POEM: POEMILIES FOR ALL TO SEE

Pater Noster

Once, past hallowed and holy doors,

with signs that beckoned enter,

gave worshipers on marble floors

airs, sweetened by censers.

And candle wax and painted glass

and beads upon a book,

and charming bells called all to mass,

like fish upon a hook.

And words spoke in the Latin tongue,

a sound to end travail,

were chanted early, practiced long

to give us further sail.

But like the bells that sometimes crack,

cooling before their time,

or a tinker’s old and tattered sack,

or a cup that once held wine,

monk’s bald pate and cathedral’s dome

lay bare now ‘neath a sun

that sits atop our once-won home

and starts a newer run.  

Will I Not

Be There?

Will I not

be there

with you

at the river’s

sandy turning

to hear once more

the cry

of the wild,

furtive thing

that makes

you laugh

so gently?

Across the Euphrates

At Eridu,
beside the sacred pool,
I lay my offerings of chickpea 
and lentils
and the dried flesh 
of the yellow-scaled fish
that swim, daily, into my weir.

In the grove’s speckled shade,

I lay my offerings
by the upwelling waters.

I sing to Enki. I sing for this day

and what it will bring.

I drink the pool’s cool, sweet water.

And it is only then

I will raise my eyes

to the rising suns

of the east.

Bird-Tracks

Writing this now

is so unlike

the last five thousand years.

Or the next.

Blinkers

With poetry tools packed

carefully in his knapsack,

wearing a baseball cap
and sunglasses,

and comfortably fitting jeans

(and sandals, of course),

he moves through the crowd

like a panther, 
eating it all up--

all the sound bites 
and tidbits of love.
It’s a rich buffet.

But there’s no time to digest
or think about dessert,

not for the word-carnivore,

alone and on the prowl 
through the bright afternoon
of the world.

Monster

It’s not the sharp claws

and fangs that draw blood.

Nor is it visions of oceans

filled with Great Swallowing Things.

It's not the grinning face

of a personalized death.

It’s not childhood terrors,

screams at night,

the devil, 
or even Freddy

that frighten you.

It’s monstrous 
this side of glass.

The Everything Factory

I worked in a place that made everything.

I needed to live, to make a living.

Some thought it a place that grew much too large.

(Such questions are answered by those in charge.)

My shift never varied, my days were long.

And nights were longer, but don’t get me wrong—

I’m thankful for what was done for me there.

The coffee was hot; my locker was near.

The factory was neat, well-lit and maintained.

It made for itself what humans once claimed:

A Modern Marvel! A guide for the Age!

There were bright ribbons, many accolades.

It made no noise; its machines seemed to hum.

What went on inside was more than its sum.

I’d heard the old tales of distant, dark rooms

where machines were bred, well cared for and groomed.

Because it’s so vast, you’ll grant me this much,

I’d not seen it all, just what I could touch.

“And what do you make here?” someone once asked,

someone I knew, but from a long time past.

“Truly,” I said, “we make everything here.”

Hers seemed a question decidedly queer.

Back then we knew where everything was made.

I’m sure we did, though my memory fades.

Yes, it was lonely with no one to see,

there was just one worker, and that was me.

My job was quite simple. I had one tool.

A key made of gold that came with one rule.

I’ll say it for you. I know you can’t tell:

"Please turn it all off, for we’ve gone to hell."

Vacant Lot

Cement on top the vacant lot,

directed by our traffic cop.

His whistle bids us all to stop,

like once did royal Hottentot.

Our pride within withstands without.

But win the match by blood or fault!

It's not without a pinch of salt

we'll gain that place, by chance or rout.

Our barking dogs and craven songs

are loud in dreams, like night's marsh-frogs.

While scores are kept in bloody logs,

with skins of leaves to bind their wrongs.

We’ll move by pride and so contrive.

Now set to sea, where lands abide.

Of gods, we stole and on them spied;

it is our lot we must survive.

Clotheslines

Sheila hanging laundry,

her clothes upon the wind.

She was the neighbour-girl

I had dreamed of in sin.

But why is it, now, that

I've come upon this place?

Where all I can see is--

a name and not a face?

Didn't I just see this on TV?

DEAR READER, HERE IS A HODGEPODGE COLLECTION FOR YOU, a people-tsunami of sorts—with the flood funneled down into a few, manageable gulps. There's some hoary oldies and a couple of new ones for fun and profit (whose?) But at least you don’t have to kneel down to read them. Or pray. Or drown. So, enjoy them. Take away what you will. Drop a few coins in the collection plate as it’s passed around. Or just nod as you walk by. Thanks.

PATER NOSTER (“Our Father”)—Hmmm. The speaker seems a mite peeved at the church. Apostates “R” US, I guess. I like the fourth stanza with the images of a “tinker’s sack” and “a cup that once held wine”. Under the hot eye of modernity's sun what will come next is a good question. Something renewed? Or just different?

Incidentally, “paternoster”* is a type of elevator you won’t catch me on any time soon. It looks downright dangerous! But, it’s like the perfect elevator to get to Heaven because you have to be really careful how you get on. If you slip up or miss you timing—you’ll get caught in a pretty nasty bind. The down-vator is easier to tumble on to, especially in a drunken stupor. (That’s always the case, with down being the easier ride.) Anyway, I’ve pretty much given up trying to get on the up-vator, what with the lineups and all. I’ll take the stairs; I need some exercise….

Poor little pee-pee pants!

WILL I NOT BE THERE?—A little prayer or plea for something that is just on the edge of our perception, a moment that seems ephemeral but is really much more common than we realize. Whatever it is, it’s made more vibrant and visible when it is shared. And perhaps what's out there isn't what's important (unless it's a T-Rex or something).

ACROSS THE EUPHRATES—I’ve always liked this one. It’s an oldie. Eridu is a city in southern Iraq which is arguably the oldest, continuously-inhabited city in the world. It began as a site of ancient worship near the shores of the Persian Gulf. A shrine was built there, and millennia of habitation and religious sanctuaries grew around and atop it. Enki is the ancient Summerian city-god of Eridu. Ur, Urak, Lagash and Babylon were some great city-states to rise and later dominate the region.

BIRD TRACKS—The writing on clay tablets from the Sumerian civilization during the third millennium BC was likened by early 19th Century interpreters to the tracks shorebirds left as they walked across mudflats. I wonder how those who come after us will interpret our writings?

Naked poet sighting

BLINKERS—I like the image of, “bright afternoon/ of the world.” But I think our cocky “word-carnivore” might want to raise his head up, now and then, and check out what’s around him or what’s coming at him.

MONSTER—I think we all get why vampires don’t see their reflections in mirrors. We keep externalizing monsters instead of looking at them when we see them each day. So, having a close shave now and then is probably a good thing.

THE EVERYTHING FACTORY—Such places are on every street corner. They  crowd out everything else. It’s amazing to me that we don’t shutter more of them, but then, where would we get everything? Would we have anything afterwards? Are we able to settle for just something?

Vacant Lot?

VACANT LOTS—Folks! We’re running out of vacant lots when we need them the most! They’re places where things just happen. What’s wrong with that?

CLOTHESLINES—Memories, nostalgia. Yeah. And it’s good to have them, but it’s probably more important what you make of them while they're happening the first time around.





 

 Cheers

Exerciser show-off

* Paternoster Elevator 
Heads Up! (Or down.)