Syndication

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

If Gasoline Lit the Brazier

The painting raised slightly while framed on wall
     I did not notice the frame, the paint
I saw the rarity of the outing
     Out and about in daylit grounds

I wanted to shake the hand, gaze the eye
     Of mankind whom perservered such devotion
I wanted a private meeting over sherry or beer
     With one pivotal person whom's frivolity was definition

We, my smaller family, had a picnic with the small bones, those paintings
     And having the soup made by sous chef
A small miracle happened or perhaps this was just apple sauce
     We had fun, and spent time outside our lives
          As one might spend time 9 feet away from painting...

Curious or fascinated or excited or exacerbated or rewarded
      By some singular artifact enchanted by hand
Never to be used up as long as it was cared for
      Our love is like that, and appreciated by those we spend time with.

And those 9 empty feet of space filled with air and conversation
        Let me reach the nine inches to the turning point
With enough room for me to accept this could maybe work out
        That after confusion, pain, loss... Life goes on...

Life goes on, and good things do happen, there is beauty in the world

Forces to Contend With

Do we awaken and step through said door
Do we weld our entrance and/or fix in past
Is There but one morn that makes all last

There are many turning points, many corners

Even on said morn, there are at least three or four on said door
And in rising, do we then ignore all else
Or perhaps continue on to heaven


These answers and more lie in creation
Many doors of perception
Many morns of awakening
Many painters of memory while pens create history
While swords are left to defend our necks and ledges of living

And when the laughter strikes may at least one cartoon bubble
Leave salt in the wound of tyranny

As song use to leave it deaf

Monday, December 21, 2015

When The News Spins Obstruction of Senses

Sometimes a little piece of me drops
Through into another place and time
Landing in a spot softer, couchier, chair
Where I turn on faux news of doom and gloom.

And there is not the world spinning
But one spinned world convincing of doom
But one spinned world convincing of gloom
Which doesn't fix anything, but frowns upon faces
For gather arounds of one boob tube's programming.

It isn't the end to turn off television
This is the beginning of conversation
It isn't the end to call it a lie
This is recognizing they commercialized
Whenever wasn't it?

With pipedreams and boob-tube feeds
It was the end of civilization on one-way streets
May we circumvent and yet still dream
May we invent and yet still keep all of our hopes alive
For yesterday was programmed

But tomorrow is a dream...
(Futures only ever have been)
Dreamed by you of fantastic possibility,
Of flying machines and miniature computers
Talking watches and 3-d picture shows.
Of test-tube babies and in-vitro creation,
Iteration machines and global communication.
Of digital pizza and high-speed delivery,

The world is made by nothing but dreams, one could argue,
Would you be so kind as to dream a little dream for me?
Would you be so kind as to dream of hope, love, and peace?

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Libido of Greed

The adventure spys a couple of peaks, the tool later breaks and digs
Passion meets and stores in keep nearly all the rest of treasured dreams.
Miners plays amongst the mountains, digs in streams.
Storekeep sells the tools and food.
Bankers save progression of nuggets gleaming.
Gambling takes place at the saloon.


While curiosity asks who's getting rich off this pay to play life.
And that day the ranks advance, a boon is fancied
Lumber bought, store built.  A tool shed is born of second-hand items.
Gold brought, items shipped.  More business spreading in the spanning bottom.
Maybe glass is bought for display.

While wisdom asks who's getting younger off this endless sitting life.
And that day the ranks advance, a boon is fancied
Vault bought, scales weighed.  A combination locks away pleasure's greedy exchange.
Nuggets weighed, guns hired.  More business spreading in the plump stocking.
Maybe corporation is heralded.

While liberty asks who's getting smarter off this deepening stream of life.
And that day the ranks advance, a boon is fancied
Tracks laid, labor paid.  An engine dials up the golden and rushing play.
More found, more people around.  More business spreading in the old hat.
Maybe lawmakers swear oaths.


For nothing on this dirt inspires like refelective yellow earth.
Though tin a room with it, and one won't live long.

Friday, December 11, 2015

Row by Row

There's a farmer in all of us... We toil, we serve, we grow up
And want something in return. I want proof!

I don't want to till profits under
I'd like something wonderful...
More than money, more than manure to grow it.
I'd like typewriter to type this.
(and I have it, leaving me wondering... where begins me...)
Anyway there's a life, and I'm truly thankful I'm not one thing....
robot, or machine, or calculator thing

Because there's a little farmer in all of us,
We want paycheck, and privacy to spend it
The proof of work that I did...
And I SEE THIS... (and that)... (and this other thing)...
It's all around, da farm... with harvested field...
And field stubble grows cold, the snow, the rain... sleeping thing.
And low sun brings little light to plateau...

The field of solar power with but plants sleeping
The field of singing, hoeing, rowing, plowing, stowing
The fields of possibility which hold plateau's higher creativity,
Creativity of sorting choices,
Choices of flowing light.
Light of poetry that is and in and of and for... Life.
Perhaps as sprout grows and knows not but intuition and some signals of surrounding environment.

I am the farmer and the sprout.
I am a grower, too.
You are as well.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

On Grace's Note from a little drummer boy

People were created to be loved, things were created to be used.
The world is in CHAOS because people are being used, and things loved" -anon

wE must love ourselves
As a bluebird or chickadee
We must survive and sing
And hide and please, ourselves yes,
But others like us, friends, and family.

Birds may paint beautiful world with songs,
Brighten days long thought gone.
Take pleasure in their fancy company,
The little ones, they flit with hunger,
So very poor, with only one set of clothes.

Feed yourself loving, laughing, learning, living things
Because they were created to be used, these artifacts
that flutter around hearts with butterfly wings.
And in being kind to others, you are loving.
And in breaking bread, you are making friend.
And in listening so quietly, you are being so patient.