Brief Encounters

I have held you in hand numerous times before,
Then put you down, departed; but now, I have returned,
And, to my surprise, you are still waiting for me,
Still puzzling me, eluding me, enticing me.

But today is your birthday, and with a birthday wish,
     and—if you permit—a kiss, I hold you once again,
If only for this brief encounter, guessing at your secret,
Which you hint with a smile, until I know it is time, again,
For me to leave. (How many leaves, now,
     have there been?)



( To Walt Whitman [Re: Whoever You Are Holding Me Now In Hand] on his birthday )

Postcard from North Pole, Mars #2

Still sitting here, lonely, waiting around.
Not much to look at, not much sound.
Did take some photos, stretched my arm.
To be able to walk around would indeed be a charm.
One strange object (in the distance) in a picture I took:
     a white monolithy thing — you take a look.

Precious is the Peace of the Silent Drummer

Loud drumbeaters' bluster
     makes heartbeats flutter:
Reversal of course
    means surrendering our force!

No surrender! No defeat!
    No appeasement!    Drumbeat.

But volatile verbiage
    can't erase war's sulliage.
Nor can "time of war" fantasy
    clarify battles' bent reality.

Like a tranquil night in the midst of summer:
    Precious is the peace of the silent drummer.


( Jigsaw Poem using words submitted by Poets Who Blog: time precious reversal clarify volatile silent fantasy flutter peace bent )

rejection

the verb asked the noun
"want to conjugate with me?"
— but the noun declined

Postcard from North Pole, Mars #1

So here I am, alone, looking out on
A rusty, dusty place.

Got one arm, two wings, three legs, but
Can't walk, can't fly.

This week, though, get to stretch my arm. Then
Dig a bit, and play with my chemistry set.

The weather:
Freezing, but sunny.

Hope I don't catch cold: 'cause I have no nose, I
Can't sneeze.

To Crazee Hagee

Preacher Creature,
Hoke-us Poke-us.
Tell of the brews of Jesus.

Of hurricanes, earthquakes, and other death pains.
Part of the Plan
To bring the pews to Jesus.

Of feminists, gays, and heathens - nogoodniks all.
Part of the Plan
To ignite the fuse of Jesus.

Of prophecy, numerology, and symbology true.
Part of the Plan
To reveal the clues of Jesus.

Of Hitler's role in re-storing old Israel.
Part of the Plan
To bring the Jews to Jesus.

Of Revelation's relevance to how to vote.
Part of the Plan
To enact the views of Jesus.

Of how money is pledged to spread your tales.
Part of the Plan
To pay our dues to Jesus.

Of how to learn more from your DVDs on sale.
Part of the Plan
To proclaim the news of Jesus.

Preacher Creature,
Hoke-us Poke-us.
Ignore the blues of Jesus.

Life's Answer

Life, can you give me a garden
         —instead of a barren?
Asleep, my dreams awaken oases I miss.
Awake, I harbor these mirages of bliss.

"It is a garden you must sow,
so then your dreams have place to grow."

Body of a Poem

O poem: come out to play,
from your rectangular box, where you stay

       flat

pixels on a screen,
bits of ink on a page,

fused into graphemes—
side-by-side into words—
and punctuation marks,
sitting on lines, shaped, somehow, in

       two-dimensional space—

silent, dormant—

until

eyes have found you,
retinas reflect you,
a cortex resurrects you,
nerves reverberate you,
a body performs you
(if only to itself)

... until you go back into your box to stay,
waiting to play some other day.

rolling eyes (at me)

got a friend named Koo
but when I greet him—"Hi Koo!"
—he just rolls his eyes

Salad thyme

On a sultry, slumberous, sprinkley spring day,
I went to a salad bar and picked up a tray—
and a red stone plate to capture my prey.

Cool containers filled before me with natural hues—
to make a mountainous salad. What did I choose?

Lettuces iceberg, romaine, shredded red leaf;
then tomato, sliced cucumber, sweet-pickled beet,
thin-sliced onion, blue cheese, and cold shredded beef.

With my plate spill't nearly over I gave it a blessing,
then topped it all off with lemon thyme dressing.

Our myths, our salves

When we feel wanting we make
a god our provider. When we feel
threatened, patriotism becomes our refuge.

When we feel exposed we make
a border our shield. When we feel
impotent, a flag becomes our virility.

When we feel rudderless we make
an ideology our oar. When we feel
ignorant, a worldview becomes our sage.

When we feel small we make
a hero our stead. When we feel
lost, a leader becomes our guide.

When we feel incomplete we make
myth to fill the gaps. When we feel
alone, myth becomes our friend.


( inspired by Robert Pinsky's Samurai Song )

Speed Scanner

Ohtolive·sixtimesfaster
There'snothingIcouldnotmaster
Ohtolive·sixlives·in·one
Icouldreallygetthingsdone
ButthenthepausesIwouldmiss:
Sixtimesthetension·onesixththebliss.

I have a friend (not me)

I have a friend (not me)
    who's too lazy for his own good
    and doesn't exercise as much he should
    and doesn't write as much as he could.
That is my friend (not me).

I have a friend (not me)
    who stays too much alone
    and stubbornly keeps to his own.
    Where have his seeds been sown?
That is my friend (not me).

I have a friend (not me)
    who would rather watch TV
    than go out and sit under a tree
    and think of what his next poem should be.
That is my friend (not me).

2008: Words to retire

                        What is great about America,
                  no matter what obstacles you meet,
            no matter what lot you come from,
      you know you can grow up to be:

elite


                        What is great about America,
                  when anyone causes a fuss,
            when anyone becomes a problem,
      you know you'll have someone to:

throw under the bus


                        What is great about America,
                  whenever you need time to heal,
            whenever people say you can't,
      you can show them you can indeed:

close the deal


                        What is great about America,
                  whenever you are in danger,
            whenever there seems to be no hope,
      you can always pray to find the key:

game changer

Mourning Thunderstorm

Here I sit alone in my room,
comfy and dry,
while an approaching Thunderstorm
threatens the sky.

        As I'm watching 'doppler radar'
        on my TV,
        a mischievous Seth^◊ is coming
        to flirt by me.

                He is presently overhead
                deluging down
                a spectacular display of
                hail, fire, and sound.

                As I'm watching 'traffic update'
                on my TV,
                why does a brief schadenfreude
                come over me?

                Drivers flounder in traffic, while
                cars wade flash flood;
                creeks' banks overflow shortly their
                water and mud.

        As fast as He came upon me
        He leaves post-haste,
        but a memory remains of
        myself embraced.

Here I sit alone in my room,
comfy and dry,
while the departing Thunderstorm
placates the sky.

---

◊ Set (Seth), God of Storms http://www.touregypt.net/featurestories/set.htm

Hold de Mayo

I deviantly imagined:

       Tom Tancredo^◊
       celebrating
       Cinco de Mayo
       and even wearing
       a big sombrero.

---

◊ Tom Tancredo Congressman, Texans clash over border The Brownsville Herald May 2, 2008

Three tenors of philosophy

Wittgenstein said^◊
a philosopher's task is to shew the fly: "Shoo!
Out of your bottle!"
Shoo fly, shoo.
Poor little fly, has no clue what to do.

Quine said
"Logic chases truth up the tree of grammar."
But will it ever be caught?
Without much glamour,
too much I hear sounds like so much clamor.

Derrida said
"There is nothing outside the text."
Text, Deconstruct thyself!
Upon thyself flexed—
Could anyone be so hopelessly vexed?

---

◊ (Ludwig) Wittgenstein the aim of philosophy is "to shew the fly out of the fly-bottle", from Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy

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