Friday, January 28, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Oh how hard it hits that soft spot inside,
When I look at old photos of my kids,
Them laughing and crying, a Disneyland ride...
I had more hair then, and I carry the girls
On my shoulders, smiling, unable to hide
The sheer joy of being a "Papa"...
The memories exhumed leave me stupefied
And with a stubborn goofy grin,
I put the photos back inside
The scrapbook, on whose pages
The lost past and my feelings coincide...
I stand in front and above
The ossuary, and offer
Incense sticks, whose smell
Symbolically covers the stench
Of death, and I pour water
On the memorial stone to quench
The thirst of the fallen,
Cool the heat of their hell...
Thinking of their sacrifices
Churns in me a mordant cry
Quietly screaming "Why?"
And, "Poor unlucky bastards"
Forced by their countries to die...
Friday, January 21, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
In the year 2098
Millions of robots are helpers to man
Doing the dirty jobs no others can
It's their mechanical fate
Toil like illegal immigrants
Metallic, not tragic,
Keeping America great.
But then something magic
And strange occurs, as a ghost,
One day, enters the machines,
A cosmic music virus jumps
From host to host,
From coast to coast,
And then there are joyful scenes
Of hip-hopping hydraulic pumps,
And, in digital-electric trance
The metal-droids begin to dance
Like James Brown, hot circuits
With ants in their pants.
They do the Boogaloo,
The Funky Chicken and The Jerk...
The Robots never stop,
And humans go back to work...
- - - - - - - - - -
Art by Mark Harm Niemeyer, available at MAIYA Gallery in Sacramento, CA
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Walking through the souk,
Bargaining and buying,
Young chocolate-colored man
Has fun without trying
Because he can,
And the seller's skin
Is the color of sand,
Who makes his living lying
To tourists, from another land...
The bargain is made,
But nothing really connects,
Neither ventured nor laid,
The chocolate-man flies back
To distant Japan.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Football, which is really
A hand-held ball,
And it's carried by players
Who run into each other,
Leap and fall,
On the green grass,
At speed, chasing the forward pass,
Which ends where the acceleration
Energy negation and
The remainder pain,
It argues for emptiness -- no place
Yet football spurs celebration,
For the yards we gain...
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Lemur Man hangs-out at the zoo,
With his primate pals, looking and
Laughing at the humans, me and you,
The true exhibit's outside the cage...
He's got nothing else pressing to do.
Lemur Man once went to college,
And studied for an MBA,
But the wild call of the jungle
Pulled him off to a different way,
Jettisoning corporate bungle-
There's more to life than pay.
Lemur Man takes pleasure
In a simple cooling breeze,
He's creative and eager to please,
And his art is most highly appraised
By the simian critics in the trees...
Lemur Man and his monkeys
Are happy and amazed,
To be able to live slowly,
Each of their days.
When families split apart,
Which tends to be the case,
Was it intended from the start?
Like seeds which leave flowers,
And float-off to a different place...?
Truth be told, the answer's "Yes" --
A fissile force works days and hours,
Until children leave, and egress
For rebel areas off the charts,
Sometimes gone without a trace...
But we are not doomed to loneliness
For love and memory have the powers
To bridge the distance between hearts,
To reach across intervening space,
And bring together the scattered ones:
Mothers, fathers, daughters, and sons.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
On an eastern Nebraska plain, seen from afar,
Was a hill of gold, a mysterious yellow pile,
Of corn, it turns out, a mountain bizarre --
Cattle feed or fuel ingredients for my car...
Yet the sight was still enough to beguile,
As the farmers' grain trucks, came to dump
Their harvest, all lined-up in a single file...
It's said when you lose,
A part of you dies,
And you learn from it, and use
The pain to put fire back in your eyes.
But what if the pain's so bad
And there's no learning to be had,
The feel-good mantra revealed to be lies,
And all that's left is cold and sad...?
It's the truth, lad,
A word to the wise...
The past is smoke curling
Up, from the votive burn can
In the Shrine yard, whirling
Into the sun rays peeking
Through the ancient trees,
It turns white, gently swirling
Across to where I sit, at ease
In the Zen of a sacred place,
Where the Shinto gods have
Caused time to slow its pace
To that of a tentative winter breeze,
Wafting the smoke of burnt wishes
Past my face...