It doesn’t matter
now. The earth
is sick, afflicted even,
but it will shake it off —
even a nuclear war
will be over in a blip
of time. No one
is going to remember
your name and meanwhile
there will still be war
and millions of flowers
and children who won’t
even recall you existed,
not more than a day or so.
You might as well
scream at the troopers
though it seems weak,
might as well stand stolidly
against the ranks until
they choose you to slay.
It doesn’t matter much.
The long arms of the gods
will serenely brush you aside
with a profound, grateful glance.
The world will eventually
catch up to their embrace.
You won’t die in vain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Tag Archives: political poems
Still Millions Of Flowers
In Flames
pity the sense of impotence
over profound effect —
like a heart
full to bursting
but never quite there,
a mind full of queasiness
and secondhand rejection of a scene
but not yet ready to act —
that is me, that’s me
and I am ashamed of my pity
as it’s all I can offer;
short of anger, short of sorrow,
reserved one step
from where I know I should be,
blazing underneath though
I should be on righteous fire,
instead ashamed and rightly so
of my lack of decision, my impotence
in the face of need; it’s all I can do
not to dig in my heels, not to grind
my hands into my eyes, and not stand
in the face of monstrous evils
and live for one second, maybe more,
maybe less; it’s all I can do
not to sing and scream.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Miesha
At night
the cat does nothing
she hasn’t done all day;
curls up on the bed
next to my leg
amd falls asleep
with no apparent care
for the state of the earth.
That’s it. That
is all she does
and I wish I could learn
that skill or attitude
from her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Deliver Me
I wake up singing
a song about a cowboy
then it changes to a song
about a fireman and then
a song about a gunslinger
and one about a robber
and all the time the real heroes
are fighting the real villains
elsewhere and they don’t care
what songs there are except
“We Shall Overcome” and
something wordless and keening
over the bodies of the dead —
it doesn’t matter whose bodies
they are, or were, just nameless
hunks of dead angels for God
to shake his head at and say
“Go on,” that is, until no one
is left to cheer or sing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Care To Dance
Care to dance? I
can’t dance. Feet flop,
clumsy arms, spasm along
to any music, quick or
leaden on or off the beat.
Feel like singing? I
fail at that. Broken notes
delivered in highborn tones
or whispered mistakes
of melody on the line.
Can’t play guitar, piano;
can’t use a drum or horn
to save a life or even sound
an alarm. If you expect it,
you expect wrongness.
It’s a puzzlement == I
am your mistake, aren’t I?
I should have your mark,
your lies, your false steps
toward your own Utopia
embedded within me. I
should be like biting
on tinfoil, just before
the excruciating pain;
I should be waiting to die,
same as you. I
am not, though. Instead
I bang a drum, honk on
a harp, clumsy play a failed
guitar; I crack forth a failing song
and I dance like a bear. I
dance like an army, like a
forest burning in the darkness
outside the towns, the cities
where you sleep.
You awaken to the sound. I
keep going, louder and louder;
the staggering roar of the bear
or the lion, the hiss of the snake
twined within; behind it all
a more enduring song. I
feel, as if it could be a mere suggestion,
the tender whistle of green filtered
up through ashes
into sunlight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Wolves
You recall
the thin bark of stones
hitting you. You recall
silence at night.
You recall the transparent sneers
of the willing, how like sheep
you thought they seemed.
It is all happening
again, you know it is,
only it will be far more,
far more of the same.
Well,
it’s going to get
colder. There will be
more stones and sneers.
More sheep.
More wolves.
Bundle up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
The Dark Guest
Two cups of coffee,
one cup of tea;
it is Wednesday
morning and I’m lost
among the furniture left behind
by the wind and the rain
of the Dark Guest’s time here.
I will gather myself after tea,
steel myself against what may come,
and face the insidious wind
and poisonous rain of the Dark Guest.
It’s nothing, really; nothing
to be concerned about for more
than a moment. The Dark Guest
only has a moment, a brief moment
to act and then the winds and the rain
will take over and wash him away.
I will be changed, and you
will be changed, and when the light returns
we will rub our eyes as if nothing
happened, as if the Dark Guest
was gone with a clap of our
damp but drying windblown hands.
Until then, we have work to do.
Have coffee, have tea;
we put our shoulders down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Spectators
Taking a walk around the neighborhood,
I see an older fellow wiping blood
from the arms and seats of his lawn chairs.
I slow down to watch, express my dismay
and concern. “Oh, nothing much
to worry about…just
the usual, just the everyday
mess.” He turns away to resume
the cleanup. I notice the pile
of bloody towels beside him
on his still-brown, slow-greening
lawn. I shrug, then head home
for supper
and the evening news.
It’s spring, I guess.
Of course that’s what it is: spring.
The world gagging on blood
as it tries for renewal. Some of us
strolling by evidence of the bleeding,
taking quick notice,
shaking our heads,
then heading home for
a quick word
from our sponsors.
Ocean Ahead And Within
Ocean in view ahead
(and in time within) that resets all
with every wave breaking,
changing not just the land
but this man
standing on the land
watching, feeling the shift underfoot;
the country itself shifting, the nature
of what has felt solid shifting — yes,
it was illusion but all we have had here
has always been illusion and we’ve learned
how to live in it more or less;
now as the ocean —
out there,
in here, or both at once —
begins its
inexorable drive
to deconstruct
and then to rebuild,
utterly unconcerned
with the particulars
of what and who
shall crumble
in its rhythmic path,
this man on the sand
falls to his knees,
soaking them in the littoral,
wondering what may fail
as he may fail
as the ocean triumphs,
as the world
changes
without a choice,
as I change
without a choice
or even a chance to choose.
How To Talk American
We
is one of those words
everyone kisses
but no one loves.
They
is said feverishly,
furtively, side-eye given
toward its target.
I
exalts and wallows
at once, misery
grounding satiety.
Us
means nothing. Like we
it barely exists. Written always
in blood, it dries quickly.
To speak American
is to know instinctively
the importance
of such words,
then cast them
casually about
and let the blood fall
as it will.
Let’s Catch Up
…but I am forgetting my manners —
how are you, how are you,
and how are you? So good
to see you here, to see you
anywhere, in fact. I’d heard
things and although
I know better than to credit them
without corroboration, I was afraid
they might be true in this world
of deportations and vanishings
from off the street. You can’t ever
be sure anymore. Torture chambers
springing up on back streets,
in the old warehouses we once played in.
Never trust your neighborhood watch
not to get you killed and call it
due diligence, am I right? Come in,
though, come in! Come in
past the doorbell camera, pay no mind
to the blinking light on the mantle;
I’ll cover as much as I can for you,
should have done it sooner, before you
got here; can’t be too careful,
I suppose, although I suppose
we are too careful in some ways.
The border fence, the guard posts,
the minute wars and accidents
of vigilance. I knew a lot of people
once. They seem to have disappeared.
Thought I saw one the other day
on the corner. But let’s not dwell
on the bad parts of the living
we are making here. Focus instead
on the music. The fashions,
the holy trends and not the holy wars.
Focus instead on the trappings
of “the greatest country in the history
of the world.” We’re on the moon again,
did you hear? And I’m replanting
the old trees we lost in the drought —
the magnolia, the poplar, whatever
will take. Sit down, I’ll fetch drinks.
Let’s catch up.
Happy New Year
Once more
around the sun;
please keep
your windows open
to hear
all the shouting.
I promise,
there will be
as much
as last year.
In fact
there will be
more. If only
you’d stopped
to hear it
even once
this last year,
it might
have been different:
too late now.
This year
might already be
too late.
We shall see.
So: go
with open windows
into it,
and listen for
the wailing,
the crying out.
Maybe even
commit to getting
out of
the car and
helping once
in a while?
It couldn’t hurt
to step into it
now and again
and try to help.
To at least
act like we care,
to at least
do something different, anything
other than driving by
with the windows up
like it doesn’t matter.
to us —
as we did last year.
As we do.
This Is How
Food, music,
the taste of fresh water
on a long-parched tongue;
these are what I desire
for this is what I deserve.
I deserve to be quenched
as if I am thirst, fed
as if I were born to be hunger
and sung as if I were anthem
and hymn at once.
Ridiculous, you say,
that I’d long to give up
humanity for such simple
satisfactions as these. But
hear what I’m telling you;
this is how revolutions begin.
Untouched
What you claimed to feel
was empathy.
What you truly felt
was irritation.
How dare the news intrude
with bombs and othered misery
upon that safety you’ve
been building?
You do feel a little ashamed
at this self-interest,
but you are pleased
that you have stopped briefly
to consider others
you will never meet.
People you will never
be. Lives you are certain
will not touch yours.
This is why your people
migrated here, after all:
to be untouched by others.
Alternative Output
Alternative output
is when bombs hit earth
and open up and flowers
cover all.
Or, alternatively,
when olive trees come
to full ripeness in the time
it would have taken to butcher
children’s bodies
and fling the parts widely across hills
where ancient groves once grew.
Alternative output
of this stale algorithm
might resemble a culture
that has forgotten how to fear
any other and has resisted
turning into fodder by bending
from the waist
to see common ground beneath them
and then rising to look into
the other’s eyes
with a steady gaze.
Alternative output
is not falling over for death
but remaining standing
long enough for
the killers and their children to notice
they aren’t extinct and have not toppled
into their history books.
Staying alive, tossing bombs
onto their streets that will bloom
like prairie, spread like salmon,
turn rubble and the still-standing dead
into sacred space filled with acolytes
of whatever will come
after you have gone.
Dark Matter 