Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Song On the Election Of The 45th President

Ode to the Electoral College
on electing the 45th president

It's a killer concept
whose time has come:
 the dollar can talk
without any tongue;
dead pennies for eyes,
 an orange cherry nose,
soft phony fur and invisible toes.
Beat the boys down with your money stick,
today's the day
the billionaires have their picnic.

Out in the dark
without their mums,
they count their money
don't need any thumbs
to shine the machines
while the silly slaves bleed,
to steal all they can
from the hometown of greed.
Throw out the old, the starving and sick.
Today's the day
the billionaires have their picnic.

Forget Karl Marx.
Forget Langston Hughes.
Dance the Titanic
in your Gucci shoes.
Frack all the oil
at the point of a gun.
Step on the bodies
that pay for your fun.
Beat the world down with your money stick;
today's the day
the billionaires have their picnic.

~December 2016

Teddy Bear meme fair use via the internet

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Wasp's Nest

Wasp's Nest

A heart hangs now
in the center of winter
a vacant nest
built of poison and paper
empty celled
where each lover lingered
in change, a drone to the flame
till ending's escape.
A collection
of spaces, 
exit wounds, dead places 
to make recollection's ruinous progression,
 first conceiving to last leaving,
a Fibonacci hanging swaying;
a summer home buzzing connection
now shelled and blown
on the white breath of the North
while the ambitious maker,
light as that empty cold
quickly curling her legs, 
lays down her husk on the crackled grass

~December 2016

posted for real toads 

21 lines for Kerry's   Final Twilight 

and some rather surreal musical comic relief:

Image: author unknown, fair use via the internet

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

The Beach

The Beach

Here in the dry constellations,
Orion winters in the blue west, the
Drinking Gourd spills silver on the void, and
the Seven Sisters crowd together, 
quilting the smothering night.
I miss the beach.

I miss the salt, I miss the sweet
curled wave that rolled the wind
in a gestured wand
of air and water,
joining two lurching things
ungainly in their solitary progress,
shelled and crabbed in solitude
into one smooth moving beast
hip to hip, stride for stride
tandemed untarnished

because you chose to throw
your arm around my neck
and let us spin

in the eddy, as the tide
ran out, till we were dizzy

and all the slipping stars
cleared the boards and moved
their heavy banquet
to our eyes.

~December 2016

Images: The Enchanted Beach with Three Fluid Graces, 1950 Salvidor Dali, Detail. Fair use
Elenita At The Beach, Asturia, 1903, by Joaquin Sorolla Public domain

Sunday, December 11, 2016

The Winter Cabin

by Jenny Leslie
The Winter Cabin

Ghosts on the floor,
crumpled at the fortieth failure,
tousled and tossed down to
decorate dead December.

They're waiting unread
in the winter cabin
where the plague has been
and gone;

only goodbye
left of all their words;
only a snow-flaked feather
remembers the bluebirds

too small to save the world.

~December 2016

posted for  real toads

for my friend Magaly

Thanks to Jenny Leslie for the kind use of her image.

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Last Act

Last Act

A pared face, a false peel, a sliver
above silver seamed stars;
who will call the waters
now that we've broken the moon?

In the windowed night,
 love's widow
walks her hushed graveyard,
where the white skirts of memory
 rustle around the turn.

Who can say
what time it is; only that time
never stops.

 ~November 2016

posted for real toads

Note: I cheated here and used the first 55 words of a longer poem, hoping it stands alright alone--anyway, only for those interested, here is the rest of the piece:

 Last Act


Who can say
what time it is; only that time
never stops.
the midnight door--perhaps a dead king 
disinters to go dancing,
or the palest child, cold,
is offering in the dark
a chance to finally pay your debt;

hear a script with no speaker,
a performance careless of audience,
a whole cosmos
that gestures and moves
as the void declaims before it,
tapping its teeth in the final soliloquy.

All we are is cut from this paper,
cellophane over the footlights.

Who is that 
singing by starlight
now that the players have gone?

~November 2016

Images: Night, 1905, by Mikalojus Ciurlionis Public domain 
via wikiart.org 
A Graveyard in the Tyrol, 1914, by John Singer Sargent  Public domain 
via wikiart.org
Both images slightly manipulated.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

White Bird In Snow

White Bird In Snow

This unsleeping night
remembers winter for me
as it remembers the January hour
I was born, seeing past the still
green curl of April's exhausted leaf
the chill glassful of north wind,
so delicately sipped now
before the drowning.

It knows my name, it calls me
winter girl, drifted witch, 
snow-woman globed from rolled
frozen fog, compressed cloud wrack,
sentinel-eyed and carrot-beaked,
ice fingers melted then
rigid again around
a hollow pen;

bent wrist, bent back, ages
old, so old not even an ash-furred coal
glows from the parsed fire in my pale
flattened face.
The sleepless night
rustles with husks and remains;
a coyote stutters his hunger 
to the planked stars

and here where all things pass,
long sleep comes down the grass
where I wait
invisible and surprised
as a white bird
in October snow.

~October/November 2016

for Brendan at real toads 
from a still, white place


Images: House in Snow, 1890-94, by John Henry Twatcham
White Birds in Snow, by Ohara Koson
Public domain.