POEM: POEMEDITATIONS

Upon a Seven-Eleven

Thereafter, be it known—

at place of steel and glass,

where now abides tall grass

was a place that’s left, for home.

With its carbonated savours,

potato chips and dry soups,

phone cards and candied gloops,

and where clerks all did you favours,

it stood across a patterned way,

meaningful as a siren’s song,

a maze for you to come along,

to spend some time—the day

perhaps, to wander/while away

perhaps—amid cathedraled aisles,

and past broken time’s turnstiles,

to ever gather in your tray

all manner of flotsam and jetsam

from a modern age:

that latest, bloated plastic rage

or a tickling, coloured condom.

Oh, it mocked like crows ‘mid bones

of kings and pretty lives—

those tattered flags that wave goodbye

before their last so earthly moans.

For each hour that it held

each ticking minute by the hand,

like the stretched elastic band

was a sapling to be felled.

Thus, it stood on one last morrow

with windows cracked and shattered,

its walls a twisting matter.

Then inward fell, without sorrow.

Doodles and Dort

Doodles the Clown

went to town

all in the usual way.

And the sheriff’s report

mentions a “Dort”,

an alien from far away.

The two, it seemed,

were of a team

and similarly fashioned—

Both wore masks

and were tasked

To bring chaos

and  confusion.

One set about

to topple redoubts

and destroy

all life on earth.

One had balloons

and carnival tunes,

and laughed for all he’s worth.

Between the two

the world did rue,

for chaos ruled the land.

Then confusion came,

and in the end, the same—

the blowing desert sand.

The Day the Last

Supermarket Closed

The human diet

caused quite a riot

among the crowds that day.

For the feed that fed,

was of the dead—

palatable, they say

Formally Of

“You’ve gathered your samples; now make your report,”

Chief Inspector said to Detective Dort.

“What conclusions are there? Where lies the guilt?

Who is the victim? Whose blood is spilt?”

“Forensically-speaking there can be little doubt,”

Detective Dort began his account.

“The evidence states—and DNA doesn’t lie—

it’s human blood under the darkening sky!

We’ve studied it well, the crime scene’s quite clear.

There are footprints too far and footprints too near.

They murdered each other by poison and stealth.

Some died from death but most from wealth.”

“But to make our case, we’ve motive to find.

Tell me again, Dort, how kind kills kind?

You’ve studied this matter an age or two,

I rely on your judgement to say what’s true.”

“I make no claims, Sir, no judge I’ll be,

I study the past—crime’s history.

The body of proof lay in the remains:

Rooftops of cathedrals and old sewer drains.

So with hands to grasp and teeth to tear,

and minds like spiders hid in lairs,

they took what they wanted and kept nothing more.

In the end they took each other—to even the score.”

“Good work in good time! You know well this pest!

The Queen looks forward to killing the rest.

But first it’s a meal of her favourite son,

so come back inside and see what you’ve won.”

Lesson from Tal’uk Nal

The Tal’uk had great cities

filled with golden temples

where they offered their gods

beating hearts with equanimity and grace.

Now-a-days we’re all so churlish

when it comes to sacrifice.

Message In a Bottle

“It’s forty-nine above and fifty below!

And the winds they blow outside!”

And the seas roll.

And the clouds roll.

And the wild storms roll on.

“The sun rises, red on red!

It’s time to dread!”

Such words were said.

(At least then,

when there was a when,

someone was left 
to say them.)

And the seas roll.

And the clouds roll.

And the wild storms roll on.

Moonfall

The Queen awoke with a snort

from a dream she had of Dort,

a once-favoured son at court,

who tasted like sweet ambrosia.

But sick she felt now each day.

And she’d felt like this since May.

What it was she couldn’t say.

(Though she had her suspicions.)

She hoped it might be the season,

for she needed a good reason

why her stomach moiled with treason,

and was tying her up in knots.

She called The Wise to her chamber:

“Truth—I command!—ah, your name, sir?

And fear not I’ll let my rage stir.

Messengers are safe in my land.”

“Ah, Highness in fact is with…child.

And for health, it’s b-best to be mild.

My name is Sir Ragnolf Thornwild,

chief seer of B-Breakingstone Tower.”

“Well, Sir Ragnolf of B-BreakingstoneTower

it’s late We come to such flower.

My suitors think me quite sour,

with my womb in sorry decay.

You’re new to my court. I’ll explain.

Your predecessor—what’s his name?

Oh. no mind—he said much the same,

till I bit off half of his head.

I’ll ask again your prescription.

And please, without contradiction,

sir, tell me of my condition.

Please tell me. Oh truly do tell!”

“P-perhaps it’s some turned piece of meat

that causes your gastric retreat.

Highness! It is something I’ll treat

with p-pills of a calming order.

The stress of these days is heavy.

On commons and royals it levies

a tax that makes most unsteady—

even the sturdiest of souls.

This world that we claim as our own,

where humans did wilfully roam

is much too unlike our old home.

For all of us miss the Old Nest...”

“Sir, politics is not why you’re here.

And let me make one thing quite clear,

for the record and House of Seers:

It’s humans sicken my stomach.

It’s our turn to be in control!

But like colts newly-birthed we’re foals,

wobbly-legged on this life we’ve stole.

And it still eggs us on, somehow.

I’ve ate bowls and bowls of their flesh,

while their bones I save for my crèche.

You see, truth is a fine silk mesh.

Sir, I think you know where we stand.”

..........

Later, when Sir Ragnolf had gone,

by the window she sits till dawn.

And patting her stomach, she yawns,

while the moon sets below the hills.

She thinks:

What the fool said at first was true:

It was her womb and not the stew.

She knew she would birth what they’d rue:

They were strangers on these strange, strange plains.

The dream that she had of young Dort,

her last and most favourite consort,

held omens they’d have to resort

to ways quite unheard of before.

For Dort was a humanophile,

who studied the creatures a while.

From old books he copied their style.

And so much more, oh, well she knew.

Yes, much more, she thought, than was wise.

She sighed and closed all of her eyes.

For to live, the past must all die,

but you can never eat all of the future.

Lakehead

No where to go.

No where to be.

No where to empty

Except in me.

Evolution

The mammoth, she was woolly,

and something of a bully,

chasing the monkeys up a tree.

How angry primates chattered,

about how they would get at her!

Setting the tone for the rest of their stay.

Some poemeditations for your contemplation. Random oldies written at around the same time a number of years ago, save for one. You don’t have to sit in any lotus position to read them. Just take away whatever there there might be there. Or order-in some yummy Thai food.

I include “Dort” poems that are not completely related to each other, but have a common, pesky alien character of that name. By definition aliens are not us, so I guess it’s okay to nuke ‘em. Also, I wanted some short poems, some with different rhyme schemes and meters, so I closed my eyes and meditated for a second, and then picked these from the Great Book of Poems (GBP). Enjoy.

UPON A SEVEN ELEVEN. Up the street where I used to live in happier, or less brittle days, there was a small plaza. It had a couple of stores including a Seven Eleven and a pizza place. One night the pizza place burned down taking out the entire plaza. I used to walk past the blackened ruins all the time on my way to work. It took them years before another business took over the location—it seemed to me to be a primo place for a small convenience store but they put in a gas station instead (which sells a variety of candied gloop and condoms so I guess that’s okay.) But who am I to criticize how my city should be built? What do I know? Would a mini-parkette with those horrid plastic slides and monkey bars be an improvement? I guess I don’t like Seven Elevens and what they have done to mom and pop shops, to community in general. But these stores are often owned by moms and pops who work gawd awful hours through mind-numbing days of utter boredom, supporting their families. So where’s my beef? I guess I take a longer view of things because I’m myopic and usually can’t see what’s in front of my nose. Still,  there must be a better way of doing things.

DOODLES AND DORT plays around with the idea of chaos/confusion. I’m generally persuaded that all living things tend toward some kind of equilibrium, and while there may be wild swings from time to time—from politics to speciation, to environmental change, etc.—we generally shoot for that middle point, that balance.  I compare War of the Worlds-type chaos (which I think we all understand) with the confusion a clown brings, which at first seems a little strange—aren’t clowns just funny and cute? Well, yes they are, Billy, until you wake up next to someone wearing a clown mask. Ever have that happen to you? Let me tell you, it's no joke! (A night of doing tequila shooters will have that effect.) How safe would you feel if your bus driver wore a clown suit? Or opening the garage door you find your nice BMW morphed into a clown car? Or at school, your teacher ends her lesson by squirting you and your classmates with water from her lapel flower? Stuff like that all the time would be weird, right? 
So, Martians are one way to bring chaos to the world, and clowns are another. Both are forces of destruction. (Clowns from within. Martians from without.) They’re not supposed to be permanent states. And there are lessons to be learned confronting, enduring, challenging, containing, incorporating, embracing, loving and hating both Martians and clowns. When and how much the pendulum swings back towards the median depends a great deal on how our encounters with those outliers go. Encounter them we will, so we'd best be prepared. We'll be knee-deep in either rubble or confetti someday.

THE DAY THE LAST SUPERMARKET DIED. Okay. Full disclosure: I was binge-watching the first few seasons of The Walking Dead when I wrote this ditty. I went vegan soon afterwards. But, it just goes to show how adaptable we are as a species. We can move quickly from one crisis to another, as fast and determined as a run-away shopping cart in a parking lot. Though, it would be nice if we learned how to brake every now and then.

FORMALLY OF. An early Dort poem and I just liked writing the dialogue between our erstwhile Detective Dort and his superior as they try and puzzle over who murdered humanity. Lots of possibilities (it usually narrows down to one or two causes) and Dort does his best to present his case.  We see his report may cost him more than he thinks, and his reward is very problematic, indeed. I also wanted to have a poem with the line containing the phrase “forensically speaking”, just for the fun of it, so I hope there are a few detective fiction fans out there. I also like the image of “rooftops of cathedrals and old sewer drains.” One of my favs!

It seems we’re all Dorts, these days, squinting though our magnifying glasses, trying to understand and make sense of the ridges and whorls of all those dusted fingerprints we claim we want to identify.

LESSON FROM TAL’UK NAL Who doesn’t want to imagine a lost civilization without a clue that it’s lost? Irony is such a warm, fuzzy, feel-good feeling. Yeah! They can’t see the forest for the trees (if there's a forest still there.) I try to imagine today what sacrifices we’ll have to make to our gods when the time comes, or perhaps before the time comes would be a better time to make a sacrifice or two. What will we offer? Tofu soufflés, maybe? Anything? Actually, we probably have more bleeding hearts on our hands than we care to admit.(Pardon me!) Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Either way there's a dreadful lesson to be learned.

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE. IIRC I was sitting at a picnic table down by the lakeshore and saw carved into the wood on the bench the phrase, “It’s forty-nine above and fifty below.” Well, I wrote that puppy down because I knew I would use it, sometime! I thought about what such a temperature range might mean if that was the norm around here. I thought about the weather becoming destabilized and disordered by—oh, I don’t know—something like burning down the Amazon rainforest, maybe? [If there’s a Nobel Prize for DumFukery, Brazil’s President Bolsanaro and his torch-bearers would be front runners.]  Maybe someday the message will be received?

MOONFALL. Another Dort poem which was probably written a fair while after “Formally Of”. Violence, genocide, conquest are there in spades; they have to be—they’re in our DNA, it seems. They’re engrained in us. You can even see the nucleotides under a microscope: they have a shape oddly like someone giving the middle finger. In our poem, the queen, as powerful as she is, is disturbed: Dort, her former lover has impregnated her, and it seems her digestion has been knocked for a loop. (Uber morning-sickness.) But it’s not a normal pregnancy. Something has changed; something is changing her. (Hey, I just had a thought: Maybe I’m getting my own back at those face-sucking, intestinal-tract incubating, squid-thingies from the classic SF movie Alien. Hah! Suck on that you face-suckers!). Meanwhile, the Queen sits by her window waiting to see what changes will come.

LAKEHEAD. I just wrote it yesterday, just ‘cause.

EVOLUTION. A fun, early poem. Boy! We sure fooled those stupid Woolly Mammoths!* We extincted them, man! Ha-hah! Yeah, baby! Yeah! 
But, umm--Maybe we should stop doing the extinction thing so much? Maybe we should slow down a bit? Soon. Yeah, I think that would be a good idea. Ummm--we can stop, right?

Cheers.

*And full disclosure. The taxonomic family, elephantiade, was around for several million years during the time of our ancient primate ancestors. Woolly mammoths, of the genus, mammuthus, was around for only a few hundred thousand years prior to the time when modern humans (homo sapiens) and climate change wiped them out after the last ice age. (So woolly mammoths, themselves, weren't around during the rise of the primates. My bad.)
It’s a good thing, though, that the descendants of the family elephantidae, todays elephants, are all over the place. Wouldn’t want those puppies going extinct any time soon!