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THE LIFE LIMITED

tracks

Not the express train –

The uneventful

Quick-trip to decay

 

We’re on the Limited;

Confined within limits

On life’s platform

Night watching

Brief recognition vanishing outlines

Illuminated windows, They stare ahead

Silhouetted profiles against flashing light

Glimpsing the gold coins of

The Paradise Express

 

We remain for the day

As we see ourselves

Age and wisdom

In separate cars

On that same track

Tearing through

A landscape of

Scattered grace

 

HOME WORK

Jr. hi sch

I’m tired

Of the look

Insolence interrupted

By the jaundiced-whites

Harbingers of your future

What do I care?

Of your English grade – 32

Why should I care

More than you

Or your mom’ s not

Your dad’s what?

They made it harder for you

You make it hard for me

To care – the cycle

I dare to meet

Those eyes

You raise

To the sound I make

What you care to hear

Around the earbuds that let in

Only the nuance of thuggery

Now

Waiting at the school door

For pick up

Graduation?

To the line at the Mobile station

Bathroom – the 8X8 cell where

You’ll lose your innocence again and again

So don’t move – keep the look

Dare me to care

If you have

Your homework

 

 

NOV. 15, 2015: Headlines – A Poem

cropped-parthanon-relief-greek-soldiers.jpg

Attackers in Paris

‘Did Not Give Anybody a Chance

as if chance played with motive

none are chanced

when death is not feared

FEAR:

it is all that keeps us good

and goodness is relative only

to the god one is willing

to die for

this god militarized,

weaponized

expanded

personalized

assault driven

a god unknown to

civil – ization, decency

lost in three hours

of hell;

a lifetime

of blood spillage

all red being read

in black and white

newsprint echoing ancient

tales written down

the original sin

in concert with the

unconscious brain

man-made insult

the beginning of pain

the parchment of war’s genesis

held tightly in the

fists of bloodstained

armies ordered

young conscripts

avenging lives dear

motivated

by chance

motivated

by fear

cropped-parthanon-relief-greek-soldiers.jpg

THINKING OF SUICIDE WHEN THE HEAD- LINES SHOULD BE ENOUGH

2 NYT headline

Send Kevorkian away

His services unnecessary

For the slow death

That comes from the congenital

Uncontrollable urge

To read the daily newspaper

(And not the easy living sections either)

Always, like magnets,

Injustice draws the eye

The travesty of the slaughtered

Lions,

Ideas,

Ideals,

The travesty of the disenfranchised

And the people who struggle

For some semblance of happiness

In pictures of mothers and fathers

Running ragged

Across borders children in arms

Tripped up by reporters’ cameras and legs

That horrible hubris at center stage

Every day

Clothed in the 1st world democracy

Of law & order

Laws written by beneficiaries of

The order

Meted out by chanting trolls

Ignorant of humanity

I’m sure I will die a death

By thousands of strokes

Of a newsroom keyboard

A slow death

Swaddled in helplessness

My own keys taking

Weakly vicious strikes

At an enemy

I refuse to acknowledge

As I brush my teeth

In clean 1st world water

Eyes downcast

I turn out the light

Leaving the room

Before the enemy arrives

In my own reflection

A Country For No Child

Gwen's World

Jaime Kalenga, whose mother died in labor, suffers from malnutrition and tuberculosis. Credit Nicholas Kristof/The New York Times Jaime Kalenga, whose mother died in labor, suffers from malnutrition and tuberculosis. Credit Nicholas Kristof/The New York Times

There is a country rich in diamonds,

Oil and foreign sports cars

I know this – having read it in

The Times

This is a country in which one child

In six will die before the age of five

Says The Times’ Kristof

But I live in a country that cares

About children – Some of us

Care so much we call authorities

On parents whose children walk

Home from the park – alone

Keeping our children absurdly safe

Ignoring the Angolan mother holding

The “twig limbs,” swollen belly, wizened face

Of the near carcass that is her child

She’s waiting for care from the few who do

Those people who come from far off places to nurse and

Heal everyone’s children

Those people who know that diamonds

Are friend to no…

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THE 5th OF JULY

cropped-fireworks1.jpg

The “why?” that cannot be identified,

Defined beyond its face

A hazardous life with Newton’s law

Setting the young in motion

Long columns of face-blind,

Ghost-eyed pawns to war

For liberty and commerce.

And we celebrate – loudly

The necessary battles

On that slow arc

Rumored to bend

To perfection

A Country For No Child

Jaime Kalenga, whose mother died in labor, suffers from malnutrition and tuberculosis. Credit Nicholas Kristof/The New York Times
Jaime Kalenga, whose mother died in labor, suffers from malnutrition and tuberculosis. Credit Nicholas Kristof/The New York Times

There is a country rich in diamonds,

Oil and foreign sports cars

I know this – having read it in

The Times

This is a country in which one child

In six will die before the age of five

Says The Times’ Kristof

But I live in a country that cares

About children – Some of us

Care so much we call authorities

On parents whose children walk

Home from the park – alone

Keeping our children absurdly safe

Ignoring the Angolan mother holding

The “twig limbs,” swollen belly, wizened face

Of the near carcass that is her child

She’s waiting for care from the few who do

Those people who come from far off places to nurse and

Heal everyone’s children

Those people who know that diamonds

Are friend to no one

The people who recognize

The diamond’s sparkle

Being stolen everyday

From the eyes of babies

Leaving in its place a

Haunted spectacle, skeletal frame

Held together in wrinkled brown

Wrappings of skin

THE LIFE LIMITED

train head-on

Not the express

The one gladly missed

Dawdling on life’s platform

Counting cars

Windows flashing light

Quick, dark faces inert

Blank stare ahead

Glimpsing the gold

Coins of paradise

Gone too soon

We, unhurried & unnoticed

Age and wisdom

In separate cars

On that same track

Tearing through

A landscape of

Scattered grace

MARCH 3rd

cropped-icy-road.jpg

It’s still here; winter

Marching to that clove of seasons

We remain road-kill

Frozen, run over by ice and time

Clutching fingers stiffened releasing

Any vestige of warm memory

And all the light

That winter allows

To see war as it is

(Not the misguided

Miscalculations of man)

But nature’s

Mysteries of the obvious

BIG PINE KEY

BPK vultures

The vultures have been hovering over the island for weeks now

Swirling in great black theatrical wakes

A pre-migration event I am told

I am just now noticing the ugly

Close scrutiny over the streets and inlets

The search for dead flesh in the untrodden grounds

Divorced from Key West bound traffic

Maybe the vultures know something we don’t

That we are simply players in that Twilight Zone episode;

Humans imprisoned by personal need

To escape a turn-of-the-century Salvation Army toy chest

Alive until touched by strange hands

Becoming wooden & rotten

Death by ownership

 

Maybe the vultures know this

Which is why they stay