The Hairy Battle of Human Being

Why aren't we done painting the Art of War?
What are we still fighting for?

All the lands have been pillaged and conquered.
The air still reeks of the conflicts we've conjured.

This planets private properties have all be claimed.
Heritage and Historical sights have all been officially named.

Unable to agree that the moon is humanities joint territory.
Unstable people take a stand, repeating family memory.

Still, some do peddle deeds to stars.
The next exurb lots will be refi'd on Mars.

Sacrifice anticipates a victorious tomorrow,
inheriting the debt of our last generations sorrow.

Replacing freedom fighters with tyrannical terrorists,
dancing the limbo line, politico tango in religious trysts

Bad blood curdles staining with fear,
Hindsight is not visible when standing so near.

Death for Liberty, the sacrifice of being right,
betting it all on maybe's and might.

(somehow living in this moral servitude
feels more like rhetorical platitude)

Competitive fabric woven in narcissistic natures,
adaptive and reactive matrix of complex creatures.

Will we only be sated when there's nothing more to take?
Are we merely fated to feuding over pride at stake?

Predictably, in the year twenty fifteen you may find
and even agree, it is well past evolutionary time
that We can no longer be called a species of man-kind
The artists of making War, our masterpiece, a human crime.


Image of painting by John Singer Sargent (1919), "Gassed" Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

The Three R's

I figure,
probability wise its okay
            that you'd be right to say
numbers aren't my thing
            they don't have a special ring

I guess it's totally in my head
             just my problem to portray
subtracting the negative attitude
             they just seem exponentially rude

standing so accurate there
              with an answer and solution for all
circa, around, about, ishes couldn't infinitely care
              even though oddly unaware

I can't calculate
              or translate their twisted tangles
in contemplating these my mind mangles
there's nothing acute about right angles

I see the categorical order
               plus the need to make sense
illiterate to numbers, perhaps this volumes dense
               and my hollow opinion not worth even two pence

I hypothesize however
               that like words numbers can do some magic
and that minus either the solution
               would be exponentially tragic.


Image By Pierce, C.C. (Charles C.), 1861-1946 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "Classroom of students with their teachers inside a Walapai Indian school at Hackbury, Arizona, circa 1900

Photograph of a classroom of students with their teachers inside a Walapai Indian school at Hackbury, Arizona, circa 1900. The ungraded school is directed by Mr. Murphy (standing at right?). Perspective is from the front of the classroom looking towards the back. About 45 barefoot students are sitting 4 or 5 each to about 8 benches and desks, or standing along the walls. A Franklin stove in the front (at left) provides heat for the classroom. Several pictures hang on the wood walls, including one of kangaroos. A clock (2:40) hangs on the wall (at left). Hats are hung on the back and side (right) walls. Writing on the side walls show math and English exercises. A desk (at right) holds several bottles of ink, pens, and writing tablets. Small piles of books sit on each desk. The bare rafters of the ceiling support the corrugated roof visible above. The floor is made of bare wood planks."

A Diamond A Dozen

Tapping the vein
mulching the marrow
thru sift and by strain
each and every grain
digging for the dime in the dozen
greed glistens with grime
coveting the currency
of counterfeit cubic zirconium
shimmering sparkles dazzle sublime
carbon copy karats
set ingenuine gems
minerals morphed with merits
abstracted stony emblems
outlast our mortal cast
buried, bought and bartered
poised in eternal eminence
crowning ignoble and temporal titles
from birth to berth
East to rise
the West is set
synchronized in circles
rings and tokens
cut, divided, positioned in prisms
reflecting and projecting
facets galore
mining the matter
for a valuable score
but tied in the end
to the ethereal and material
unable to transcend
the philanderous flocks
collectors and inspectors
of crystallized rocks
grains gathered in glass
all the same carbon en masse
fragile fibers affixed with flare
We are all just diamonds from the rough
that you cannot wear
but made of the toughest stuff
on the planet
and diamonds, as we appraise
are better than granite
chalking it up to a chimerical craze
rocks and rings
fire and ice
rule this land of Kings
where stones are symbols
of Divine Beings
touting treasures of troves
by positioning in juxtapose
foresee the clarity, color, cut by the carat
a womans worth weighted by this stat
We must give treasured credit to DeBeers
for the oceans replenishment in salty carbon tears.

Image of  Cullinan diamond (uncut)"the largest gem quality diamond ever found, in its rough form. It is 3,106.75 carats (621.35 g, 1.37 lb), about 10 cm (3.9 inches) tall in its longest dimension. It was found January 26, 1905 in the Premier mine, near Pretoria, South Africa" [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

A poem by D.H. Lawrence, "Lies About Love"

Lies About Love 

by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)

We are all liars, because

the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,

whereas letters are fixed,

and we live by the letter of truth.

The love I feel for my friends, this year,

is different from the love I felt last year.

If it were not so, it would be a lie.

Yet we reiterate love! love! love!

as if it were a coin with a fixed value

instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud.

Image of painting by Carl Herpfer 1836-1897, "The Love Letter", [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Change of Heart

How can I abhor thee? Let me query (further not)-
I shant utter of malicious, villainous, atrocious quirks
My heart doth relentlessly sound, regardless of nausea or nigh
For the end of my wits so oft' the case yet
I cease to resent thee in still so many ways- Lo'
Must needed solitude and with mustered fortitude
I need thee truly, which is certain no phase
I want thee-Tho' only to be truly
In good intentions, with no more mentions
of deceits and demons from saints-No more complaints!
I shall instead abhor me, sincerely evermore.

This poem was inspired by "How Do I Love Thee?" (Sonnet 43) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806-1861.

Finicky February

No primal forecast
of biblical lions and lambs
but peaking out of the burrow
beheaded in hibernation
Phil is drug
tail first
-wait-
On the 2nd
He doesn't care, he belongs to
Fickle February

No! Do Not Come In
bearing scentless roses
oblique and obligated
as the date is so stated
candlelight of lights refrain
women and wine stain
invisible ink made black and blue
and more blue than black (again)
Fickle February

Throwing rocks around
sweetening the deal
secret tokens and trading cards
diamonds and chocolate
She's a shape-shifter of melted ice
requiring rosy reliquaries of romance
Fickle February

Jacaranda's and Apple Blossoms
White winter Jasmine
Witch-hazel Sweet-box
all brazenly in bloom
icy appeal of a happy tree boughs
skeleton limbed bones poking thru
mimicking the mockingbird's song
Fickle February

Happy and hopeful
singing into spring
wallowing in winter
disappointments dashed
rekindled by revenge
which counts the ways
of these 20 something days
Fickle February

Rain and sun with snowy flowers
mystical manners
of this monthly matter made
Sinners and Saints
Lovers and Loners
a figment of our fabrication
Fickle February

Just a moment

Have you ever read a quote
that struck a certain note?

Or seen an incredible and baffling painting
That boggles your mind to near fainting?

Have you heard that song they redundantly play on the radio,
hasten to hearken-it's about something that happened to you...

Even when a dusty filed away book
Is about your life, once you look...

Preserved in frozen magical moments like these
picturesquely public are life's encrypted pleasantries.

For you cannot share
what was always there
nor would anyone care
about your internal affair

Melodious muted moments

When words won't work
silence sounds sweet.

Image of painting by Albert Joseph Moore(1848-1893) "Seashells", [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.