Rants. raves and ramblings from celestial circles . . .

Archive for the ‘POETRY’ Category

THE MACHINE KILLED CREATIVITY

The machine killed creativity

I saw it for myself.

It bludgeoned all artistic strides

and massacred the rest.

 

Musicians were first bound to atoms

and then cast down to synthesize.

Pouncing notes on keyboards

for light waves to analyze.

 

Painters great were also slaughtered

by brushes of true bits.

Destined for the graphic tabs

and bland electric tits.

 

Sculptors once again were chained

by circuit boards and digits

building funky little trites

of solder, wire and widgets.

 

Writers were then gathered up

and tortured by their software

making  acronym of literature

and cleansing hard drives bare.

 

Movie folks were also brandished

and scattered without vision

destined for the rerun click

on the mouse of indecision.

 

Poets, whom of course were last

bore out the worst derision

for they were left with just a hint

of electric mysticism.

 

The machine killed creativity

I’ll show no remorse

I’ll keep my wafers powered up

for the next new resurgent force.

 

I SET SAIL

My sails have weathered and aged
through the years.
They are not as crisp as when they were new.
Yet they take good form to a hearty wind.

My strong treated hardwood masts
even now, stand tall and looming,
proudly visible from a distance.
My polished bow still gleams
in a splash of favorable sun.
And though my deck has keenly felt
the belting torment
of a thousand salty ocean storms
it remains immaculate and polished.

My rudder does not fail
to hold my bearing,
my journey and direction true.
All my instruments are accurate.
And all my lines and ropes, secured, not frayed.
My cabin is a hearth, both warm and soft
of carved and shiny patterned wood
with fathomed depth and heart without bottom.

I am still the captain and the first hand
and the sailor
and the laboring crew.
I still float brisk along bobbing waters
and long to feel the edging wind upon my back.
I still follow guiding stars in pitch black darkness.
And fear the trembling storm
seeking the promised light of a bright new day.
For I was born a great and mighty vessel
and I shall push forward
until my creator
to the great ocean
does call me home.

 

——————————————

A PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR

A pagan killed a Jew
A pagan killed a Christian
A Jew killed a Christian
A Christian killed a Jew
A Muslim killed a Christian
A Jew killed a Muslim
A Muslim killed a Jew
A Christian killed a Muslim
They all bowed to pray
to the same ignorant God
with deaf ears
and a passion for killing.
Dear God forgive them.

————————————–

LOVE ROAD

They are tearing up that old road again.
The road we built.
with sweat and blood
and paved in dreams of love.
Old man Grady died there.
Fell off the steepest of the ridge cliffs
into a mad white torrent of river
clutching his pick axe firmly.

For three dark days
we stopped work.
His wife still visits every year.
Throwing fresh colored flowers
grown in her lonely summer garden.
Back then we all worked the mules.
And at the end of every day
the men would all gather
with full whiskey bottles and rye.
Women would bring the cheese and bread.
We laughed and proudly praised the road.
God would smile upon us.

Before the labors
we never could cross
when the hard rains of spring came.
And when the heavy snows of winter fell
we became an isolated island.
No one would ever dare the mountain.
But every six months
when the summer sun cleared the pass
we would haul our goods to town.
Selling animal skins and crops
we kept the children happy.

I hear the roar of the bulldozers coming now.
Our love will soon be paved and covered over.
The women and children are crying.
They’ve hit a silver vein.
And the mining company
brought their bankers and lawyers.
Our love has been bought and sold.
They are tearing up the road again.
The road we paved
with our dreams of love.

——————————————

December 13, 2001

WOODS END

I followed her nightly into the forest

her pain was azure blue

stems of her legs

thin saplings

trunks of stone

between the leaves

and the autumn moon

she would whisper her secrets

unfolding in the darkest brush.

 

One night of the new spring

our eyes met

we had no one road to travel

only empty pastures

of drunken light.

————————————

IN THE HOLLOW MOSQUE

It’s an empty hole now
where the religious wise once preached hate
the mosque they teach peace in
survived.
It’s flowering back to heaven
from where it came
and rose again
this holy land that does not lose
it’s holy history.

Deep below the buried mounds
of bones and dunes and battles
where in the hallowed mosque
tales are told
of peace and love and sorrow.

Is it not the will of men
to teach the will of peace
to love tomorrow?
So the wisdom of the mosque
is not in men
but in the hollow.

_____________________________

(2003)

Snake Oil Cures for Little Men with Smaller Dreams

I heard your poem on the radio today.
Little children were crying and bleeding
bowing to your mighty power.
I pulled my glass eye out
and rolled it down a bubble-gum sidewalk.
Three flies were mystically immersed in conversation.
They were talking about you, of course.
How you fought off all the angry slaves
so we could all drink milk and hug when
the cheerios were no longer crunchy.

I stepped on a pile of you today.
But my new no-stick nuclear shoes
kept me balanced and poised
for your next question.
I had to answer honestly
as all the satellites were
joyously listening
and the quiet drone
of your newly found synthetic existence
filtered the last ounce of sincerity
in the world.

Now everything is happy blue
and darkness hides inside a solar flare.
My chain keeps rattling loudly
inside this cold locked chamber.
And all of our hammers and shovels
were worn down to splintered oak.
But I forgot what trees looked like.
And when I pulled your plastic vagina
from underneath the dusty glass dome
it wouldn’t talk to me anymore.
It dried out and shriveled away.
Now all I have left is a rusty nail
and two holes in my blood soaked hands.

—————————————————

GRANDPA

With his brittle bones
 and his sun cracked face
   he rode near ‘bout every mile
  of the round-up trail.

He licks the wind
  and stares out at nothing
   tobacco dripping lip, spits.
Hell, I fought the sun,
  and I won
   fought a sneakin’ coyote once,
  he lost.
Broke rattlesnakes in half
  between bare hands.
Got caught in the drought of the Tulsa ride, too.

Thought I’d die in that damn burning desert
    never have I thirst, so much
  for one wet drop.
They found me about four miles from Breakers Pass.
Eighteen-ninety-seven,
   that was my last long ride.
Too many damn city boys
   tryin’ to run the drive.

And now my grandson drives off
   in that noisy pick-up.
He’ll never know the dry taste
   of sand and grainy dust
  between your teeth.
Wind kicking in your face
    like a thousand angry hoofs
   punched in your mouth.

And my friend,
  cold black night.

Damn all this fancy fiddle.

___________________________

MORE DOORS TO OPEN

I have just experienced the most amazing collection of doors I have ever seen. If you love beautiful, unique and exotic doors as much as I do, you have to visit this blog site.

Which lead me to thinking about doors. So what is so special about a door? A door is a gateway. It is an opening where you leave a space, however confining or expansive, and enter another space . . . possibly confining, possibly liberating, or possibly just a passage from one reality to another. The first ‘door’ we ever pass through is the ‘door’ of our mothers womb. From then on our lives are spent passing from one door to another. Through gateways of opportunities and experience, hence ‘the door of opportunity knocks’. Jim Morrison highlighted the importance of doors by naming his band ‘The Doors’. His band title was based on Aldous Huxley’s ‘Doors of Perception’, a personal accounting of his experiences with the psychotropic drug mescaline.

‘Doors’ have long been used as an analogy for the passing of the mind from one plane of reality or thought to another. This from Neil Turnbull on his blog site:

The Doors of Philosophy
“Doors are the first threshold into life.
We are always between doors; either indoors or outdoors.
The Romans worshipped doors because they knew that, like life, they look both ways: to the past and to the future.
The philosopher is also in a sense a door: a door from the false to the true; from akrasia to sophia.
The door is the true symbol of philosophy.”

He reveals a clue of why doors are so significant in our lives. Doors are symbolic representations of our passage from ‘past to future’. We travel through doors to reach an objective or a goal. A place where we either want to go, or are forced to go. Doors can lead to euphoria, as in the discovery of a new and exciting location or space. Doors can lead to misery, as in the closing cell doors of the prison or jail. And doors can lead to immediate comfort, as in the welcome door to our homes.  Doors can express an attitude, such as ‘an open door policy’. Or represent secrecy and deception, as in ‘behind closed doors’. Doors can also represent the process of decision making, ‘choose which door to open’.

But there is one more very important and symbolic representation of doors. Doors are so intricately woven into our psyche because they represent ‘mystery‘ and the ‘unknown‘. In the process of discovery we do not know exactly what lies beyond the door. The physical act of ‘opening a door’ means that we are an active participant in the ensuing discovery. To ‘open a door ‘means we are are open to something novel, a new experience, or a new adventure. There is an excitement to opening a new door. But the door can also be closed to represent an ending or an exclusion. To be ‘locked out’ or ‘close the door’ represents a finite termination. We open the door for new freedoms and we close the door for containment. This important duality of mental psychology is what makes doors akin to a switch that you can turn ‘on or ‘off’. But we can also leave the door halfway open or halfway closed. This represents a further level of mystery. Are we being enticed to enter? Or are we being warned not to enter?

Doors can also be symbolic in relationships. Do we leave our doors open for others to enter and experience our emotional depth and complexities? Or do we keep our doors shut tight and refuse others entry into our innermost fears, joys and emotions? Or are we one of those that keep the door halfway open/closed? Where the mistrust and the perception of a world that can be both cruel and kind has tainted us to be forever wary.

Imagine the excitement when Howard Carter first opened the door to King Tut’s tomb. Or when Neil Armstrong first opened the door of his capsule to step onto the moon.  While some are excited at the thought of opening a new door, many fear the thought of having to open or walk through a door. After reviewing a long list of phobias and fears (I had no idea there was such a long list of phobias), I found no technical term for fear of walking through doors, opening doors, or closing doors. Yet I know for a fact many people suffer from an extreme fear of walking through or opening doors. They fear the thought of what they might find when they open a door. If we fear opening doors, we are unlikely to experience anything new in our lives. We are less likely to succeed and advance in life. And we are highly unlikely to find meaningful relationships in our lives.

Always remember there are sometimes two doors, the fornt door and the back door. ‘Back door’ has taken on a derogatory sexual connotation. But there are also ‘back door deals’. Do you enter proudly through the front door? Or are you consistently trying to sneak in through the back door?

*******************                                                                                         ******************

If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.
William Blake

“The man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser but less sure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable mystery which it tries, forever vainly, to comprehend”
– Aldous Huxley

“Be an opener of doors”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

Every wall is a door.
– Ralph Waldo emerson

“A very little key will open a very heavy door.”
– Charles Dickens, Hunted Down

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.
– William Shakespeare

When one door closes, another one opens. But we often look so regretfully on the closed door that we don’t see the one that has opened for us.
– Helen Keller

We often get in quicker by the back door than by the front.
– Napoleon Bonaparte

There are things known and things unknown and in between are the doors.
– Jim Morrison

The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads to madness.
– Christopher Morley

Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you.
– Jim Morrison

The story of my life is about back entrances, side doors, secret elevators and other ways of getting in and out of places so that people won’t bother me.
– Greta Garbo

I feel very adventurous. There are so many doors to be opened, and I’m not afraid to look behind them.
– Elizabeth Taylor

A small key opens big doors.
– Turkish Proverb

It is often the last key on the ring that opens the door.
– Proverb

The greatest step is out the door.
– German proverb

THE POETRY CIRCUS

  

 – a day on the playground –

 

It was a sunny day in the park 

and all the world was roses.

The playground toys around the gym

were spread about with vision.

 

In the garden of the park, the poets

played with poesies. They danced and sang like

foolish ones and praised the words

that brought them. 

 

The poesy poets on words with wings

within the sun, without the suns

all about were scattered.

Playground fun allowed to run

what else then should much matter.

 

      -Dark Clouds In A Rainbow Sky-

 

Suddenly in the happy playground

all the birds were silent.

Everything began to change

even knights and mystery.

 

Round the bend was heard

the sins, of all of mans misgivings.

In the playground, smells of men

whom smelled as no man ought to.

 

Two torn t-shirts, big boy, thin

stank the park. Stopped all the barks

and all the poets scattered.

But poets pass where powers lost

and no one is the wiser. 

 

    – The Sinister Sisters of Words Un-gathered –

 

Then the menace unto the park

descend a death, feline faced fat.

From steroid soaks and moldy books

his toy sword poking

maybe nothing matters. 

 

Into the spin, swatting thin

bull dog face fly swatter.

Came to beat the big boy thin 

came to beat the batter.

But no one came to watch him swath

the same. That was the matter.

 

Panjo pirate, one eyed brit

between the feathers, tickled him the parrot.

What sweet scheme, if rhythm matters

save the world. One mad librarian

a perfect world I gather!

 

(2003)

QUANTUM OCEANEERING

I spent years grouping the little bits into place.

It first occurred to me

while I was vacationing on the French Riviera.

The central mechanism would connect

when it was only supposed to switch.

I took courses at MIT

and the Atlanta School of Solemn Mechanics.

But even that didn’t prepare me

for the microwave overload.

When you tinker with random thoughts,

you always seem to find a loose memory somewhere.

It often takes hours to unscrew

the tightness from the astringents and in-capacitors.

I prefer to twist the resistors,

till their transmitters overheat

and their diodes blow.

I’ve never had too many

loose tanning oils to contend with.

Sunstroke will sometimes cause cancer.

And my cooling fans are always running at full speed.

Just in case I have to tackle the big waves.

You do understand

that when blue water hits the beach

the silicone crystals in the sand

vibrate at the same frequency

as the unknowns in your head.

The processors always blink

millions of lights on and off

a message you can’t afford to miss

even when you’re wearing a speedo or bikini

or nothing at all

you do understand don’t you?

MINDY AT THE COFFEEHOUSE REVISITED

Mindy leans at me with wide blue eyes
sparkling stars above a steaming cup
of Bailey’s and Vanilla Bean.
Mindy always has a question
really meant for God.
Expecting me to answer her
mystified and energized
in canyon deep philosophy.
Why do lovers lock embraced
in fear and desperation
fighting odds against a world
fighting odds against a universe?

My buttered bowl of grits
stare back at me.
Lump-less and textured white.
Because they know they’ll never win
a vulnerable surrender.
Her fingers rubbing gloss red lips
hungry and seductive.
Listens distant
quite intent and satisfied
enough to pass the salt.

IN A TOWN ON A FARM

dedicated to G. O.

In a town on a farm
not too long ago
a farmer told his livestock
‘this is how it is,
this is how it should be’
and all was well
the chickens were fed
the cows had hay
and all the pigs were happy
in the mud.

One cold December day
the farmers dog went rabid
he told the farmer
‘I don’t care.
it doesn’t matter
we can all do
what ever we want.’
The dog bit the farmer
who later died.
The chickens had no feed
the cows had no hay
and the pigs lost weight
while rolling in the mud
they were not happy.
They all died.

——————————————

CHIQUE GOTH

It was around the time of the Middle Ages,

no the real Middle Ages, Goth

we were pretty much scared of anything moving.

We’d piss and shit in the streets.

Damn the smell of it all was horrid.

There were lots of fortune-tellers

making two bits or a byte

as in your mouth bite.

 

Lots of people using stupid shit

like frog eyes and newt nuts

trying to cure people dying

from black plague, an AIDS 1.0, duh,

or leprosy, venereal disease, or starvation

from no money honey.

Ya’ understand that, don’t ya’?

 

Religious fruits called monks,

no, not all, Sate-loon child,

there were some good ones hear,

and Court priests walked around

all the time and everywhere,

just like today, really, it was creepy,

in black robes,

and they’d cut your head off

if ya’ didn’t give ’em

a head job or your wife or

something for gods sake.

We ate with our bare hands

and burped and farted at the table.

 

Now we were Goths.

These kids today,

all dressing up like it’s Halloween

all the time.

As we look back now,

those were the really good times.

Lots of death and rotting flesh

in the streets. Plenty of corruption

and murder and rape.

Now those were the days.

Yeah, the good old Middle Ages days, huh?

DARWIN’S DEMISE

When Copernicus gazed into the sun

the Church of Earth fell.

Newton’s apple fell

hit him on his head

and set the world in motion.

Darwin evolved from chimpanzees

and single-cell ocean fish.

 

I came from Outer Space.

My floating DNA ancestors

wander

far through stars

vibrating masses invisible

eyes won’t see

the universe is.

My DNA ancestors

created

Darwin’s single-cell ocean fish.

Fooled poor Darwin.

Fooling you

and your evolutions.

 

I am Achilles

My father was a mere human

my mother was a goddess.

I am a Lugal.

Standing on the expanding shoulders

of the mighty Giants.

Your scientists and scholars

all shortsighted

believe Darwin’s Easter Island

only an Earth and an apple

vast oceans

dust whirling winds

fiery endless

motionless.

Tag Cloud