar squeaks and chatter keep members by, they breech and plunge, pirouette and dance in the volumes, in the ancient sea, the spawner of life our salt tears a vestige of then, a link to the water planet.