As I sit in my car
And wonder where we are
I was wishing we could
Get lost like the beats
On the road, freedom free
Wind and cactus and bugs
In our teeth, gobbling on
The American landscape.
Alas, romantic… til you
Realize you’re homeless
And poetry doesn’t pay
And you never learned how
To farm. Your quaint garden
No replacement for year-
Round bread. Eat these words?
Deaf ears on empty stomach
Too much focus on need
To consume gospel.
The loaves are gone
And the wine?
I gave that up.
Years ago.
“It’s OK.” She says.
My eyes forsaking
This fantasy gone awry.
“Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
Category: Breaking Muse
Keep Going
Coffee, Hot, Black,
Cream and sugar. I
explain to her that
It is “OK”
I know that fleeting
thoughts of old
dreams make melancholy
the otherwise
pervasive spirit.
It Matters not what
other’s done
or what I Did not.
We are not hungry,
no, quite the opposite…
We are so well fed
that we should burst
with the energy
to reel in the sun.
“You see, I’ve realized something”
Though longing makes for
great sounding poetry,
my real meaning is derived
from real work. No, not
the farm; Citizen poet
Makar of webs, pictures
words, words for words,
we have so much language
we can’t contain it
awaiting on shelves
for our pronunciation
if only we can understand…
“Want to go to the library?”
10/24/19
Truth Under Siege
The work began before this land found itself under siege
The Pythagorans had for years made plans to unwrite Democracy
Preparations were made, the program laid, the foundation of the
Resurrection Council. Recreating the Masters and establishing
The Pillars to raise the rafters of the New Academy, usher in
The return of the teachers who yearn to create the Grand Republic
Set up the schools and the camps to produce the students
Who will grow into the proffered New Guardians
Teach them Mathematics and Gym, Philosophy and Science
Delete the Poetry and Tragedy; purge the Literature completely
Take up arms in defense of their fledgling government
That will rise from the ashes of these books
Do away with the old Democratic modes
Whose Freedom runs too freely in these streets
By The People who’ve overstepped their obligations to live
Their lives for the Better Good. The truth is under siege
In this Land of Liberty and must be culled for the New Prosperity.
Arts In Chief
“People of the nation – Rejoice – for today the artist’s guild
Has revealed the new Artist-In-Chief. Metron, The Makar,
The Poetic Calculator has been chosen to oversee the most skilled
Bards and authors, painters and creators who will prepare
This generation with their visions for our country
And bring to light the good rhythms and prisms to give
Tales that enlighten and delight with comedy and tragedy,
Beauty and morality to people who know freely how to live!
So, without further a do – let me present to you the latest
Installment to the cabinet of our President, the Poet Laurette
Metron.” “Thank you one and all here in Paterson Hall, lest
We forget from where we came, we return once again to get
Straight to the source of inspiration. I am honored
To be given this responsibility to the Heavens and promise
To return with gratitude and wisdom great works of expressions uncensored!”
But, there are many in the crowd, who wish to silence this proud canvass
Of the people. For a greater lesson to be taught of pomp and circumstance.
In the beginning there was the word
and the word was good. It filled the
Lives of The People with joy
And the bold spirit of work and
Purpose and the meaning was known.
The meaning was shared in every-
Day life, the simple things were
Recognized, categorized, rasterized
Through the lines of the citizen.
The Poets Bureau was the purveyor
Of the word. The sharer in chief
The Makar of the memories of
The city. There was not one aspect
Of life that did not share the
Poetry of the place and pictures of the times of
Persons being human. Articulating,
Elevating, creating the feeling of the land.
Break the day
The sun is slow
To rise here.
Obscured by
Eastern peaks
Light streams and flails
Rails and breaks forth
Across the valley first
Then the waking city…
“Wake Up!”
A thousand eyes
Are above you
Looking down
Reaching the light
Before it’s even near you.
Floating, clusters
Of characters, colors,
Bursts of enthusiasm
Blanketing the sky.
“Did Balloon Fiesta start today?”
Balloon One
Looking up
Bubbles dot the sky
A rainbow of
Colorful forms
Separate Vessels
Full of lives
And danger…
Hundreds together
Inhaling thinner
Oxygen than
Those below.
The roar
Tearing through
Silent, cloudless
Skies, Alarming!
Then warming
Then lifting
Then floating
In the parkie
Morning…
Forms
Forms
of
birthing
grown
structures
now
permanent
architecture
—
Forms
of
speaking
natural
structures
now
permanent
nomenclature
—
Forms
of
being
metamorphic
structures
now
permanent
aesthetics
Adding Leaves
A Tree never stops adding Leaves
Everyday, Everyyear…
As should be the way of the poet
Everyday a New Page
Everyyear a New Book
Every life a City or village
We enter
Asking for your attention
The town crier
Speaking of the here
And the now
Present for this expression
Of the hearing
Spoken in clear and present tense
The words of the people
So that they may be heard:
What they say—
How they say—
That we may say about them
And this place; The good
And bad and in-between places
That people go to become their
Very own demonstration of their Human
Being. We are here to write it down.