Corona Senryu VI

Flights canceled, skies clear -
Humans curse the pandemic
While birds rejoice.

Corona Haiku XII

Cold spring morning rain:

Neighbor in thick coat outside.

Markets must go on.

Corona Haiku VII

Covered in plastic,
Workers wheel covered bodies -
Morgue as meat locker.

Corona Haiku IV

The Stay Home Order -
No one told the homeless man
Dozing at the park.

Corona Haiku II

Pandemic evening,
Signs on restaurant doors: "closed" -
No rats in dumpsters.

Thanksgiving 2017

The sidewalk receptacle stood undisturbed,

by passersby unperturbed,

in the cold evening.

The old man, face worn, brown coat torn,

pulled, from the trash,

a brown pizza box.

Box that yesterday held a large pizza:

tomato, pepperoni,

triple cheese and anchovy.

Box that yesterday passed round a room

with glee.

No way to un-see, attempt to forget,

pretend not to feel, or try not to cry,

though the old man tonight will not die.

The brown pizza box held a leftover slice.

Box that when opened seemed to ask why,

when gods among men play with dice,

do the poor and the weak pay the price.

Lebensraum

I gave a homeless man
a calorie bar.

The stars above the seas have wandered far
from days and nights
when men would leave their lands
of burning sands
and fight
for food and home.

Now alone and thin as bone,
the homeless man sits
with cardboard sign,
his face an invisible sign
that we have not come far
from our savage days of need.

The single thing man will not fight
is greed.

Beautiful Coffins

All life is steadfast pain

That guides us til we die.

We are all born forced to cry

And end in gasping breath.

 

So rare is that death embrace

That leaves a smile on the pallid face,

So rare the fortune and grace

To die at peace in a quiet place.

 

All too often we have seen

How death makes men writhe and scream.

All too often we enjoy

Spectacles that maim and destroy.

 

No matter the noise, no matter the stillness

We can be sure that death is good business.

Whether we die crying or die laughing,

Our faces will hide inside beautiful coffins.

Work

What you do as work, with your hands,
Matters,
As the sun goes round and round
The sky.

Whether you wash the panes of glass

Of the rich on a ladder,
As the sun goes round and round
The sky.

Whether you mix poisons in glass

In time to be home for dinner,
Or build a bomb for a bigger blast,
And leave church a pardoned sinner.

Whether you bake the bread millions eat

To live,
As the sun goes round and round
The sky.

Whether you plot the crimes you ask
The world forgive,

As the sun goes round and round

The sky.

Whether you know or not,

Workers sit in a faraway land

In a circle working by hand
Making things worth nothing in gold.

Yet the things will still be sold

Amongst each other,

Bringing joy to friend and brother.  

When the sun shall cross the sky no more

You shall be remembered far, far more

By the way you put your hands to work.

And if your fingers knew no dirt,

Pray that they opened many doors.

 

 

Individuals

“Buy me,” said the sign.

Buy now!

Don’t ask why.

Don’t ask how.

Just buy.

Hurry up, buy now!

The limit of your credit,

The limit of your merit,

Is the sky!

Operators stand by!

Only you can be so beautiful.

Only you can be so you.

Only you can be that dutiful

In a suit of rayon blue.  

Only jewels will make her happy.

A broach of gold is just the thing.

But to really make her happy,

You must add that diamond ring.  

Money clings

To the face in the mirror.

So make that skin look clearer!

Moisturize,

Actualize,

Individualize,

And super-size: 

Buy stocks

Buy rocks

Buy cars

Buy wars

Buy fountains

Buy mountains

Buy pills

Buy thrills

Buy vacation

Buy affection

Buy rope

Buy hope. 

This is the sign of the times.

A glass of fine wine

And you reach the divine

Pinnacle,

Where dances the real you

In smart shoes

Of leather.  

So never mind the weather.

And never mind the clime.

You will end up all the better

If you spend another dime.

 

Independence: A Meditation

We gained our independence from the faraway king,
Only to grow dependent on this new land of dark forests
And mysterious savages.

We gained independence from the wild frontier,
And the fetters of an early death,
Only to grow dependent on television, automobiles, airplanes,
Computers, and other machines of convenience.

We gained independence from God,
Only to grow dependent upon The Next Big Truth.

The myths we celebrate are not our fate;
Independence is merely a date on a calendar,
A folk tale wandered far
From the stare of our impassive future.

America, like Janus, has two faces:
Independence looks to the past;
Dependence looks to the future.

Empires have come and empires have gone.
And after the deeds of history are done
Only the ruins remain and the myths are remembered.

We have too many emails to write,
Too many cupcakes to bite,
Too many flavors to try,
Too many handbags to buy,
Too many bills left to pay,
Or rushed appointments to stay,
Too many miles left to travel,
Or business deals will unravel.

Too many machines of convenience
To remember the birthdays.

Happy Birthday, America!
And as we celebrate your myths,
Perhaps new gods will be born, and walk the land,
Out of the mists, from sea to shining sea,
A new version of the Trinity,
Of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
Of Independence, Dependence,
And Interdependence.

And, America, the boon I wish for you the most:
The vision to see as clear as the moon;
Into the mirror of the Next Big Truth -
That you have become the faraway king,
That we are all gone much too soon,
And that kindness is the thing,
Through which empires must pass
For their greatness to last.

Social Security

I pulled my car up
To the toll booth;
The attendant smiled
As she took my dollar.
 
She was 70 years old,
White hair pulled back.
The lines on her face tracked,
Days when she had sold
Her childhood gold
To eat.
 
Future bleak
While skies are blue -
There is nothing I can do.
So I drive away
And hear her say,
“Thank you.”
 
Thank you, America
For your long, lonely roads
Lined with many a toll booth
That mask the sad truth:
What seems a consolation -
The endless work -
Is truly there to soothe
The careless youth
Whose only true sensation
Is of cars that speed til dark.

Love American Style

First we have to negotiate the sexism.
Then we have to negotiate the racism,
Then the homophobia.

We negotiate God
And the places of worship,
Selecting a God for the children.
And then we buy the matching outfits.

We forget about politics.
Maybe we remember
After the drinks, theater, dinner,
airline tickets, and the rest.

We forget about death, too.
But there's no time to remember
After the condoms, abuse, lawsuit,
Abortion, and the rest.

I remember you standing,
Before all the negotiations,
In the bookstore smiling,
And felt those queer sensations
When we said we'd write a new chapter
In the travel book you were holding.

Chardonnay

Western civilization might be a good idea.

The restaurants
Have marvelous menus:
Beef bourguignon,
Chicken cordon bleu,
Spaghetti Bolognese and
Fisherman’s stew.

And to accompany one might
Select the house white,
A brilliant chardonnay,
Or if you prefer, the house red
Will do instead.

Rivers of red flowed from the houses,
The sighs of the dead never heard, never felt,
For the air had filled
With the engine screams of bombs
Falling on all alike:
The terrorist,
The freedom fighter,
The schoolboy,
And the wife,
Falling like a red rain on life.

And how is your chardonnay, sir?
It is fine, you say,
Fine like a light rain in late winter
That waters the ground
With the promise of spring;
Fine enough to wash down
The guilt in every morsel on your plate,
Every morsel savored, chewed, and swallowed
While far away the bodies lay
Scattered on ground unhallowed.

Every morsel you savor, chew, and swallow
Until there is nothing on your plate,
Except the question:
Do I dare, oh, do I dare?
Do I dare to brave the kitchen?
For you expect the corpses there.

But why sully the air?
Raising the glass, you stare
At the clear chardonnay
And your troubles, by the glass,
Travel miles and miles away.

The Beast

A peasant
From the age of superstition,
Days of pestilence and hunger
And nights of endless dark,
Would see a horror far more stark -
And dangers far more strange -
In our present modern age.

From every mouth pours forth a rage,
From which the ancient devils cower,
In mad desire we gorge our flesh,
Slaves to a modern, bestial power.

It thrives upon our constant needs,
And upon our sickly fear it feeds;
Taking cloudy shape from seeds
Within our ever-grasping greed.

We see the monster in the mirror,
Faces that fancy beating death,
Yet still our last day draws nearer -

Even as our voices launch
Forever and far
Into the stars -

We are gone with out last breath.

Candelabra

Candelabra burning bright,
Chase the shadows into night.
Shine upon the crowd that gathers
To forget important matters.

Candelabra, if you could see
How the revelers dance with glee,
And consume their little cakes
With exotic kinds of teas.

Candelabra, if you could hear
How the music fills their ears,
As they laugh and cluck and crow;
Their party forms a jolly show.

Candelabra, if you could turn
To the crystal window sights,
You would be suprised to learn
How the others spend their nights.

Candelabra, stoop to see
Dirty children running free
A promised meal they run to follow
Promised by a crooked shadow.

Candelabra, bend to hear
How the mothers sob in fear
Their children gone from feeble sight
To form the armies of the night.

Candelabra, guard your flame,
For throngs are whispering your name.
They gather at the gates of hell,
Your festival in mind to quell.

Candelabra, pray aloud
That God may calm this angry crowd.
Be not surprised if you should see
This night repeat like history.

Down the ages, through the years,
Said the sages amid jeers:
A prince his hoard will fail to keep
When the poor fight hunger in their sleep.

Labor Day

And what should we say remains
Of the workers in the days of trains?
And what should we say
Of your grandfathers
And your grandmothers
And the world they sought to claim?

Only the murals remain for us to see
Of men in soiled shirts straining to free
A generation from American serfdom
Through telegraph poles, railways,
And onward to freedom.

Down in a lost town, a lonely post office sits,
Its mural of men as giants on tractors and combines;
While the giant women fed the workers in long lines.

Now, those sculpted workers that stared into the future,
Their eyes grave, their jaws set, their brows furrowed,
Look on a present day no one had thought would follow.

For the government halls are empty of the spirit of the common good,
And the death song has long been sung of the union’s brotherhood,
And the silence that was heard before the strike at last was called
Is buried by the laugh of the rich men and their lawmakers in thrall.

What shall we say of Labor Day
That will carry any meaning
To your sons and daughters
Who, one fine day,
Will want to work with faces beaming?

Forgotten workers are lives in vain
Unless we, too, united strain
To ease the modern worker’s sorry plight –
Democracy dies without a fight.

Citizens United

On that bright summer day,
When you yelled at the Grand Canyon,
Your voice came gliding back
Across the chasm of a million years

Like when

On that balmy Sunday afternoon
Your voice came jumping back
At the children's zoo
When Marley the Parrot said,
Hello, stupid!
Pleased to meet you.
I like butter on my bread!

The ghosts of our childhood past
Cannot be heard over the constant din
Of the cash registers in the Modern World,
Nor seen over the constant grin
Of the shopkeepers
As they laugh and whirl.

The money you spend on the things you buy
Comes back to you -
Not by gliding, not by jumping -
But, softly, by turns slow and sly.

Pans and pots,
Cars and stocks,
Eggs and fish,
And a serving dish,
Belts and phones,
And rugs for homes,
Wine and blouses,
Leather purses,
Magazines
And gasoline,
TV sets and radios,
Chicken and tomatoes,
Toilet paper,
Office paper,
Soap and salt,
And modern art,
Shiny shoes,
And your club dues,
Dolls, shampoo,
And toothpaste, too -
All come slowly back to you

Like when

Your brothers lose their modest jobs;
The plant shutters, headed overseas;

Your friends lose their modest houses
And the banks decline their quiet pleas;

Your son can't see the doctor
Until the premium is received;

And your father sadly counts
More cars on roads than there are trees.

The voice that cried across the hills
And made fun of little parrots
For a simple childhood thrill
Is now fallen mute and still.

Money is the modern voice.
So decree your childhood ghosts:
Those without it make no noise,
And those that have it laugh the most.

The Banality of Letters

Tap, tap, tap . . .

Hey man
Hows it goin :-)

Tap, tap, tap . . .

Fine, man.
How’s it going with you?

Tap, tap, tap . . .

OK man
Just chillin ;-)

Tap, tap, tap . . .

Just chillin’? Cool.
And how’s that? The chillin’.

Tap, tap, tap . . .

Jus kickn back
Here with some buds :-p

Tap, tap, tap . . .

OK, cool. Man.

Tap, tap, tap . . .

So whats up with you ;-)

Tap, tap, tap . . .

Oh, you know. Not much.
And you?

Tap, tap, tap . . .

Not much too. Laid back
Looking for good times :-p
You man

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap . . .

I’m cool, man, real cool –
But not dead.
A few seething thoughts, though,
In my head
Make me hot.

What have we got?
With all our keyboards, screens,
Endless machines,

Living on eighty dollars a day

While billions of other faceless souls
Live on less than a dollar a day –

It looks like you forgot,
Though I remember,
A sentence ends with a dot.

But your words resemble
A TV jingle, not a sentence,
Letters strung along in space
Whose only hollow pretense
Is to pass for human warmth.

Hot is the sun whose indifferent warmth
Bakes the backs of the faceless who toil
In a faraway country for a dollar a day
Burying computers and screens in their soil –
The grave where machines and meaning decay.

Independence Day

When the end came
It was a fiery ball of rock
Screaming from the heavens -
Total and sudden annihilation.

It was the Fourth of July,
Two hundred and fifty million years ago,
When the dinosaurs were laid to rest
As the bedrock of our nation.

The beasts in the field would never ask why.
Indeed, the dinosaurs that looked at the sky,
Unaware that they were beasts,
Unaware that they would die,
Could scarcely pull themselves away
From their lives of mastication.

The mighty brontosaurus,
Thirty-five tons of hunger,
Flatulence and defecation,
With empty, misty eyes,
Was hurled, dismembered,
Miles into the skies.

Though no one would remember,
The brontosaurus - bones, entrails, and cranium -
Would become for generations
A source of quick petroleum.

Oil powered the grill
That cooked the senseless pigs,
And every parade powered
By the oil from countless rigs.

The factories that made the flags
That waved in scores of stadiums
Were powered by oil, blood-like leached,
From brontosaurus cranium.

At last the cars, their gas tanks full,
Filled the parking lots of churches
In the baking July sun.
Parishioners, their stomachs full,
Ate the body and drank the blood
Of the Holy Son and sang a song:

God Bless America
This Independence Day.
Our Land is rich;
Our Land is bright.
The power of our Nation
Is of God’s clear, endless might.