last poem of 2013

It is only a few minutes before midnight, 
but it is already way, way past my bedtime. 
So, in case I crash before the clock strikes, 
and am transferred to the world of dreams,
of voyages and of possibilities,
I want to wish everybody in the known 
and the unknown ModPo universe 
a happy, safe, and prosperous 2014! 
Keep reading poetry, and keep writing it, 
fearlessly, the bad stuff and the good, 
the bounded and the unbound,
the modern and the post-modern. 
Keep the faith, keep the fires burning - 
the hereafter far surpasses the present.

still under construction

another winter solstice poem

new books arrived in the laundry room
(my wife lets me do laundry more often since I retired)

German novels, African American history,
Native American languages, British plays -
I thumb through all the new additions,

while the whites wash and the colors dry.
An eclectic collection, well kept (I can tell) and
carefully read by a conscientious reader,

perhaps a tenant, now departed, her books
abandoned, left behind to testify
on her (or his) behalf.  And launderers

like me now benefit from such largesse.
I thumb through them all,
and wonder will my volumes end up here.

Poems and poetry (pray for Amiri Baraka)

A poem can be a crystal clear

            mirror of our better selves,

a reflection of our innermost

            joys and hopes and aspirations

but a poem can also be a sullen,  

            superficial shield, a phony

plastic surrogate, an average

            representation of the real

a poem can sling itself fast speed

            into a future we desire,

then reach back, find us,

            and pull us grudgingly to it

but it can also probe nosily

            into the present and the past,

and arrange things, events, secrets,

            to fit their proper orbits

December 24, 2013

Song of self

I am that Irish pennant -

sticking out from a hem or a seam,

that, if you pull on me,

the whole thing unravels/disintegrates

I am the canary in the coal mine -

When my song singing ceases,

the fresh air that you need to breathe

to survive is just about to run out

I am the A-ganger in AMR II -

running the O2 generator, the CO2 scrubber,

and the H2 burner in close, tight synchronicity;

in melodic harmony the compressors speak

to each other, while I work the pumps and valves

to maintain the nitrogen/oxygen balance 

throughout the boat.

I am the fly in the ointment –

a textural discontinuity,

a corruption in a pure system,

a something that just won’t fit in

I am the sentinel species –

and my presence or my absence,

or my well-being is a sign for your ass

of the relative health of the ecosystem

2013 takeaways and carryovers

Oolong’s second infusion tastes much smoother than the first,

the best Arabica needs a bit of robusta to give it body

and character,

half decaffeinated mixed in is better for the heart,

and poured through is better than French-pressed

potassium-rich figs boiled with lemon make a great breakfast

and freshly squeezed lemon juice with cayenne cures

a morning headache.

Smaller portions is the key to sustained weight management,

and cinnamon is good for the soul and the blood chemistry

black cumin seed oil aids in regularity though it tastes

almost as bad as castor oil, and there really is no need

to watch the bridges

that we are burning, and you can skip to the video

in 4 seconds, and Bernadette Mayer is the Homer of our time.

Winter solstice, December 21, 2013

Ever since

Ever since that first cave man

or cave woman (more than likely)

carved an image she had seen

onto a cave wall

with a sharp-cornered rock –

And ever since that first cave woman

(not even going there this time)

translated an internal feeling

or a knowing

into a grunt or a moan (a word)

and gave birth to a new technology

of human expression –

And ever since the tool

and the technology

came together, converged

in a new mental space

by a superior intellect

(already among us)

to point out to us

the direction for our deliverance

from total triple darkness –

Ever since –

we have been beating

a slow retreat,

back into the shadows,

back into the thoughtless void –

But there are those among us

who just won’t tolerate

the backslide:

They are called poets. 

Poetry is their name. 

This poem started its life as a sonnet…

This poem started its life as a sonnet,

but grew into its own raison d'etre - 

just like poems used to be my secret place,

but then long walks became my safe harbor - 

a refuge from too many random thoughts.

I’d briskly walk down 23rd and cast

a furtive glance at the factory where

I once worked, abandoned when its widgets

ceased to shine; and the place is overcome

by snakes and mice – feeding on each other -

a fortuitous disassociation.

Now I walk a different path: the river

curves with the earth, and bends, and pulsates,

like blood coursing through America’s veins.

I cross the river and see images

of monuments, framed by highways and trees.

It closes with a line from 55:

“Which then of God’s favors will you deny?”

a short poem for a sad moment, NRM (originally titled Metro Center)

He always knew
his enemies
would not be able
to destroy him -

nor would
violence or disease
conspire to
take him out –

nor would he be
behind the wheel
when he crossed
the River Jordan –

one night he would
fall asleep, as usual,
and wake up
in Beulahland.

a luta continua...

Freedom Day (on channeling Rosa Parks on the 58th anniversary of her arrest)

Freedom Day (on channeling Rosa Parks on the 58th anniversary of her arrest)

the space where I used to live
no longer has existence for me –
no meaning, good or ill –
an emptiness that is shrinking

into nothingness in immeasurable
segments: weekly, daily, minute-by-minute.
The physical place it occupies stands still -
still stands, and people there still breathe

and live, and work, and plot,
and love – but all of that escapes
the gravity of my present reality;
stands outside the new world I am configuring

for a future that beckons me,
and even for a past, which still aches
for vindication. Take two aspirin
for that silly pain. A deep breath. Slowly.

my wife said I should write a poem

my wife said I should write a poem
with the new pen she gave me
for my birthday and retirement
which fall, officially, on the same date

a sudden, premature birth
induced by prayer and fasting
because the very next day was
the beginning of a new cycle of history

a lady with tired legs
sat down on a bus
and that was all it took
to jumpstart a revolution in thinking

and a deliverance from a dark place
that confined the spirit –
to an unfamiliar but
welcoming new reality, at last.

became, reconfigured:

my wife said I should write a poem
a sudden, premature birth
a lady with tired legs
and a deliverance from a dark place -

with this new pen she gave me
induced by prayer and fasting
sat down on a bus
that confined the spirit –

for my birthday and retirement
because the very next day was
and that was all it took
to an unfamiliar but -

which fall, officially, on the same date
the beginning of a new cycle of history
to jumpstart a revolution in thinking
welcoming new reality, at last.

November 24, 2013

ModPo: Goodbye but not farewell

Goodbye but not farewell.
We will continue our conversations
and social media chats –
with new friends,
with old friends.

And we will continue writing poems:
together in small groups,
and at home, alone,
in the midnight hour that is not
midnight, but that
floats between isha and fajr -
the darkest part of night -
when passions die,
and distractions fall to the side.

The songwriting teacher said all I needed
was a thesaurus and a rhyming dictionary –
but it hasn’t proven sufficient –

and there are no final words, anyway,
no bridge, no chorus, no refrain,
just a tight hug, a soft sigh, a tender kiss,
and a throw-away “see-you-tomorrow,”
maybe, if you’re lucky. And all my
countrymen are poets, and sailors.

No, goodbye is not farewell.
There is SloPo on Facebook,
and sudden spoon is resurrecting,
and the Breakfast Club opera is on track,
and KWH is always open,
and there are Sunday get-togethers in DC
whenever you are passing through.

And all our blogs and our websites are up,
and NaPoWriMo comes in April,
and Postcard Poetry Fest comes in August,
and before you know it, ModPo14!

Experimentation with standard time

Autumn urban afternoons
get shorter and sweeter -

standing in the middle of I street
I await a very specific angle on the bow,
as my ship called Earth comes about:
a unique perspective on how time passes –

in the distance you can see Virginia:
how many beats per measure
are there in Standard time?

the future is reaching back to join us,
to warn us, to help us alter course
to starboard so we can pass port to port –
the present and the future,
like two ships, passing in a storm.

We post to a blog or sing a song:
we write some non-rhyming words
we call poetry –

and time is a social construct
a contractual agreement we accept
from fear of things we don’t know –
dawn to dusk, high noon
to the darkest part of night –

a 24 second shot clock.
We sink a three pointer
that leaves a vacuum in its wake –
the chain nets echo its refrain.

Job Search Program - Week Two

Sonnet for the Government shutdown

The teacher couldn’t come to class today.
They say it was because the government
shut down.  Let’s call it by its proper name:
A high-tech coup d’etat is what occured –
transfer of power from the president
of the republic we had, to the thugs,
the mob.  The ethics of the Fogged Bottom
swamp have made their way to Capitol Hill.
Don’t you speak French?  It was a coup d’etat!
The King is dead, long live the King of State.
Democracy has fallen, patriots!
Like punks we are, we weep and wring our hands:
One day we all will answer for this crime –
and that is why this sonnet cannot rhyme.

Job Search Program - Week One

JSP Day One, October 7, 2013 -  Career Transition Inventory

Things I am sad to leave behind:

camaraderie -

schedule regularity -

predictability -

familiarity -

short commute -

helping younger colleagues develop their careers - 

Things I am glad to leave behind:

mindless, soul-less bureaucracy -

bidding -

writing performance evaluations -

working late evenings and on weekends -

task forces -

self-important people -

wearing a neck-tie every day -

wearing dress shoes (ever!) -

large dry-cleaning bills -

inconsiderate dragons who think their breath is fire. 

Metro Center

He always knew
his enemies
would not be able
to destroy him -  

nor would
violence or disease
conspire to 
take him out –

nor would he be
behind the wheel
when he crossed
the River Jordan –

one night he would
fall asleep, as usual,
and wake up
in Beulahland.

October 6, 2013, revised on December 6, 2013

JSP Day Four – October 10, 2013 – Values Exercise

serenity

elegance/simplicity

spirituality/self-expression

integrity/authenticity

aesthetics/beauty/romance

comradeship/loyalty

accuracy/precision

service/participation/community

forward the action

lack of pretense

Rainy Night in Foggy Bottom

When it rains all night in Foggy Bottom

you can smell the swamp beneath us -

the old rotted tree roots, the tadpoles,

the water moccasins skimming -

The swamp is only ever ten feet away –

and all that separates us is asphalt,

and gas and water pipes,

and underground telephone lines.

It’s pitch black down there –

dark from lack of light,

black as a night without stars –

even the water is black.

The level of the swamp rises

as our own level imperceptibly falls,

both at an accelerating rate – -

soon we will be together.

Sonnet for a rainy Sunday morning

I heard a tale that made me feel so sad

about a friend, abandoned by his art

or it by he, his talent to impart

some sense of beauty vanished like a fad.

But let us tell his story in this verse:

his art brought joy and gladness to his friends,

and satisfied his soul’s deep urge to mend

a broken world.  What happened was perverse,

expression of his talent overcome

by stress of work, career became for him

the higher call.  The artist’s light soon dimmed,

and Tantalus foretold his martyrdom.

This cautionary tale includes one plea:

one truth, one hope for immortality.

10/13/2013

August 31, 2013 – God has ordained

God has ordained this path for me –

and ordered my steps in it.

I don’t know what it travels through,

nor its destination.  I only know

that I must follow.  And so I march - 

down my chosen path.

Each soul has its own –

a path, a calling –

a thing that it must do,

a task that it must accomplish,

or else it fails.

Embrace it – let it

embrace you back. 

August 30, 2013 – Two Questions

Two questions haunt me,

begin and end it all –

who am I? 

Why am I here? 

Identity, purpose/calling:

defines the man/woman/soul –

gives meaning to this otherwise

boring sojourn we call life -  

color to a dull, gray,

wintered world.   

August 29, 2013 – The Urge To Post

the urge to post poems to

a blog is tremendous,

and I cannot wait for the

end of the month to do it –

but I have discovered/experienced

a great thrill, just dropping

postcards in the mailbox,

knowing they will eventually

reach their destination:

            a listening ear –

            a reading eye - 

            an open heart. 

August 28, 2013 - Channel 9 called

Channel 9 just called –
said they wanted to interview me
about my poem – Invitation –
Naw, I tell them, they
can read the poem, no need
to see my face.  “Then can
we interview you with your face
hidden?”      “I don’t think so.
Who did you say you were?"

August 27, 2013 – Re-Instatement August 20, 2013

They turn us off, they turn us on,

they hope it satisfices –

they banish us, invite us back,

and think that it suffices –

they are a stain, a plague, a curse

a lame excuse for leaders –

they cover-up, they obfuscate,

.
.
.

they lie and trick the readers. 

August 26, 2013 – Last Day in Purgatory

My last day in Purgatory

and I am writing haiku

about it.  I should be out –

celebrating the end of the passage –

not at this table, trying to reduce

it all to words, to symbols, to

hieroglyphs on postcards.

I’ll take a walk to the Post Office. 

August 25, 2013 – Restoration Haiku

Black knight to G 2 –
one move left.  Black bishop zooms in –
game is up.  Checkmate!

Silly games we play –
courage, we lack; truth, avert –
the same sad ends. We reach.

August 24, 2013 – L.A. Times

I’m not much for contests

and competitions – all that

reminds me of work, of a life

I want to see only in the rear-view

mirror.  Nonetheless, I submitted

two poems to the L.A. Times

Op-Poetry call.  They may not

choose my poems.  They may.  

August 23, 2013 – Postcard Poems

I treasure receiving these 

postcard poems –

and so I send in hopes

that I’ll receive –

today I expected to harvest

a bumper crop -

but none came.

Still, twelve have arrived,

so I go back

and re-read them all,

one by one,

line by line.

A lovely stack of thoughts –

my treasure,

my winning lottery ticket,

my pot of gold

at the end of the rainbow.

August 22, 2013 - Pocket Compass

And old friend brought me back

a gift

from a market in Afghanistan -

a brass pocket compass with

a poem

inscribed in the screw-on cover -

it’s final verse (engraved

in words

too small for eyes to read) reads:

“I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –

I took the on less traveled by,

and that has made all the difference.”

August 21, 2013 – Lady Day

I could listen to Lady Day

sing - all night long –

those blue minor chords that

don’t quite seem to fit

except for their perfection;

those flat notes that fall so

softly from her lips, like

manna, to our awaiting souls –

like dew, early, early

before sunrise…

I could listen to those

old songs all night long –

“Bend your branches down –

along the ground – and cover me.”

August 20, 2013 – We Take These Things for Granted

What is the greatest scientific

problem of our time?

How do you send a postcard

to a homeless person?

Can people serving prison terms

order books from Amazon.com?

We take these things for granted

but we shouldn’t.

What do you do with a bitter poem?

Do you send it with an explanation?

Do you just send it?

Or do you sit on it and

wait for the clouds to pass?

August 19, 2013 – Summer fall

August 19, 2013 – Summer fall

There is a slight chill
in the August morning air – Summer
withdraws so quickly, quietly –

The trees – now fully dressed –
will slowly shed – disrobe – prepare
for Autumn’s triumph march.

August 18, 2013 – I started my day

I started my day
        with a walk –

and a submarine
 sank and burned –

and a thousand
peaceful protesters died –

and a vice-president
    resigned –

and a press conference
was inconsequential –

and we had dinner
                                with friends.

August 17, 2013 - Bissau Rains

I miss the rains of Bissau –
the soft pitter-patter at dawn –
the heavy downpour, like clockwork,
in mid-afternoon – as chuvas veem -
the lightning and the thunder
at sunset, raging against the end of days –

I wish we had some postcards
from that magical place –
we have a painting of Joao Landing
before the Chinese built the bridge –
and statuettes from the Bijagos.
Manjaco cloth draps the sofa,
and music CD’s from the Tabanka
are on the shelf – but postcards não ha.  

August 16, 2013 - while we weep

Today I visited the national secular temple
to worship the Goddess Minerva, Virgin
of Wisdom and War -

we make ablution with the warm waters
of Jeffersonian idealism before we enter
the holy of holies -

we shut our eyes and ears to the hypocrisies,
and our collective birth defect gets banished
to the wine cellar -

while we weep, while we weep –

August 15, 2013 - Making the bed

Since I retired my wife insists

on making the bed together every day.

I guess I was at work when all this excitement

happened before. We fluff and straighten

the pillows, aligned but not touching. 

Sheets tight and tucked, folded over at the top. 

All equally distributed side to side. 

(She cannot think until the bed is made!)

Then she calls me an amateur when I

walk away before she has taken the final

measurements.  “This is not boot camp,”

I whisper to myself.  But by then

the kettle is whistling, the freshly

ground coffee requesting submergence. 

August 14, 2013 – Man and the expanding universe: art

moral courage dies
and corruption’s stench prevails –
lies erase the truth

my LinkedIn friends keep endorsing me
for Government.  But me and Uncle Sam

are a shrinking universe.  I’m leaving
the troop that errs, the team that lies,

leaders who destroy lives for sport, as art -
themselves a crime, a sin, a plague.  Farewell.  

August 13, 2013 -- The Lone Ranger

There is a rumor the Lone Ranger
was a Negro and that’s why
the white guys who always play him
wear a full-face black mask.

                                                                                  Hi-Yo Silver!  Away!

When I was in the seventh grade
(must have been 1968/1969),
I wrote a theme paper entitled,
“The Story of the Negro Cowboys.”

                                                                                 Who was that masked man, anyway?

Nat Love, also known as Deadwood Dick,
Bill Pickett, One Horse Charley (also
known as Nigger One Horse Charley)
and Bass Reeves, slave-turned-lawman.

                                                                                Was Bass Reeves really the Lone Ranger?

Maybe.  Maybe not.  But the last thing
we need right now is a mythological Negro,
on a white horse, here to save us from
a mythologized Negro on a white horse.

                                                                                 Hi-Yo Silver!  Away!

“A fiery horse with the speed of light,
a cloud of dust, and a hearty Hi Yo Silver!”

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/10131675/Was-the-real-Lone-Ranger-black.html?fb

 

August 12, 2013 - Response to a poem about carrots

Your poem about carrots
made me think about tobacco –
stalks so tall, rows so long,
long as the eye could see…

I only lasted a couple of weeks –
the fat worms on the broad green leaves –
and the hot sun beating on me,
on my head, the days so long.