listening to the radio talking
heads battering against political scenery
like actors on a poorly constructed stage
that is democracy.
back stage bartering, mascara running down
rouged cheeks, men smoking cigars
or chewing nicorette, walking out
behind velvet curtains, the audience
cries out for him to return
to the table on the stage, hoping
for the floor to drop out from
where/when will I write a poem worthy
of reading by red-headed rabbits dressed in ruffles
when the days wear away without so much as a whisper,
a rustle of pages in the wind calling to be read aloud
the rhythm wrestling in my mind for a poem to emerge
worthy of reading, ruinous to the restless sleep
of reflective readers.
the Coleman stove still has grease from the last trip
as do the dented frying pans and the sponge.
the myriad slightly torn, poor quality fabric grocery bags
will not, I repeat, not be strewn across the floor of the van,
each with a motley assortment of Sport Legs, granola bars
and rotten bananas.
we have a new set of camping utensils, clean and packaged
in a nifty black case; we'll see how long that lasts.
nonetheless, its happening, this packing and we don't
even leave for four days.
now, that's progress.
so the wealthy and the corporations will cheer for the almighty dollar
that bought them their very own democracy, their second homes and new cars,
a few more millions or billions, never enough after the luxuries of the day
and nothing but darkness surrounds them as they lie in their silk sheets.
so now their own personal empires that used to reside overseas can come
home, no taxes due! hip hip hoorooh, who cares that some are blue
without a job or without a car, without a doctor, without a shoe,
the wealthy and the corporations don't give a hoot, they'll
have the butler give a boot to the man on the street corner holding
out his empty tin cup towards the darkened windows of passing cars.
This poem from someone who is not particularly a bleeding heart liberal...but what is going on in Washington is absolutely sickening.
in the Book about Poetry we call for the unconscious married with a skill for words
but what of great danes, mimosas, street murals, neighbors long gone yet reappeared
from houses so many blocks away, talk of the need for weeders, free-for-all bike repairs
all so very conscious, the dates drifting into our unconscious as the alcohol settles in as
we gaze at upside down rabbits painted on fences and stocky women heading off to retirement
only to return to bust over-occupied apartment complexes and landowners with no licenses
I know a few of them, the ones with grass up to their waists, big bills in their back pockets
sipping wine in Vail or North Boulder, or did they move upscale again so they could drive
their new Prius downtown to fight zoning changes, I digress again with champagne bubbling
below to marry the unconscious with the conscious, a missing skill for words to describe
what happened tonight around the corner, this is what makes the world go round,
and no, it's not just words.
Mission control wakes the Atlantis crew piping in "Born in the USA"
as they rub the sleep from their eyes to take in the last views
from Space Shuttle Atlantis, oh what can
they wonder hurtling through space this final time gazing
through blackness towards sparkling galaxies, towards
home, Earth bathed in blue life, our lives, their lives.
Goodbye Space Shuttle Atlantis, may you rest in peace
in some hallowed halls surrounded by screaming school
children, may you arouse in them the dream to
fly once again.
in darkness over endless waters
an albatross travels east on metal wings
carrying a princess with her iPad,
tailored black skirt and ballerina flats,
her head filled with jewels to scatter
across the conference room floor,
innocent bystanders will rush to
scoop them up into their apron
pockets before popping them into
their hungry mouths.
this blade is not sharpened with a steel rod
carefully honed, balancing one edge against the other
weighing the evidence, pondering the methods,
asking the questions, wondering curiously
over french fries and diet Cokes, computer drive
whirring in idle like his mind waiting for a command
in a recognizable language, no, the blade is dull
and rusty from lack of use, no glint on this blade,
sunflower seeds and stones
scattered across golden crispy oatmeal,
glacial moraines streams of crystal clear water
mahogany maple syrup
both worked across a pink Formica table
in a blue bowl or an undercut one dimensional
basin so lovely filled with rice,
or water, for washing a daughter, a small
one since the bowl is small, in goes
the granola, then the glacier soon melting
away to ice cubes floating in the sea.
OK, zany poem since it mixes the evenings events of making granola and talking about glaciers as Karen is preparing to go to Bern, Switzerland, to give a talk. Bowls reminded me of the first (of only two) that I have memorized, by Kay Ryan, thus the allusion to bowls and rice, and then back to climate change where glaciers melt into the sea. The granola was quite tasty, I'm not sure I understood the glaciology.
delicate grooming matters we don't talk
about in proper company.
our adventures have ended, the floor is bare
where you hopped so recently towards fresh
carrot greens, lettuce and cooked oatmeal.
I’d rather you were there than the dresser
S. moved to make sure you had a spot of
sunshine every morning.
memories endure and you, little Daisy,
will always be in my memories.
I miss you today, I will always
miss you, my fair Daisy.
Daisy died at age 13 1/2; the average life span of a house bunny is 8. She was a very special rabbit and I miss her very much. I fostered Daisy from the Humane Society for a week when she was a baby and was lunging at any potential adopters. About a week after I brought her back, I rushed to the Humane Society to adopt her myself, knowing that she was not going to be adopted by anyone else with her terrible habits. She gleefully terrorized many over the years, but finally mellowed when she fell in love with Snowflake, recently widowed by Butterscotch's death. They lived happily until Snowflake died. Over the last four years, Daisy seemingly beat back death many times but she got thinner and thinner, and I knew her time was coming. She died on July 4th, 2011, peacefully and with no pain. I held her in my arms most of that evening as she faded away even though I really needed to pack for an early flight out the next morning. I finally laid her down on her side to attend to a few things. When I came back to her about an hour later, she had passed away peacefully.
the skies crackle tonight with man-made stars
glittering red, white and blue independence from what
sodium, magnesium, copper and gold
bricks stashed in the fed waiting for big business to
ask for more here they are Mr. CEO thanks
anytime we cheer for independence from what
our freedom and lives lost in Iraq and Afghanistan
for cheap gas and petroleum cum corn fast food
celebrations over BBQ pits, PBR and the right to
vote for another tax cut so we can rouse ourselves
at night from our campsite, pack up the tent
with the gates swinging shut behind us.
Just another day to celebrate American democracy at work.