Sunday, December 08, 2019
Many wanderers forfeit in the dark;
But a child’s shrill cry in the fading light,
Cries havoc, to all but the oligarch
Who profits from little ones’ tearful rift,
And their sudden complete isolation.
They are cast on a concrete sea adrift,
Their families gone -- an immolation
To the gods of hatred and prejudice;
Commodities destined to fail and fall,
From a deadly, but legal precipice.
Faith, home, family gone for one and all...
A ghost rain will fall from the highest height;
The angels cry in the desert tonight.
I think the angels must be busy near the border tonight...
Posted by Mick at 1:15 AM
Friday, December 06, 2019
How odd it was,
To think of that as early...
Winter changes the settings and alarms
Of my circadian clock.
How odd it was,
That my toes felt warm,
Although they greeted the dawn
Before my eyes, in my cold room,
And beheld first light unclothed.
A voice whispered in pain
At the edge of my dream.
How odd it was,
That my house should complain
Of the cold, and ague from aging.
How odd it was,
Upon rising to greet the day,
That life should course, so vital and electric,
Through battered veins,
And laugh to see the dawn.
Although each day is a gift of life, it's still thrilling and odd to wake up and greet it.
Posted by Mick at 3:22 PM
Tuesday, December 03, 2019
And I grasp at the core of my being.
Always I’m drawn, though I wander and roam,
To the feel of the place I am fleeing.
Although some claim to be autochthonous,
Indigenous, and a true native son;
Earth cannot be owned by any of us,
Though a sense of belonging can be won.
In truth, we but rent the place where we live;
Yeah, even the mortal body we wear!
It seems only right that we ought to give,
A bit of the soil for others to share.
We still will be home, still happy and free,
And a member of a community.
It seems ludicrous for so many, in a nation of immigrants, to be so enthralled by nativism.
Posted by Mick at 1:43 PM
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Though distant eyes may capture other light,
And gaze at wonders human eyes can’t see,
Such images bestir an inner sight,
And ferry mind and soul across a sea
Of stars and darkness deep beyond belief.
To cast ashore a trav'ler on red sand:
A pilgrim bravely home on Heaven’s reef,
A breathless, lonely soul upon that strand.
The sun alone ties intellect to home --
A smaller, cooler, distant signal pyre,
To warm a restless spirit drawn to roam,
With memories of basking in its fire.
And though the soil is dusty red in hue,
The sunset is an alien grey blue.
When I saw the color image of the sun setting on Mars, the blue and grey light had an alien feel I could not shake. It was thrilling and frightening all at once.
Posted by Mick at 1:10 PM
Friday, November 29, 2019
A dreary drudge and myopic topic;
A dead awful bore and a chalky chore,
Yet, it’s full of life submicroscopic.
Flecks that cling to clothes, tiny, arenose;
I see them riding on bright shafts of light --
I brush from my nose, breathe them, I suppose,
So cleaning is a never-ending fight.
Once sure that this soup, full of microbe poop,
Sports bacteria and their viral kin;
I had to regroup when I got the scoop:
That my home dust is mostly cast-off skin.
I’ll never be free of dusting, you see:
The tiny particles are mostly me.
When closing up the house for Winter, one becomes more aware of the motes in the air.
Posted by Mick at 2:16 PM
Friday, November 22, 2019
Icy rain-slicked grass made running a chore.
November clouds scudded everywhere,
And grey Autumn sky turned playground to moor.
The principal’s call cut through all the row:
His loud voice commanded we come inside!
Of course, we complained -- why must it be now?
But his visage spoke volumes he couldn’t hide.
We saw, one and all, the tears in his eyes.
Our river of silence flowed through the door.
That the TV was on was a surprise;
We watched Cronkite cry, and sat on the floor...
A roomful of childhoods were suspended,
The afternoon that Camelot ended.
Some memories are burned, bas-relief, on the walls of my mind.
Posted by Mick at 2:49 PM
Sunday, November 17, 2019
An old man crouched in his chair;
His skin glowered grey, or was lit that way,
By the flat screen shining there.
His eyes, mouth, and nose -- a serious pose,
Were still and easy to see.
Did a thought bequeath -- that he didn't breathe?
At least, so it seemed to me.
But he was not ill, though he sat quite still,
His attention was transfixed.
My greatest surprise were tears in his eyes,
Moans and whispers, intermixed.
"My life has been long, a living love song."
He crooned in a husky voice,
"He launched an attack, and I attacked back;
I felt like I had no choice!"
He talked for a while in a breathless style,
About adapting to change.
"I'd always adjust -- I knew that I must,
But social media's strange.
The spirit's akin to striving to win,
Even though there is no race."
He said: "There can be no civility,
And no one can see your face."
"Many posts are jokes or indirect pokes
In the eye of friend or foe.
And much of the stuff is fake news or fluff --
F-bombs -- wherever I go!"
He said that he missed correspondence, kissed
With a touch of writer's tools;
And though there are posts graced by writers' ghosts,
Many spring from flatulent fools.
He sits there at night, in the screen's blue light,
And ponders how to proceed.
His gentle old soul and singular goal,
Focused on planting a seed,
That will grow to be a family tree,
To which we all can belong;
To open a gate, to flush out the hate,
And be a living love song.
There is treasure in the measured response of well-reasoned correspondence. In this day of rapid retorts and sound bytes, I often miss the pleasure of the treasure in civil discourse and well-written prose.
Posted by Mick at 4:02 PM