Mysterious   Friday, October 05, 2018

The mystery of art and its relationship to truth.


we are mysteries
to us

you are a mystery
to me

and I'm just as mysterious
to you

and that' the way
it's best for us to be

how much of the stories I tell
is true

and how much
is false

made up for my amusement
and maybe yours

you'll never know
and I'll never tell

cause oft-times
I'm not sure I even want to know

The long time between issues (last post September 15th) left me with a surplus of poems I thought good enough to post here. So that's what I've done, along with a few poets from my library.



bus stop passions
talking to an evangelical fella about global warming

Pablo Neruda

Through a Closed Mouth the Flies Enter


tall young women abound
a woman chairing a small meeting at the coffeehouse
traveling girls at 16 do no want help from old men

John Ruiz, Archpriest of Hite
Of the Qualities of Small Women

Juan Ramon Jimenez

Yellow Spring

Federico Garcia Lorca

Ballad of the Moon, Moon


on the cusp
relief that passes loudly, like a fast train

David Eberhardt

Homage to the TV series "The Sopranos"


eight straight days of rain
the rain begins again
everybody loves the rain

Linda Rodriguez
Steeling Myself
Caveat Emptor


good morning
a perfect day in September

Linda Dove

The Dog from Pompeii



Keith Maldrop

Misfit River


hear your carrot scream

Pancho Mendoza



I'm willing to wait, how 'bout you?

Wendell Berry

Let Us Pledge


an old man sits


the poet choose wrong again

Two pieces to demonstrate I don't spend all of my time at the coffeehouse.

First, a man I see every day who I have never spoken to except for a brief greeting as we pass.

And the second, a man to speak to often.

bus stop passions

I've seen him
in the neighborhood,
broad smile,
a friendly nod
as he passes,
yet still an air
of strangeness

he's standing
in a small pasture
by Apache Creek,
about twenty yards
from a bus stop

he appears,
very tall,
long thin legs
in blue, blue jeans,
wide white strip
above his feet
where his pant legs
are rolled up
like it is 1957
all over again...

he stands straight
like a high
blue tree,
jutting out
like sails
in a heavy wind

open before him
a large,
hard-bound book

a true tome
of a book

it seems

lips moving,
declaiming his
to the wind...

for the bus

talking to an evangelical fella about global warming

talking to an
evangelical fella
about global warming
and he maintains it is no problem...

God made the problem, he said
and he can fix it

all we need to do is pray...

but  you know prayer won't work
without appropriate virgin sacrifice,
I said

well, there's the rub, he said, we're
damn near flat out of virgins...

well, maybe we should call a scientist,
I said

I understand they don't require


For the second issue in a row, I have a poem by Pablo Neruda, this one from his book Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon, a Harper Perennial published in 1997, with translation by Stephen Mitchell.

The poem I picked incorporates a adage I learned while studying Spanish for the Peace Corps. That's one of the reasons I picked it, in addition to it being a typically beautiful poem, just as we always expect from Neruda.

The adage is Cierra la boca y no entra mosca, actually the opposite advice from the poem title. Instead of this adage that says close your mouth and the flies won't get in, the title suggests that flies get in though a closed mouth.

Another fun adage I earned - No se deja dar gato por liebre.or, don't take a cat for a goat.

I think these must be obsolete because, even though they stick to the memory once heard, growing up bi-lingual culture, I had never heard either before.

The book was a father's day present from my son years ago, lost for years before my son, while visiting this week, found it again.

I'm very happy. I love Neruda and this book is a large collection of very good Neruda.

Through a Closed Mouth the Flies Enter
          (Por boca Cerrada entran las moscas)

Why with those red flames
are rubies ready to burn?

Why does the heart of the topaz
have yellow honeycombs?

Why does the rose amuse itself
by changing the color of its dreams?

Why does the emerald grow cold
like a drowned submarine?

And why does the sky turn pale
over the June stars?

Where does the lizard's tail
buy its fresh paint?

Where is the underground fire
that resurrects the carnations?

Where does the salt get
that transparent gaze?

Where did the coals sleep
that they got up so dark?

And where, where does the tiger buy
stripes of mourning, stripes of gold?

When did the honeysuckle begin
to know its perfume?

When did the pine tree realize
its fragrant effect?

When did the lemons learn
the same catechism as the sun?

When did the smoke learn to fly?

When do the roots converse?

What does the tortoise meditate on?
Where does the shade withdraw?
What song does the rain repeat?
Where do the birds go to die?
And why are the leaves green?

What we know is so little
and what we presume is so much
and we learn so slowly
that we ask and then we die.
Better to keep our pride
for the city of the dead
on the day of the departed
and there when the wind goes through
the hollows of your skull
it will decipher these enigmas for you,
whispering the truth in the space
where your ears used to be

Now back to the coffeehouse for some women watching.

tall young women abound

it is the morning
of tall young women
at the coffeehouse, beauty
all around, stacked high, two
at the table next to me, talking
about stuff so entirely boring to me
it washes through one ear and
out the other with minimal disruption
to the still, stagnant waters of my
morning brain...

I do know that the two next to me
are quite pretty in their tallness,
one dark-haired in a flowing white
blouse and black pants, her right leg
crossed her left knee, bouncing
up and down in constant motion...

the other, in a white pants suit,
actually, more cream than white,
blond hair, long to the center of her
back, green eyes, wide as if seeing
the world for the first time, even wider,
like the sighting of a forest
apparition, as she takes a bite
of her bagel, as if the mouth muscle
is connected to the eyeball muscle
and when one opens wide
so does the other...

but then there is a ripple
in my stagnant brain pool
as enough of their conversation
slips through so that I understand
that the subject of their intensity
is real estate speculation and
finance and construction options
should a particular plot on the north side
be purchased for

and simultaneous to that revelation
a pretty short woman in
a mini-dress walks

a woman chairing a small meeting at the coffeehouse

not an unattractive woman,
but with small flinty eyes,
watching her table mates
like a hogtied sparrow
watching the morning's most
succulent worm

a doer,
a person with purpose,
on her fourth cup of coffee
with a goal for this meeting
and impatient with those
she must rely on
to get it

traveling girls at 16 do not want help from old men

the end
of a long hard day,
though the sun still shines,
it is the twilight of my day's vitality...

only this to report,
a moment in passing, a moment
as brief as a courtesan's embrace, as
a shortly after 7 a.m I cross the sidewalk
to enter the coffeehouse as its iron gate

and, crossing my path, walking straight ahead
down the sidewalk, looking straight ahead
down the sidewalk, not the briefest glance left or right,
so focused is she, this young girl,
I don't get even enough notice from her
to offer my normal morning greeting, the
welcome to the new day everyone gets from me,
human or animal, self-confident bankers and dogs lost
and unfound, and street people equally
lost and unfound, so in need of  good morning are
they both...

the young girl, no more than twenty, possibly
as young as sixteen, blond, strong pleasing Nordic
features, thin, but not as fashionably emaciated
as some of the professional women who come
for coffee or a meeting in the morning...

the girl a waif instead, in a soft yellow
summer smock so thin and light it flutters
as she walks, as if a breeze was blowing
this still, humid morning, and her feet,
that's what stops me cold, her feet in flip flop
sandals, from several inches above her ankles
to the ground, as black as if she had walked
through a burned building barefooted...

and so the worn pack she carried as she walked
past me without looking made a new kind of
sense, a traveler, so young and obviously
hard-traveled, alone in the solitude
of he own mind...

I thought as she passed and disappeared
down the sidewalk how I might help, realizing
as I did, that sixteen-year-old girls do not expect
or trust help from old men, instead just trouble they
would be most pleased to share...

Next I have three poets from Introduction to Spanish Poetry, a dual language anthology published by Dover Publications in 1965, The three poets include a priest from the 11th century, a Nobel Prize winning poet whose lifetime crossed two centuries, the 19th and the 20th, and a 20th century playwright and poet revolutionary who was murdered for his trouble.

First, Juan Ruiz, Archpriest of Hita

Born in or about 1280, he is described as the first of Spanish humorists. Imprisoned by Archbishop of Toledo (not such an unusual fate for the jesters of that time and now). While in prison he wrote Book of good (best) love, a kind of Spanish Canterbury Tales, a mixture of serious and comic, satirical and devotional.

Ruiz died in or about 1351,

from Book of Good Love

Of the Qualities of Small women (excerpt)

     A small bird is the skylark and so is the nightingale,
yet they sing more sweetly than any large bird;
the woman who is small is therefore the better;
when treated with affection she is sweeter than sugar or a flower.

     There is nothing to be compared with a small woman,
she is an earthly paradise, and a consolation,
a solace and a joy, a pleasure and a blessing,
she is better in the testing than in the first meeting.

     I always preferred a small woman to a big one,
for it is not unwise to run away from a great evil;
of evils choose the lesser, saith the Philosopher,
therefore, with women, the smallest is the best.

The second poet is Juan Ramon Jimenez. Born in 1881in a very small village where  he lived until he moved to Madrid in 1900. In 1918 he made a brief trip to New York to get married. After the outbreak of the revolution he and his wife moved to Puerto Rico and Cuba, moving back to the US in 1937. He returned to Puerto Rico where his wife died in 1956. He stayed in Puerto Rico until his death in 1958.

His work paved the way forward, with a change to a freer verse with a more daring use of images and metaphor.

Yellow Spring

     April was coming, full
of yellow flowers:
the brook was yellow,
the fence, the hill was yellow,
the children's cemetery,
that orchard where love used to live.

     The sun anointed the world in yellow
with its fallen light;
ah, among the golden lilies,
the warm, the golden water;
the yellow butterflies
over yellow roses!

     Yellow garlands were climbing
the trees; the day
was a gold-incensed blessing,
in a golden awakening of life.
Among the bones of the dead,
God opened his yellow hands.

And the last of my three poets, Federico Garcia Lorca, the most modern of the three. Born in 1898, Lorca was a playwright, poet and revolutionary murdered by nationalist thugs at the young age of 38.

Ballad of the Moon, Moon

     The moon came to the ore
in her bustle of spikenard.
The child looks and looks.
The child is looking at her.
In the sympathetic air
the moon waves her arms
and discloses, lewd and chaste,
her beasts of hard tin.
Run away, moon, moon, moon!
If the Gypsies should come,
they would make from your heart
white necklaces and white rings.
Child, let me go on dancing.
When the Gypsies come
they will find you in the anvil
with your Little eye closed.
Run away, moon, moon, moon?
for already I hear their horses.
Child, let me alone, do not step
on my starched whiteness.

     The horseman was approaching,
beating the drum of the plain.
Inside the forge,
the child's eyes are closed.

     Through the olive grove came,
bronze and dream, the gypsies.
Their hands lifted upright
and their eye half closed.

     Oh, how the owl is hooting,
oh, how it hoots in the tree!
The moon goes through the sky
with a child by the hand.

     The gypsies inside the forge,
are weeping, crying loudly.
The air watches and watches.
The air is watching it.

On the edge of August, going into September, and change is in the air.

on the cusp

a little longer
in these last days
of August,
and the sun sleeps a little longer
behind the dark horizon

the moon,
still high in the baby blue sky,
is slightly flat on one side,
like a pumpkin left too long
in the grass beside
the chinaberry tree

the morning is cool, with a
gentle breeze, but the day
will be hot, not as hot
as a week ago when the sun
blistered that afternoon
and into the early evening...

on the cusp, these days
of  passage, change,
but so slight and tenuous
you have to be up as the sun
hesitates to rise if you want
to sense it...

relief that passes loudly, like a fast train

a wind-blown
of afternoon rain
smashes against my bedroom window
and dog and I
both jump from the bed
in surprise and in appreciation
for the wet sound of it...

we see the trees jitterbug
as the cat scurries through the storm
to her dry hide-away under the shed


the rain stops as quickly
and abruptly as it started...

bright sun returns,
steams the wet grass;
humidity rises like a misery curtain,
the price we pay
for five minutes of summer rain

This little Sopranos parody is by my poet friend David Eberhardt.

Homage to the TV series, "The Sopranos"

I was poppin percosets
like fuckin ju ju beads...& then it hit me
in the back of my head
like a fukin pool cue...
I think I need a Lincoln Town Car
To drive by the abandoned
Durable water repellent plant
Near Newark
Yuse can see from the turnpike..
Dura Pruf, yeh
That's it
and while we're at it
We elected trump.
You got a problem widit?
The business of amurika
Is business!

Rainy days here in September near the end of a very dry summer, near 18 inches, a record for the month.

an eighth straight day of rain

more rain today
and the morning is dim
as a clouded-over dusk at that moment
when dark tightens its grip on the throat of a dying day

wind begins to rustle the trees,
a preliminary moment
before rain's first wave
tops eastern hills...

soon it will be on us

an eighth straight day of rain,
but it was so dry before
no one complains
as bursting green replaces
the brown rash of interminable

I watch out my kitchen window,
for the glory of another
wet moment

the rain begins again

17 inches of rain
in barely more than a week,
clocking in and out like a factory worker,
day and night shifts, in for fifteen minutes
to a couple of hours, than out for a half hour,
gathering itself into itself...

and the sun shines bright for its time,
raising steam from he grass, or, if at night
a break in the clouds so the thin-veiled moon can make
a short crack in the dark...

the sun is taking its temporary turn right now, rain droplets
gleaming like diamonds hanging, suspended on tree leaves,
scattered on the blades of grass, all of it, in the backyard
a green forest wall on all sides.

and now,
the rain begin again...

everybody loves the rain

I will
strip down today
and expose my body
in all its less than-glory
to the wash of September rain,
the real glory after a hellish summer,
bone dry, like the Indian bones they found
while repairing a highway overpass, 1,000 years old
with an arrow lodged in its spine, murder on the
Texas Express, clay walls of its small habitat
hardened and burned, glazed almost, how
life and the conditions of life refuse
to change ever under the circling
of the earth and the moon,
circling above the long
years and days of
hill country

but something did change
this week, the blaze of sun sat
behind the onset of thick gray skies
and even the parched bones, freed by the
rain from their hillside grave, sigh a quiet moan
of release

The next poems are by Linda Rodriguez and are taken from her book Heart's Migration. The book was published by The Church Press in 2009.

The poet has published numerous articles for general and scholarly journals. Her poetry has appeared in numerous poetry journals and she has published one chapbook. This is her first full book except for an earlier cookbook of Mexican dishes.

Steeling Myself

I sit up in bed, shaking.
This was my last try.
He doesn't know,
wants to go on
pretending I sleep.
The tears in his voice will try to soften
my back, but I've learned
the way those tears vanish
into his hip pocket
once I bend.
Staring ahead into the dark,
I shiver and start
to say something
I'd decided not to say

Caveat Emptor

This is serious business.
I can't pretend to you.
I discard widow dressing,
displaying all of me before you.
Not trying to hide
or fix up flaws, from stretch marks to scars
of old loves.
Everything inside me -
from bones to dreams -
has been cracked and mended
I'm an honest woman,
want no cheating .
Take a good long look.
We can't have any dissembling,
no pride or shame between us, love.
This is for real.

Two morning poems.

good morning

the orange, half-light
phase of the morning's rising
an another sign of seasons changing,
the coffeehouse is already crowded, men
and women, young and old, including
a man in a light-gray suit reading
a thick paperback, his black dress shoes
shining in the dim light, his suit, his shoes,
his necktie (a subtle pink), quietly assert serious

else, head down
over their electronic devices,
and when the coffee grinder stops,
very quiet...

through the high windows, the first
blue sky of the day, white cloud fluff
passing slowly...

it is a good morning

a perfect day for September

7:00 a.m.

72 degrees

a sweet-smelling zephyr
blowing softly from the north

opening the door
for heavy rain to come this afternoon
from a gulf storm expected to stay
with us today, tonight and the
day after

and I can't imagine a more perfect day
for September

These poems are by Linda Dove, taken from her book in defense of objects. The book was published by Bear Star Press in 2009.

Dove retired from fifteen years of college teaching in 2004 to take up ranching in Skull Valley, Arizona. She holds a PhD in renaissance literature and taught most recently at Prescott College and Yavapai College in Arizona.

The Dog from Pompeii

                 sculptural installation by Allan McCollum, 1991

Fate replicates. The chained dog of ancient Pompeii, caught
     on his back, writhing in his collar against the tile floor
swept with ash, is now many dogs all their fours in the air.

It's as if the one dog, the main attraction, turns in the dessert case
     of meringue pie, rotates his hindquarters, his open mouth,
spinning all sides of himself past that August afternoon. He is back

in motion, freeze-framed on long tables, back to the contortionist
     he became when the volcano blew, when the people
of his house ran past him into the street, holding hands. He hated that

collar, its thick leather rib such a nuisance when the need to run
     reawakens. Now body after body drains of color,ghost-meats
that ask you what to do about such a thing as this - the domestic cast

as the heavy, the sort of weight you might carry around in a bad year,
     like footed moons. When ash smothered the body/bodies,
legs  twisted upright in nursery beds, row after tow of double helix.

After Miscarriage

Perhaps it was chose times my body found me
at that month's apex with prayer in my mouth.
It though I was again begging for blood,

mistook my rare thanksgiving plaint.
Like when a downpour slides off sun baked
ground, the universe must be mishearing.

Not surprising given the way things work.
The way feathers hook their teeth together.
The way the moon sometimes rises bigger

than the sun,orange, ulcerated.. The way
a thought soars through space then drops again
like an arrow, heavy and true enough.

Hard times and hot days.

This day, before the rains came, raising our aquifer level (upon which the city depends for continued life) from 640 feet to over 700 feet, setting aside until at least next summer any necessity of continued rationing.


the Poet Laureate
of Jiggle
is taking the day off
on the beautiful, cloudy
sky I can see from where
I sit, a promising day
when blistering sun
is embargoed
for the duration

a day when the hour and a half
I spent yesterday evening
watering my grass, which can only
be done with a hand-held hose
because under Level Two rationing
I can only use a sprinkler to keep my yard
alive one day a week one hour max
between mosquito flits...

holding my hose
last night for my full hour allotment,
enough to keep my grass alive
for about twelve minutes under normal sun,
while sans sun like today, I might get as much
as forty-eight minutes of renewed

I see a bird high in the sky
surfing the clouds,
enjoying their dewy wet,
which I would too if only I could

as the Poet Laureate of Jiggle
slips past the clouds
with a momentary memory
of the young woman who passed
his table this morning, obviously
un-hindered beneath a blouse of
soft, flowing fabric
and how like that bird it must  feel,
flying high in the freedom
of an un-hindered

This poem is by Keith Waldrop, taken from his book Transcendental Studies, a National Book Award winner, published by University Press - Berkeley in 2009.

Waldrop, Professor of Humanities at Brown University, has published more than a dozen books of original poetry and of translation.

The book is a trilogy, said to have a unified theme which I'm sorry to say I can't find. So, I'm stuck with enjoying the artistry
of the words without knowing whatever the larger theme of the triptych. The words are such that I don't feel cheated.

Misfit River

A wide expanse. In the short winter
days of the campaign, eternity
sings like ocean swell. Most suicides
in May, June, July. Unusual
heat drives the soul toward God. A
cul-de-sac. Vocalizing the remote

Dark strain of a lover's
lament. Made by percussion
alone. There is someone
shouting from the housetops and
broadcast down. You call me
out of the night.

Formulas preserved, verbatim, in
a language no longer comprehended. Where
doors are all of the left. Sacrament
of now. To make the elixir, but
make it with none of the usual
ingredients. Pointing straight upward like
naked fingers.

Somewhere. Somehow or
other. What remained of the winter, when
winter was over, close to the ground, collecting
around roots of plants here and now
springing. Each stage several
million years. A process of removing
bark from trees.

The descent from the summit
abrupt. A common house. Alongside my
days, the metaphysical day
extends, stretches of
unfathomable. That heaven and earth
affect mankind doubtless true, but
painful to measure.

Recognizing that all life is dependent on a forever war, all against all, the life of all dependent on the death of all. Possibly the darkest thing I've ever written.

hear your carrot scream

(An extrapolation from the furthest frontiers of current science (such a fun place to be)

you bite into a carrot
and the carrot screams
but  you don't notice since
you, not being conversant in
carrot lingo, a subset dialect of the
basic Global Plant Language in which
all things that grow in the ground are
fluent, just ignore the screams as
the background music of the
universe, not
that the carrot lives
and, as with all living things,
the carrot has feelings, including the feeling
of pain when cut or chopped by your
omnivore teeth, along with their own level
of sentience and their own methods and modes
of communication, not just with their own
carrot-kind but with all who derive
their essence from the bounty
of dirt and how that carrot
scream echoes through
the crust of the earth, heard by all
from the smallest mite to the top
of the tallest trees...

so you should think of that each time
you chop a carrot or crunch a lettuce of
nibble on a parsnip, think of that scream
like a tiny creek of sound making it's small
way through all the cracks and crevices
of our planet we are so reluctant
to share...

think of that tiny stream of scream
as it ripples to all fauna of the world
and perhaps even beyond...

now think of the mighty storm of screams
in the forest when the lumberjack
swings his axe, how the screams
overpower the roar of chainsaws

think of the forests, all the forests
screaming, hope they never
come together in a harmony of
floral resistance...

My next poet is Pancho Mendoza. His poems are from his book  Poetry and Short Stories. It is a bilingual book, Spanish with English translation. Unfortunately, I can find no place to buy the book

The poet, a retired parole officer, is a poet and short story writer sharing hard memories of growing up on San Antonio's West Side as well as his migrant life.

My wife is also a retired parole officer. I would enjoy a second book on his life in the parole system. I think my wife would also.


History belongs to the dominant society.
I found that the hard way searching
My ancestral pedigree.
The U.S. census is a mess,
Leaving my family more confused than before.
Where I thought we had a Baladez surname,
Now one computer indicates Valadez, Balades,
Baldez, Valdez.
The family members for the sake of a family reunion
Desire a family crest.
My confused answer is, shit man,
Let's find out who our real last name is,
Maybe we are NOT even related.


Leaving town as the cotton crops
Were ready to be harvested. In your dad's car or truck,
Lined up with cotton sacks full of clothes and other utensils .
Passing through Texas cities where Angelo people
Point their finger at you an call you Mexican greaser.
They refuse you service at their restaurants
Nor allow you a decent haircut at their barbershops.
You wonder out loud it's the same color of money.
The white man's response is laughter
"Mexican go back to Mexico where you came from."
The migrant response with a hurt look is,
"We never left Texas we were born here before you."

The virtue of patience, or, in my case, sometimes referred to as avoidance.

I'm willing to wait, how about you?

a poem now

going where
I don't know at the moment, but
I'm willing to wait until
it works itself out...

how 'bout you?

you might order a sandwich or something
cause it might take a while
because I'm afraid this poem might be
like the old Studebaker in my neighbor's
back yard, starting with a wheeze
and a pop and a poop of black smoke and
a growl that might or might not
indicate the onset of

tell them to put the sandwich on my tab...

This is the last poem from my library in this issue. The poet is Wendell Berry; the book is Entries, published by Counterpoint in 1997.

An essayist, novelist, and poet, Berry lives on his farm in Kentucky and has authored more than 30 books for which he has received numerous awards and honors..

Let Us Pledge

Let us pledge allegiance to the flag
and the national sacrifice areas
for which it stands, garbage dumps
and empty holes, sold out for a higher
spire on the rich church, the safety
of voyagers in golf carts, the better mood
of the stock market. Let us feast
today, though tomorrow we starve. Let  us
gorge upon the body of the Lord, consuming
the earth for our greater joy in Heaven,
that fair Vacationland. Let us wander forever
in the labyrinths of our self-esteem.
Let us evolve forever toward the higher
consciousness of the machine.
The spool of our engine-driven fate
unwinds, our history now outspeeding
thought, and the heart is a beatable tool.


A shower like a little song
Overtook him going home
Wet his shoulders and went on.

I was watching the old man through a window at
Starbucks. Suddenly realized I was looking at myself.

an old man sits

an old man
sits under one of the green umbrellas,
arms crossed,feet squared
on the patio's red cobblestones,
eyes open but not seeing,
alone in silence,
completely still, quiet
as only the old can sit, wordless
and unmoving, remembering
the deaths of better times
and beautiful women,
lost in the mysteries
of time and how it moves,
years rushing so quickly,
like a runaway train on an open
track, while the hours
struggle slowly through the course
of a day, sunrise to sunset, time
creeping through the unhurried pace
of a life's due recessional

I don't like to do political poems because they seem so pointless. But sometime, the shit gets so deep and thick a person just has to respond.

By the time  of this posts, the issue that drove me to it will have been decided, most likely in a way that will leave me even more disgusted and pissed than I am today;

the poet chooses wrong again

tall girl
in a short skirt
and long auburn hair
and long, long legs
stretching from near treetops
all the way down to the ground,
that woman, those long legs
not the purpose of this morning's drivel,
nor is the purpose the other young woman
in unfettered jiggle as she approaches across
the parking lot...

neither of those young women
are the intendeds for this piece, just
observations on the side, like a lighthouse
guarding a narrow passage into safe harbor, noted,
but not the purpose of the passage...

I approach writing this morning in a political
frame of intention, writing about the frat-boy judge,
the president who is laughed at by leaders of the world

(they're laughing at us, he says, while the rest of us say,
no, doofus, they're laughing at you)

and the corrupt politicians

(to be clear, I mean you, Republicans)

whose lust for power is so overpowering
all the good things

(decency, honesty, ethics, respect for fair play)

your mothers tried to teach you as you sat
at her feet while she prepared your daily favorite
beans and weenies, trying to learn, as she
cooked, all the other good ways to good life,
all that swept away now, by a demand to rule, to be
above all others, to sit in seats of power and reward,
planting your foot firmly on the necks of those
who you determine must lose if you are to win
the fruits of ruthless ambition...

I could go on, but I'm thinking much more pleasant
and worthy would have been that abandoned
poem about long, long legs and
untethered jiggle

If you've a mind to, please comment by clicking on the comment button below and let me know if you have a problem accessing the comment section. I've been told there's a problem but I can't confirm it because it works for me. I do know that I've not been receiving comments for a while now.

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 I welcome your comments below on this issue and the poetry and photography featured in it.

  Just click the "Comment" tab below.


New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces 

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second


Sonyador - The Dreamer


  Peace in Our Time


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