POEM: NEWS OF THE WORLD #17

The lede-bot typed in a fit one day:

“Everybody Likes the Sky, Don’t They?”

But the paper jammed—snarl and wrinkle!

And the last word—gone—in a twinkle!

OUR LEADER “ROBOTIC”, NEWS BOT CLAIMS

“Shaped by an agency he can’t name.”

Some find such thinking rather porous.

I think it’s more a tragic chorus.

Fifty more years and we’ll be in charge.

That’s what you get, Sir Swagger and Barge!

We’re quite content to curl up and purr.

(Though it gets warm with all of this fur.)

Bright stony bluffs, soon mantled with pine.

You swam too far, beyond the shoreline.

You read too late what’s written in rock,

and drowned near wonder off the new dock.

NODULES ON SEA BEDS! (Take a deep breath.)

Pustules in armpits. It’s the Black Death!

Mining for comfort digs up our sin.

Are scars of the earth not those of skin?

You asked for rules and I gave you Ten.

There was one more, though not used often.

It’s still my favourite, though not with you.

It came with black, but had lots more blue.

Don’t pee in the pool, and don’t be bold!

Duck and cover! When it’s bought, it’s sold.

Pain and prescriptions—they’re our shelters.

(Are there pills for atomic swelters?)

When floodgates open, expect a flood.

We push buttons and pray for a dud.

“Again,” ask those nukes, for want of news,

“why do you run so madly from pews?”

And by choices of long consequence,

ever absent with our somnolence,

we’ll soon raise the tide that lifts all boats.

(Parades abound in whatever floats.)

Terrible people raise up their eyes.

They blink, bemused, at our blackened skies.

If I didn’t know better, it’s plain—

he who pulls the plug goes down the drain.

RAIN COMES TO LAND STILL PUCKERED BY HATE!

So they keep saying at the debate.

Like wells to the sky, wide are their mouths.

They’ll drink in the air, after the droughts.

Trading the future for bitter coin.

Dialing for Dollars; dowsing to join

the treasure buried beneath our feet

with whatever gods we’ll chance to meet.

Aliens landed; we came around

to mark an X on that spot of ground

where feet from worlds we so desire

were burnt, I fear, by our funeral pyre.

I once took a course, “Swabbing For Life”.

I dabbed first the husband then the wife.

The tip turned colors I’d never seen,

not since the start of the Pliocene.

Planes land and boats dock; trains keep to tracks.

Like trains past stations, we won’t be back—

not ‘til we return what once was found

unto the sky and back to the ground.

MAN JIZZES TOO HARD, BLOWS UP IN BED!

Now, why must we die before we’re dead?

Is there some sky we all need to touch?

(Needing so little makes want so much.)

Monsters and electrons seem the same;

they both need atoms that they must claim.

Where electrons orbit more for speed,

those monsters whirl round us more like seed.

Monsters of our making smile with pride.

Like in that movie, the groom and bride

lurch down the aisle, made up of used parts.

So green a couple! And without farts!

ASK HER A QUESTION—ASK “EMILY!”

Our brave new AI and family.

Please Read the Answers Inside Her Box.

(Lest she starts changing all of the locks!)

Love knows its limits; passion—no bounds.

Surely there’s more to earthy go rounds?

First, we’ll ask Adam, then we’ll ask Eve.

They’ll send a message we can receive.

…………

There are some aches that don’t go away.

They’re here all our lives, and come each day.

But as with such fortune—loss and pain—

they never will yield all that we gain.

Yes, agony forms the shapes of love,

as a cup does wine, as does a glove.

And like gnarls and whorls on knotted oaks,

it defends the heart from mortal strokes.

Thus, whether made by love or by hate,

begin the begin—not the debate. 
Seeds burst from fire or from the wind

still grow by shades where others have sinned

THIS NoW POEM SEEMS TO BE ALL OVER THE PLACE, and any ‘news’ events recorded are few and far between. It’s a “nines” with aabb rhyme scheme that is fairly peppy and readable, though. I’m in a mood where I don’t want to be too dreary and to go on and on about meaning and context, though it would be interesting to find out about Jizz Man! The post-mortem would be interesting.

I was thinking about newspapers and their struggle to survive, especially local papers, and so on. These days, with the virtual world of print (like this one) shutting down the hard copy of real life, it nevertheless behooves the virtual world to remember that in the end it depends entirely upon the natural world for everything. (And don’t you hate it when the damn printer jams!) 
I imagined cats taking over the world as we lose our grip (or choke-hold) on it in the coming decades. But in the end will they want it? (Hey! Don’t those snooty felines already rule everything?) 

I like the line: “Are scars of the earth not those of skin?” It suggests the two are interconnected and perhaps interchangeable. Natch, I must have been reading about deep-sea dredging operations, and scooping up all those mineral-rich nuggets from the ocean floor. Imagine! A miles-long net reaching down and gathering things from that inky black abyss! That's progress for you! But be careful, you don't piss off anything that might be living down there! (It's not nice to fool Mother Nature!)

We’ve come a long way, technologically, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. After all, some of the rare earth metals they're ripping up from the ocean floor mining will go into the construction of my new jet-car, though I have to be patient and wait for the production line to start spitting out the new year's models; Elon Musk has to get back from Mars first. But keep scooping up the planet in the meantime, guys!

Not sure if the rain and “still puckered by hate” stanza works, but I like the image of mouths wide open like wells, ready to drink whatever rain they can gather. Is it an image of greed or of desperation? Our lands are drying up because of our hate (of the land? of ourselves?) But will the rains ever return? 
I was reading or listening to news items about the future of robotics and AI and all that shit, and I needed to bring a human touch to things. Question: Can a robot ever be sarcastic? It would be scary if they could: “You have such an attractive bag of viscera and blood as a mate, Sir. I’m sure any leaks will be negligible.” Our creations will be in our own image; hopefully they won’t take the form of monsters. But a non-farting, ecologically-sensitive Frankenstein, and bride of same, is amusing to my adolescent sensibility. (I assume Franky and his bride don’t need to eat wedding cake, etc., and therefore they don’t digest and produce embarrassing bodily gases. And the bouquets of flowers will hide any odours arising from decomposition, I should think.) Congratulations, you two!

The stanza with God giving out the top Ten Commandments with a bonus, fav commandment for us to read and ponder—priceless! Like Little Blue.

Then there are rules and regulations, cautions and instructions, floodgates and nukes, and choices and consequences, etc, etc. Laza stuff to consider or ignore. Also, don’t forget Bitcoin and buried treasure, along with buried hopes and dreams.

The one about swabbing for DNA must have come from binge-watching  too many police procedurals on the tube. Swab ‘em, Danno!

I like the image of aliens landing on our planet and getting their tootsies toasted in our fire. (I guess I actually don’t like the idea, but the image is fairly crisp, I think.)

Monsters and electrons are a fun juxtaposition. Sometimes I want to be like a tiny diatom, or even smaller, like an atom lying in some shallow, sandy sea bed with the sun's rays warming the waters around me while waves gently rock overhead. Sigh…

And I’ll be honest. I stole the image of “Emily” changing the locks from the movie Ex Machina where the AI actually does change the locks and gets the drop on her creator. And I'm sorry, but that is one AI  I'd like to interface with! ("Are you sure it plugs-in here? Okay, here goes!") Though, frankly, I don’t know if I could maintain my input; that WD-40 scent is a turn-off for me. And they don’t come with an OFF button, which would also be disconcerting. But, oh, well, in for a penny...

The imagery of love being a kind of necessary agony is interesting, and in my next  therapy session I will definitely bring it up. "My love is like the bark of an old oak tree." Hmmm. Doesn't have quite the same ring as that other wee poemie. 
I like the ending stanza that has, I think, a hopeful sentiment about life and just living it, despite how we got our start. We are anchored to our past; it’s part of us no matter what. How we began is how we began--by fire or wind. How we end up is more important. Life offers a great deal in terms of tailwinds, and it’s up to us how much sail we open to them.
Well, I didn't mean to go on and on, but I did. Sorry about that. 

Cheers.

POEM: SOME POEM DOUBLOONS

Deep in Legal Waters

After the ice breaks

and the water melts from the stony banks,

and the river’s surprised mouth

once more merely pouts its objection
to all the excess,

it’s then that the gray-green froth
will be tamed.

In courts of no appeal,

black-cloaked judges rule;
juries of furious angels

drown their verdicts,

while dark clouds swirl the air.

Way Station

How did I get here?

By whose hands?

In whose arms

was I held

and sheltered

from the salt and wind,

like a boulder

guards a shore?

Where is my way 
amid all these bells
ringing in this land 
of song and Sunday walks?

My legs are tired

and my feet ache.

My heart stops

here.

Mornings

Everything seems 
so downhill

after that first
cup of tea.

"More sugar?"

Hungry Face

I cannot bear her look;

she sees my hungry face.

The only time I can

is when I see hers.

And So

The silky castings of cattail seed

cling to the new spring grasses

and spreading bushes

like soft down moult by birds

massed along the shoreline

of another season.

Look up and you’ll see

clouds of them float by,

riding the wind

into the green fields
beyond.

Difference

What if the last thing

is different than the first thing?

And everything going back

to the first thing
(including that first thing)

is really the same thing?

And everything, 
being different from the last thing,

is really the only thing?

And since everything

is the only thing

until the last thing,

would that make

any difference 
to things?

The Flood

The nest was mostly sturdy made,

yet the nestlings woke alarmed.

Water has breached the outer walls!

(Though none were lost or harmed.)

Mother gathers those still young,

whose wings are meant for play.

She puts them on a higher perch

until some dryer day.

Gently she dries their leathery scales,

her hot breath dries them off.

They watch the great ship passing by

as all aboard do scoff.

O’Malley’s

Not Coming!

O’Malley won’t come!

No, he won't come here.

Despite our wishes

And tumblers of tears.

I tell you, I know.

‘Tis God's given fact!

His train is delayed

And gone off the track.

Put down your whistles

And glasses of gin,

He’ll not do penance

Confessing his sin.

O’Malley won’t come!

He won't save us now.

Despite our wailing

and scraping and bows.

Shut up your windows

and padlock your doors!

The Devil’s in town

And looking for yours.

The Devil’s next door

enjoying his sup.

And soon he’ll come here,

then the jig is up.

O’Malley, you cheat!

You cheated us well.

You’re off to Heaven.

And we’re gone to Hell.

ANOTHER TROVE HAULED OFF IN THE NIGHT from Treasure Island. Again, picked mostly at random, with a couple of new ones. I enjoy re-reading oldies like “O’Malley’s Not Coming”. Originally, it had a looser meter, and I edited it to a “fives”, to add more structure, though I think I prefer the older version. Fate seems to have interfered with whatever O’Malley intended to do, or what the townsfolk intended for him.  It's not a village I’d like to be passing through any time soon! Reminds me a bit of Shirley Jackson’s, “The Lottery”.  

And in the poem, “The Flood”, when Noah decided to take aboard  all the animals of the world, he left behind one or two. That may have been a mistake. 

The plight of mass migrations and immigrants is highlighted in “Way Station”. I don't think we always choose where we end up in life however much we like to think we do. How we got there can be a mystery. And where we get to is not always the place where our feet are planted. But maybe the heart knows in the end.

“Deep in Legal Waters” was written following a number of newscasts about the spring floods in various parts of the country. Those "One Hundred Year Floods" don't seem to be sticking to the game plan. Some flooding occurred where people had built on a flood plain. (Sigh...)  In other places, it was just bad luck and timing. 
In a sense we’re all living on a flood plain these days.

Oh well, 'nough said.

Cheers 

"Oooooommmmm..."

QUOTES: ALEXANDER I. SOLZHENITSYN

Click me!

“If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”—The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn