April 12, 2014: NaPoWriMo
A friend from overseas asked me in a card:
“Ray, what’s it like to live in a country
constantly, always and forever at war?”
I didn’t have an answer so I rolled three dice.
Drama masks; a ladder; catching butterflies.
The masks are for deception when they speak,
all actors on a temporary stage.
The ladder: an escape; a rescue;
a fortuitous disassociation.
Catching butterflies: they will try to lure
you back. Maintain course and speed, ignore their call.
So what’s it like? Constant bombardment, spin,
propaganda, subliminal appeals.
Don’t think about the guy behind the curtain.
April 11, 2014
I wandered through a shopping mall looking
for a telephone, a land phone with two lines:
dying technology, I would soon find out.
The mall, normally full of shoppers, was empty,
quiet, flat. Where were all the shoppers?
A few old men sat at tables in the food court,
rustling through papers with young couples,
and big, tatooed men passed through, I could tell
they were ex-soldiers by their swagger, by the glaze
of combat still in their eyes. Looking for jobs.
No jobs today, everywhere, stores are closing.
In Baghdad, the Marines used to say, “America
is not at war, the Marines are at war.
America is at the Mall.” Not no more.
for a telephone, a land phone with two lines:
dying technology, I would soon find out.
The mall, normally full of shoppers, was empty,
quiet, flat. Where were all the shoppers?
A few old men sat at tables in the food court,
rustling through papers with young couples,
and big, tatooed men passed through, I could tell
they were ex-soldiers by their swagger, by the glaze
of combat still in their eyes. Looking for jobs.
No jobs today, everywhere, stores are closing.
In Baghdad, the Marines used to say, “America
is not at war, the Marines are at war.
America is at the Mall.” Not no more.
April 10, 2014
Story cube prompts: three gears, a high rise building or a tall beehive, a bank robber.
like gears engaged our lives unwind, unfold,
become enmeshed, entangled in the race.
the buildings that house all our livelihood
contain us, stifle, choke our spirit self.
we are like bees, slaves in a tall hive house –
up and down we weave and work, in and out –
confined and circumscribed, enslaved and drugged.
an enemy sneaks in with a food that kills,
destroys our young – no honey if no brood –
our storehouse of fantasies robbed by thieves,
pimped like whores, a birthright lost, foreclosed.
like gears engaged our lives unwind, unfold,
become enmeshed, entangled in the race.
the buildings that house all our livelihood
contain us, stifle, choke our spirit self.
we are like bees, slaves in a tall hive house –
up and down we weave and work, in and out –
confined and circumscribed, enslaved and drugged.
an enemy sneaks in with a food that kills,
destroys our young – no honey if no brood –
our storehouse of fantasies robbed by thieves,
pimped like whores, a birthright lost, foreclosed.
April 9, 2014
I always called it sing-songy French,
the occasional sweet things she’d say
in her deep southern, swing low tone.
We lost all contact over time:
marriages, divorces, voyages,
wars and rumors of wars,
storms and floods and broken dikes –
and now we are too old
to put the scattered pieces back
into their right places.
But though scattered, the random pieces
of our lost love, words, verses
refuse to go away completely,
to abandon us hopelessly, altogether.
So we stare at them, the pieces,
the fragments, impossible to ignore,
though equally impossible to re-assemble,
and the pieces stare back at us,
the sing-songy notes, the French words
we used to know, the whispers,
and rest in peaceful sleep.
the occasional sweet things she’d say
in her deep southern, swing low tone.
We lost all contact over time:
marriages, divorces, voyages,
wars and rumors of wars,
storms and floods and broken dikes –
and now we are too old
to put the scattered pieces back
into their right places.
But though scattered, the random pieces
of our lost love, words, verses
refuse to go away completely,
to abandon us hopelessly, altogether.
So we stare at them, the pieces,
the fragments, impossible to ignore,
though equally impossible to re-assemble,
and the pieces stare back at us,
the sing-songy notes, the French words
we used to know, the whispers,
and rest in peaceful sleep.
April 8, 2014
April eight’s
poetry is late
Hana Matsuri
Romani Day
Jupiter in Cancer
Mars and Earth
and Sun in alignment -
blood moon coming
roll the dice:
a bumble bee
a swollen thumb
an ocean voyage
cherry blossoms
blooming -
blood moon
coming
poetry is late
Hana Matsuri
Romani Day
Jupiter in Cancer
Mars and Earth
and Sun in alignment -
blood moon coming
roll the dice:
a bumble bee
a swollen thumb
an ocean voyage
cherry blossoms
blooming -
blood moon
coming
April 7, 2014 – On attending a lecture by a Nobel-prize winning astrophysicist, Pt. 3
At our center
is a dying star:
an empty space -
a black hole.
It once emitted light
to all inside its orbit;
but now it only absorbs,
and robs, and depletes -
And yet it still
has force and grace
to bend us at its will -
and hold us all – together.
is a dying star:
an empty space -
a black hole.
It once emitted light
to all inside its orbit;
but now it only absorbs,
and robs, and depletes -
And yet it still
has force and grace
to bend us at its will -
and hold us all – together.