Thursday, November 26, 2015

Stuffed Turkeys


Our tradition, silly, yummy and lame-
we perform annually just the same.
Our ears and bellies full,
our cups all overflowing,
spilling out as it were,
endless, lest we forget-
we will eat again.
Forgive us for our acceptance 
of more, when we need less.
We will answer the temptations
with cranberry jubilee, 
high on sparkly, 
giddy in our gluttony.
For ours is a land of adopted fables
and on this one we fill our dining tables. 

With dopey peopled sated smiles,
a quiet table with mouths stuffed,
 corked and gorging, all thankfully mute
knowing nothing more need be said
except perhaps, Please pass the bread.



Image By Steffano Francis Webb [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, circa 1915.

What Nots and What Have Yous


A-lone
which is not by It-self
we are not
hungry for hollow bread
Satisfied
we are not
as they are.

Ex-posed
to the elements,
sheltered from the cold-
blooded nature of time,
we are not
afraid to gather together.

No-body
taking a place
at an empty table
we are not
waiting any-more
for second(s),
when years will only do.

Rich with excess
Starved to impress
reminiscing to regress
we are not
In-stead of wishing and wanting
we are blessing and yawning
making new batches of Progress
and wiping up spilt regrets.

With indebtedness to our grand Hostess
Here, we take the left-overs
for tomorrows
grand children.
Today
we whet
our appetites
craving nothing more
than what we are not
indulging all the more.



Image of painting by Cornelis Bisschop, circa 1664 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A soul on a stroll


Along the Path
we must go alone.
Yet things catch our eye,
glisten just so in the sun.
Sometimes we stop to linger
a little, thinking about beauty...
But we move on
when the light changes.

Along the path,
we must go alone.
We meet many others, new faces
walking and join company
for some paces, for a time-
until their path goes another way,
to a place that is not our own
destination.

Along the path
we must go alone.
Milestones remind us to push
ahead, rest before it gets steep,
and don't chance a glance back.
Footprints fall behind,
markers of the past,
so we don't go in circles
if we are aware
of our surroundings.

Along the path,
monsters lurk in the dark shoulders,
watching the moon guide your steps,
unable to penetrate your light.
You may have to change direction,
many times, but you will know
where you are,
you have seen-This before.
When you arrive There
remember, you will know
Why, Then
we must go alone.




Image by Allen Butler Talcott [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Path through the woods.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

4:14 (am James)


The darkness amplifies
any tiny tears in the thick screen
It is only i
that stirs the silence,
shuffle and peck.

A chime moves to hear itself,
setting a key
for Saint Ana to use today.

Behind the black, wind which is not,
the freeway tunnel blows and gasps,
cats eyes and downshifts, wind it is not
drops in the back, picks up strings.

The cats purr follows the rhythm
of his breath, reviving vigor on exhale.

The fountain trickles for effect
gurgling fools gold in the desert garden.

The birds all still abed in boughs,
have yet to set the tone.

The stars sparkle and wink wearily
in bursts that were sent
long away and far ago,

For this day-
whose silence
sounds
promising.


“Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while then vanishes away.” -James 4:14




1st Image of painting By Wilmer Dewing, Before Sunrise c. 1895 (http://elle-belle10.livejournal.com/1795371.html) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cat Sunrise Image By edited by Mary Mapes Dodge [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1884.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Friday, November 20, 2015

Blunting the News



(November 13th, 2015) Paris, France, along with the entire world watching, was violently terrorized by radicals. After recently reading an essay by George Orwell titled, "Politics and the English Language", originally published in 1946, I noticed Orwell was on to something. The author notes in his essay the abundance of cliched, trite, jargon and excessive emotive vocabulary particularly found in political writings, news pieces infiltrating the mainstream media's messages. Linked here in its entirety, it is a thought-provoking read 70 years later. Powerful, meaningful language does not lose potency (poignancy) with time.
The following poem was composed by using the text of a CNN article and omitting all excessive, (what could be construed as) vague, or frivolous, emotive words. Those eliminated, discarded words (sometimes strings) are presented in order here, in the form of a poem.


Blunting the News


The prevailing emotion is now fear.
Fear that anywhere and anyone could be a target.
A sudden noise, the air is thick with sirens.
Controlled suspect terror
took the lives.
The French capital is in a somber mood.
Dozens, tripling France’s ability to bomb,
sweeping powers were
rallied with massive demonstrations.
A celebration of diversity,
a coming together of faiths and ethnicities,
most cultural, but fractious.

A dozen leapt.
The landscape has changed.
Tens of thousands
of would be abandoned,
blighted by conflict, trekked.
Vast and also shown ever greater
ambitions beyond.
Now sounds much more menacing,
Erosion of trust.
Quiet, some in tears, queued
A subdued, eloquent, leading, loose, inflicted, sophisticated
and presumably financed and infiltrated.
Shocking display, young, wage, more disturbing still
at least four plots this year alone.
Candid about the security situation,
clear, have chastened.
Palpable episodes will follow
promised after months later.
Anxiety has been heightened the by comments,
according to United States officials, equipped concern,
exploiting products, reforms of intelligence, bear fruit.
The threat is immediate.
External borders, deflecting blame,
criticizing the border controls of others,
senses an opportunity, will bring terrorism.
Hoping to benefit mentality regional
sense of siege, perhaps best demonstrated by the declaration
passed almost unanimously, gives, allows,
invariably in the blighted banlieues that ring many towns.
Especially the young, divorced and disowned by society,
inhabit a world, become radicalized, shabby
neighborhood, placed whole, an hour’s drive away
looks down on the world’s media.
Holds surrounded, representing liberty, equality and fraternity.
The second time this year flowers are being laid-
perhaps ideals.




“…modern writing at its worst does not consist in picking out words for the sake of their meaning and inventing images in order to make the meaning clearer. It consists in gumming together long strips of words which have already been set in order by someone else, and making the results presentable by sheer humbug.” 
-George Orwell

Image of painting by Édouard Manet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, At the Cafe, circa 1879. 

Dependent Upon (Self-Reliance) Emerson



*This poem is an assemblage and reconstruction of various fragments of text from “Self-Reliance” (Essay) written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1841. (See photo credit below)

Dependent Upon (Self-Reliance) Emerson

All philosophy is at fault
Plastic and permeable principles
Perception is not whimsical, it is fatal
Our reading is medicant and sycophantic
What is called life and what is called death
We know not how in the soul, is not diverse is explained
Life has no memory, is only for itself
What petty oracles
Wicked dollar alms: sots
Life not only avails, not the having lived

Cannot spend the day in explanation
A great man is coming to eat at my house
To be great is to be misunderstood
Rich men poets are not
Greatness appeals to the future

Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind
We lie in the lap of immense intelligence
Let us stun and astonish the intruding rabble of men and books and institutions

My giant goes with me wherever I go
I must be myself
Do not seek outside yourself
Trust thyself
Do that which is assigned to you and you cannot hope too much or dare too much
Besides, all persons have their moments of reason
We are afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death and afraid of each other
We are parlour soldiers
By now we are a mob
Society is a wave
History resolves itself
The great genius returns to essential man

As if everything were titular and ephemeral but he
That man is the word made flesh
He who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude
Grief too will make us idealists
Foolish face of praise
The intellect is vagabond and out system of education fosters restlessness and indebtedness
So that the walls of the system blend to their eye
It is curious to see the periodical disuse and perishing of means and machinery

The magnetism which all original action exerts
The genesis and maturation of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended tree
From things, from space, from light, from time
The sum total of both is the same
Time and space are but physiological colors which the eye makes but the soul is light.
In the remote horizon with the walls of the universe
Advancing on chaos and dark

A Greenwich nautical almanac he has
No other data for computing our orbit
Requires infinite spaces and numbers and time fully to accomplish his design
All the sallies of his will are rounded in by the law of his being
Insignificant to the curve of the sphere
The soul raised over passion beholds identity and eternal causation
Scatters your force, loses your time, blurs the impression
All philosophy is at fault
Do not believe it
A man who stands on his feet is stronger than a man who stands on his head





Image of Son of Ralph Waldo Emerson via Houghton Library @ Harvard University. By Photographer unidentified [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. ( Please include this citation: "bMS Am 1280.235 (706.17), Houghton Library, Harvard University" as its source. In the event that any of the media files infringes your rights or the rights of any third parties, or file is not properly identified or acknowledged, we would like to hear from you so we may make any necessary alterations. In this event, please contact: Houghton_Library@harvard.edu)

Half-dozen Mud cakes

Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss  and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...