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.