It's come and gone: the promised time.
The loved ones are not here.

Tarried, perhaps, in forgetful play;
Congestion
Or confusion on an unfamiliar way;
Surely, though minutes mount, a trivial delay.
Absurd to fret the creep of time,
The beloved will soon appear.

But, minutes merge to hours.
No call! No word! No hint! No clue!
Whom to phone?
Where to turn? 
What to do?
Such blood-shapes will restive minds construe,
When hours ooze like noxious slime,
And worry turns to choking fear.

---

                                                                                                                                                             >>> ToP

Siren Song of the Pancake Ice*

              Caressed and scoured by wind,
              Rocked and heaved by waves,
              She lies in timeless wait,
              Murmuring in her singular voice --
                      sighing breeze,
                      sibilant sound of rubbing floes
                      and softly singing silence --
              She beckons:
                     Come.
                     Rest.
                     Lie down on this cold, barren breast.
                     Here is no sustenance nor warmth nor aught to slake desires.
                     But in this pale, grim nether world
                                    we shall quench the bitterest fires.
                    Your desolate soul and mine have long been flirting lovers.
                    So come, you, now and sleep.
                    Sleep here,
                    With me,
                    Forever.

     * A kind of polar sea ice characterized by large areas of flat, irregular shaped floes of varying sizes.

    
Who Cares?

Smash a rock -- it doesn't care.
Explode a bomb -- it doesn't care.
Crash a car -- it doesn't care.
Poison a planet -- it doesn't care.

              

                  
The Excuse

There was pain and rage in his voice:

"Don’t look at me like that!
I tell you it wasn’t rape!
And I  didn’t mean to hurt her!
Do you think I like seeing her this way?
Bruised and feverish,
So weak she might die?

"I did it. And I’m sorry.
But it wasn’t rape!
He gave her to me!
After all, he is her father!
No, I never saw him,
But he called, at night,
And said I could have her.
So it wasn’t rape!

"Sure, she fought -- at first --
But you have to expect that.
Like a devil she fought.
For a time I even thought she might win.
Then she let me.
Just lay there, open and sweet,
Even helped bit.
Jeeze! It was good!
And all that chemical stuff?
 Only made life easier for me.
I never thought
It would make her so sick!

"Look, I didn’t mean to ruin her!
I need her!
But he did give her to me.
And she was such a pretty thing!
What would you have done?

"Damn your eyes!
Don’t look at me like that!"

And that was his excuse --
Sapiens excuse for his violation of Terra.

     
 Loneliness 2

The light is hard, the shadows heavy.
Quietly,
She sits --
Huddled shoulders,
Gray head very low.
Flannel stockings droop over thickened ankles.

The hour is deep.
Time gapes like a hungry mouth.
Motionless,
She sits --
At the worn table, in the neat kitchen;
The frantic ticking of a small clock
Is huge in the empty quiet.

Various pains throb and burn.
Inner parts are breaking too.
Listening,
She sits.
In the corners,
In the dark places,
From the empty rooms,
Yesterday’s voices speak again --
Faintly, very faintly,
But clearly --
Familiar words.

Today’s pain,
Yesterday’s voices,
Quietly
She sits.
Waiting.

     



                
   Loneliness

  “ How are you?” I asked.

 He replied,

"I am alone.

"I wander stark byways, staring into void
  And the sound of each footstep
         echoes through the gloom,
          racing into the vast quiet
         without waiting for the one to follow.
  Like me, alone.

“There is happiness behind the door,
        fellowship in the tavern,
        love in the room with the blinds drawn shut.
 Hands in pockets, chin on chest, I pass.
 These are not for me.

“I eat alone, drink alone, sleep alone.
 I am not helloed on my way; my eyes are down.
 No hand is laid on my shoulder.
 No lips caress my lips.
 I cringe from the longed for touch.

"At a party,
       Voices swirl about my head but do not alight,
       Laughter bubbles to my face and bursts,
       Untouched, I leave.
       My solitude remains undisturbed.

“I come, a shadow, and bring no joy.
 I go, a wisp, and leave no sorrow.

"Laughter, faint in the distance,
 Loud careless voices,
 Happy sounds call out, beckon,
 But not for me.
 Mine is the desolation, the emptiness, the lonely place.
 I stand in the shadows and . . . ”

“Oh, well,” said I, “have a good day!”

     
                
The Chamber

This is the sanctum of The Mighty,
Exalted Ones who deign to walk with men.
The door is locked.
Only Gods have keys.

To this halcyon retreat,
Consecrated to their service and renewal,
The Favored Ones repair for meditation and labor.
Here, their consummate efforts are spent;
Their most noble productions are issued;
Their Godhood is refreshed.

Mortals, passing with averted eyes, can only imagine --
Immaculate floors and walls;
Alcoves for private ease, exertion or stimulation --
All ashimmer with jewel-like glow.
Cathedral hush absorbs the murmur of secret, sacred rites.
Pungent vapors waft.
Holy waters flow.
Golden libations are poured on hallowed walls.

Ensconced in grandeur on gaping thrones,
In vertiginous throes of creative rapture,
Knitted brows, vapid eyes, flaccid cheeks,
The Great Ones ponder, toil
And birth their finest accomplishments,
Ripe fruit born to the sounds of ultimate striving.

Sighs, eructations, grunts,
Plashing stools, rustle of facial-quality paper,
The sonorous sounds of working,
Peristaltic working,
In the Executive Crapper.

Misery

We have this:
       One after another the customers come,
       Paunchy, flabby and stinking
                       (cologne, sweat, alcohol, rotten breath).
       With artificial affection
                     or boorish humor
                           or cruel indifference,
       Determined to cram satisfaction into the scant rental time,
       Thrusting into them,
       Some have injected disease along with seed.
       Tricked by promises of a better future in an easier place,
       Beaten into a despised depravity,
       Their slavery ignored by disinterested law,
       They toil painfully, numbly towards . . .

And we have this:
       Staggering or squatting on twig-like limbs. 
       Bloated bellies under protruding ribs.
       Hollow cheeks; bulging, empty eyes.
       Dreaming of food,
       By twos and threes they die.
       And, with little strength for corpse removal,
       The reek of death is everywhere.
       But the flies eat well.

And we have this:
       Too  late to flee; nowhere to go.
       Cowering in the gloom and stench;
       Dirty, insufficient food and water;
       Puss stained rags on throbbing, festering wounds;
       Some foragers have not returned.
       From the small, makeshift stove
       Too much smoke, not enough heat.
       Constant nausea, headache, shivering, fever, coughing,
       Children whimpering,
       Explosive thrump and BANG
       And terror!
       Nearby hits spasm the earth,
       Blast into the ears and brain and bones,
       Shake particles and dust from the ceiling, walls and floor!
       Surely, the next strikes here!
       Or the next!

And we have this:*
       Clothes and hair burnt away,
       Skin blistered and scorched,
       Sobbing its name,
       The glistening, crimson, pain-crazed woman
       Has only a seared teat
       To assuage the agony
       Of her glistening, crimson, aching babe.

And we have this:
       The punishments are capricious;
       Increasingly severe:
       Shaking, slapping, punching,
       Wires, belts and cigarettes;
       Thudding, stinging, searing, routine agony.
       Punished for any thing they do
       And for any thing they don’t;
       Punished for all the things they need:
       To eat, to cry, to piss, to shit;
       Punished for what and where they are:
            For being unwanted,
            For being helpless,
            For being there;
       Often not seen until too late,
       The rage that falls on little ones. 

And we have more,
       A whole book of more,
       An encyclopedia of more,
       A library of more!
       There is no end to it!

And we have you!
      You, with your full stomach
            and adequate clothes
                 and comfortable home
                       and perceptible future
       and mindless prattle of "the gift of life"!
       How dare you!
       You, who choose to know so little of,
       And care even less about,
       The wretchedness that pervades?

On this orb of misery and pain;
Of blind passion, malice and war;
Of pestilence and accidents
                      and errors in the code;
Of random wrath of nature
And reasoned cruelty of man;
Where self-justifying greed prevails;
Where love can save but few at a time,
While hatred destroys by thousands;
Where, if there is a god that listens,
Obviously, it listens not to the victims;

How can you think it a gift,
When more likely it is an infliction?

 

The Hammer
 

The hammer strikes,
Again and again,
Without rhythm or warning.
Little taps crack and dent.
Monstrous blows shatter.
Relentless, pitiless, mindless;
Beating, bruising, mauling,
             chipping, smashing,
Hammering, hammering,
Until we are destroyed.

                                                                                                                  >>> ToP

       



             
Adagio^*

The choreography is complex
And their beat is so much slower,
The dancers need support.
But  the orchestra  is indifferent
And the audience ignores them,
Scorns the feeble pleading --
The malformed, inadequate parodies --
To which they must resort.

Their equipment is somehow faulty;
The music weak and garbled
And nearly lost in noise.
It confuses and upsets them.
The theater they play destroys.

They struggle to find the movement,
But are bewildered by the steps,
Cannot understand
            the intricacy of the dance.
Cues are missed.
Synapses spark too late,
Or not at all.
The performance is flawed,
The performers retarded,
Born without a chance;

Summoned,
So ill prepared,
To this hard, remorseless stage,
Where achievement is the god
And perfection is the gage.
But a spastic drummer hammers
In their uncompleted brains --
A slow, arrhythmic, wild tattoo
That dizzies and restrains,
And attenuates their efforts
To reach the impossible par.

For  all the anxious trying,
They travel much more slowly
And cannot go as far.

     >>> ToP

      

                  
Titch Titch

A cry is heard.

It is the same in the banner headlines,
          in the glib broadcasts,
          in the attaché cases carried
          by somber men in gray capitals.

“HELP!   HELP!
“HE’S MURDERING ME!
“OH, GOD, THE PAIN!
         “Somebody?
         “Please?
         “Please help me?

But He is hungry and big and strong.

Me is weak.

God is unavailable.

And Somebody (at a party)
Turns askance and hisses,
“Shhh!
“You’re disturbing the peace!

So Me, quivering, expires.

And Somebody says, “Titch. Titch.”
As the ice cubes tinkle in his glass.

While He, quite stronger now, burps,
Licks the gore and ashes from his hands,
And, wiping the grime from his tanks and planes,
Contemplates another prey.

                


       
Silence

Inarticulate Fool!
I spit on you!
You and your miserable silence!
You, who can not tout your virtues nor laud you deeds;
You, who worm like,
         have no voice to cry pain though being crushed,
         but writhe and tremble in silent agony;
You,  who dying of want, can not find the words:
         I need food. I need drink. I need love.
You languish in a sewer of silence
While glib idiots babble to shimmering peaks
         and sigh into moist grottoes.

O! The opportunities wasted, the fortunes forfeited,
          the conquests ruined, the victories obscured,
          the ideas strangled by your immobile tongue!
O! The campaigns that were lost
          to an ass with a voice,
While you misty eyed and passion choked, stood by!
Why, Inarticulate Fool?

Here are words! Thousands of words!
They are such wondrous instruments!
Use them!
Speak!
Speak!

Speak or be damned!

   Disillusionment

Sobbing,
Hurtling in Gomorrah,
Package tightly clutched to his frail, pounding chest,
On a mission most unsuitable
For one not yet a man:

The passion that impels him
Is a knot within his craw,
And the sunlight, glinting from his glasses,
Obscures the brimming eyes,
As the virtue of grim purpose
Obscures the error in the plan.

Bewildered, embittered, meek of mien;
Bereft of place in a world obscene;
Innocent and eagerly
Escaped the womb at age fourteen;
Running, weeping ever since
Impotent, bitter tears.
He’d been taught:
         That the world is round,
         But not how hurt and sad;
         That people build and empathize,
         But not how greedy,
         Cruel and bad.
Birth at such an age is a hard and chancy task;
To rip away so suddenly the soft, benumbing mask,
And discover the basic falsehood in the empty lullaby.

Now, hounded by shrill demagogues,
Goaded by flaming print;
Hurrying with his package,
Vengeful, hate-spurred sprint;
Rushing to add his feeble rage,
Augmented on the scales;
Hurrying with his package
Of gelignite^* and nails.

 
   
Good Morning

                       . . . then,
The warm cloud drifts away and,
Iridescent in the golden sunlight,
A butterfly settles upon the blossom,
Slowly fluttering,
Carefully nuzzling,
Contented "mmmmm" . . .

Languorously,
She opens her eyes
And sees him --
There!
In the distance,
At the other end of the world!
Under the edge!
Only his eyes,
His nose in the grass,
And exquisite, liquid tickling!

To keep him from falling
She grabs for his head!
And vasting her thighs,
And writhing her loins,
She holds him
Tightly in place.

Oh, Albatross^*


Swoop!
         Glide!
               Through cinereous sky!
Skim the roiled-heaving sea!
No voraginous cold
Nor rampageous wind
Can shiver your majestic spread!

Oh, Albatross,
For endless time
Through endless sky
O’er endless sea --
Is there another creature so free?

But, Albatross,
Fifty years of glide and swoop!
Isn’t it dull, this endless loop?

    



Marilyn Monroe

From time to time
She made it rhyme
And begged us to forgive her.*

Sad.

That she should live
And write in jaded time,
When arbiters of fad decree
That rhyme is such a crime.

    * Paraphrased from a poem by MM

Cross-cultural Fertilization


We Westerners never say it right.

"Sa" is short and sibilant.

"Yo" is longer,
Extended like a lingering touch.

"Nara" rolls,
But it’s clipped at the end
To draw the curtain,
     To close the door,
            To catch a sob.

"Sayonara!"
"Sayonara!"
The most exquisite farewell in the tongues of man!

Why, then,
In Japan, do they say “bye-bye”?

 




The Meanest in the Forest

What a curios beast the -ism is,
His colors so varied and vivid:
Saffrons and reds and holier whites
And blues puritanically livid.

But, whatever may be his complexion,
He’s convinced of his very perfection,
And he spends almost all of his time
Just adoring his own reflection.

Though at birth his brain is incredibly small,
It begins a rapid contraction,
A process that changes at weaning time
From shrinking to full petrifaction.

His mind is well tended, very refined;
It’s simple, pure and idealistic.
It could be leftish or rightish in kind,
But that’s a minor characteristic.

When observing alternative –isms,
Of course he thinks they're all defective;
Regarding them with utter distain
And referring to them with invective.

               ***********
And there’s one more horrid enemy
That makes him rage and roast;
Of all the other animals
He abhors revision most.

He’s the meanest in the forest.
A meanness augmented by fear.
But he isn’t completely bad, you see;
Though unkind, he's really sincere!

                ***********
His prey are in various herds
Of numbers not given to shrinking,
Consisting of gullible folk,
Good people not given to thinking.

If ever his food becomes scanty,
He may suffer a terminal spasm.
But he seldom dies completely,
Hardly ever becomes a -wasm.

     
They Say

It isn’t like they say it is!
Something’s gone awry!
Descriptions reek of fancy.
Explanations follow dogma,
Slavish, dumb and blind.
Mere illusion is embraced;
Test results ignored.
And, whatever it is they’re building,
It is not  what they specify!
 
They say they love the finer things,
Nature, art, beauty, duty and all that,

But their ubiquitous creation is oticidal^* noise;
They scurry into boxes that condition nature out;
And the mostly valued things
Are the ones they have to buy,
Not  the things they sing about,
Not what they glorify.

They say they’ve made it good
And more will make it better.
         But, however much is made,
         Ever more is needed,
         Needed; barely used;
         Then carelessly discarded,
         Conveniently discarded,
         Thoughtlessly discarded.

And the engine of the making
Is the stoker of the pyre:

The sands expand;
The ice contracts;
The green clear cut or burnt;
The waters fail; deluge abounds;
Oceans rise; oceans die;
Air contorts in deadly gyre!

          And even the stars are drowned!
Unstoppable and dire,
The flame burns ever brighter,
Ever hotter, ever higher!

They say they see the danger,
Know what they need to do.

 But their billions and their poisons
 Infect an earth entire, 

 As they plunder
 And squander

 And feed the future to the fire!         Moloch

They say that unbounded power,
A light beyond the sky, 
Singular and sublime,
Presides with love and mercy;
Knows, protects and cares.
Comforting lullaby!

But, demagogues and holy men
Harangue and justify;
Inflame the passions of the throngs;
Pander to their fears.
Stark evil strides unthwarted.
Hatred sways triumphant,
Self-righteous, certain and cruel.
Thousands tremble, scream and die.
        Flesh rent! Bone smashed!
        Skin burnt! Brain splashed!
And rains the fanatical butchery --
         Bombs, flame, blades, guns,
         Agony, blood and tears --
Down upon even  the smallest,
Most helpless and innocent ones!

And, when pressed for explanations,
When questioned: “How?” and “Why?”
They only point to heaven,
Mouth the mindless mantras,
Those empty, specious sophistries,
To excuse, exalt and mystify:
         “It’s not for the likes of us to know.”
         “It’s far beyond the ken of men.”
Tautologies^* to numb the brain,
Charm, entrance and stupefy.

They say they’ll make it better
With ritual and prayer.

But that can not change a thing, because
Multifold and protean,
Born of delusion, deception and despair,
That light is merely myth.
Ever in adjustment, revision or repair,
It has no mind nor substance. And
The answer to those questions is,
“There’s really nothing there!”

They say that faith is needed,
For faith engenders hope,
Triumph over reason
And acceptance of the word.

But faith is what enables
The capture of the minds
Of the members of the herds,
       Self-delusion
       And denial
And belief in the absurd!

Despite the platitudes
And the homilies,
Despite the precepts taught,
This is the condition of the kind.
This is what they have wrought.

And it isn’t the way they say it is.
It’s not  as they certify!
It’s turned all topsy-turvy,
And everything’s all awry!

                                                                           >>>ToP
* ehe

---

    


 
When Bubbles Burst

         It has no soul.
         It has no place.
         Shattered again,
         It has no face.

Dull brute inspired and spirit-fired
To reach beyond the pale bemired
And touch the Orb so long admired.
So close! So close! It gleamed and gyred!
And reawoke the dream aspired!
Orb might consent to be desired!
So,

Joyfully, he sang and lyred;
Carefully, his form attired;
Performed the rites he thought required;
And with the very Gods conspired!
But,

        It’s gone again;
        The beast reverts.
        Orb rejects.
        The pain perverts.

>>>ToP

---

     




    
Poems

A poem may have a meaning,
A substance or  a soul
That the poet did not intend,
Was unable to control.

If he put it in on purpose
Or did it unaware,
No matter how included,
If it’s there, it’s there.

A poem may be so deep,
So private or obscure,
That whatever the poet intended,
It’s impossible to conjure.

If he really wrote of something,
Or made a Rorschach blot,
No matter why unlighted,
When it’s not, it’s not.

A poem may be a thunder
That lingers in the mind,
If the poet so intended
And carefully designed.

If he used the poet tools
To make his phrases ring,
No matter what the struggle,
When power is the thing.

A poem may be the place
Where a poet makes his jewels,
Where, to ease creative efforts,
He shuns the poet tools.

Though, each phrase or so’s a line
(For that’s a poems clothes),
No matter how presented,
When it’s prose, it’s prose.

                                                                                           >>>ToP

---

The Pied Piper^*

There once was a scholar so weary
That his mind’d become addled and bleary;
     His life was a bore,
     His studies a chore,
It all seemed so ho-hum and dreary.

So, seeking a cure for these ills,
Excitement and maybe some thrills,
     And perhaps a short-cut
     To get out of that rut,
He tried some elixirs and pills.

And he discovered a marvelous juice,
Which could be put to remarkable use:
     If he took just a spot
     It would make his brain rot,
And all of his screws would come loose.

And he could jump right up to the sky!
It was surprisingly easy to fly!
     And to see all those hues --
     Reds, yellows and blues --
He really enjoyed being high!

“Good heavens!” he cried, “This is grand!”
“It makes everything grow and expand!”
     It felt like a blimp,
     But it really was limp.
He was holding his gland in his hand.

And he started a brand new career,
‘Cause his mission was perfectly clear:
     Of things psychedelic
     One must be evangelic.
Altruistic, you see, -- and sincere!

It was really so loving and friendly
That to further this laudable end he
     Began to induce
     Use of the juice
To cognitive types who were trendy.

Some said it was just a morass.
This attracted a Fellow with class,
     Who thought, “What a deal!
     What enormous appeal!
More ass! Revelation! And grass!”

Together they made a fine pair,
And many were lured to their lair,
     And, as a result,
     They soon had a cult
Of disciples just dying to share.

And who yearned to explain  and expound
The new power of mind that they’d found.
     And they managed somehow
     To come up with “Oh! Wow!”
Etremely expressive and very profound.

But, mainly the young were beguiled.
They thought it so daring and wild --
      To taste the forbidden,
      Break free of the rules --
That lure is so strong to a child.

They heard the voluptuous song,
The deceitful Lorelei call,
And followed the unheeding children,
The wasted children of Hamlin Town,
The giggling, blear-eyed throng.

Playing with brand new miasmic toys,
Refusing to hear the warnings,
Laughing at the shock and alarm,
They danced on the lip of the void.

And dallied with Mary Jane,
Who was a little wild, but still too tame.
For excitement they wanted some speed.
For bliss they went slow with the horse^*.
Turning on, tuning in, dropping out;
Chasing the butterfly colors;
Hunting the paradise dream;
Running away from the gray;
Preaching the chemical regime.

This was the new religion.
A piebald Messiah had come,
A guru to teach the way.
And his way was ever so easy,
So easy was his way --
A potion for every notion,
And what could be the harm?
Just swallow a little magic,
Or squirt it into your arm.

Meanwhile: The Fellow and Guru fell out,
               ‘Cause the Fellow started to doubt.
                       Saying, “Awareness derived from acidity
                      “Can not have too much validity
                 With mystic perception left out.”

Though their words were quite academical,
The tones were snide and polemical.
     For The Guru was leery,
     Contemptuous and sneery
Of insights from sources unchemical.

Said The Fellow, “I think you’re a beast,
“A faithless, unholy false-priest.
     “But I know what to do
     “To be a guru true-blue!”
And he went to learn how in the East.

Where he played the mystical game,
And selected a mystical name,
     That had a Far Eastern ring:
     “Damn Ass” or something
Which sounded nearly the same.

Meanwhile: When did it begin?
                    She really couldn’t say.
                    No spasm wracked time to mark the day
                    Her child began to change,
                    To gradually wander away.

                    How they’d laughed and sung together.
                    How warm had been their embrace.
                    She’d called the girl her  “Golden One”
                    For much more than the yellow hair.
                    The brightness had been a marvel,
                    And no dream could be impossible
                    With so much promise there.
                    What a thrill to see her offspring
                    Entering adolescence
                    With such spirit and such grace.

                    But a rift somehow appeared.
                    An incomprehensible separation began,
                    Parting them like bickering spouses
                    On the verge of knowing they’ve erred.
                    Perhaps, just a young one’s yearning
                    To try uncertain legs,
                    To ramble some astray,
                    To find a separate “Me”.
                    But why did the luster also dim?
                    Why did the brightness slowly decay?

                    One afternoon,
                    New friends came over to play.
                    They seemed to hold a secret,
                    And spoke with their eyes away.
                    But she overheard their jargon,
                    And could not, at first, understand:
                    Talk of turning on and tuning in,
                    Of dropping out,
                    Of being high or low.

                    Then, their came to her a dream,
                    With oozing noise and shrieking glare,
                    And aimlessly milling bands
                    Of staggering, slow-motion children,
                    Chasing protean butterflies,
                    Molding plastic sound with spastic hands.
                    And hanging from wire -- so thin like hair --
                    Little triangular warning signs
                    Of booby-traps and murder mines;
                    And her Golden One!
                    Playing, unaware
                    Of the terrible seeds implanted there.
                    And horror grabbed her throat,
                    Filled her breast with fear and pain,
                    As she struggled to scream alarm
                    And fought, as though insane,
                    To rush in and snatch the child from harm,
                    There in that field where death was sown!
                    But she could not move!
                    Her legs were stone!
                    And her voice so feeble!
                    And blinded by tears!
                    And the frolicking child
                                 pressed her hands to her ears!
                    Singing along with demented peers,
                    “Pleasure is easy! Happiness shines!
                    “What do we care about triangle signs?”

                    She dreamed that  dream each night,
                    And lived it every day,
                    Until the ghostly scape exploded,
                    Exploded her world to shards,
                    Exploded it all away.