REINCARNATION

I’LL BE A WOMAN MODIFIED

CARRYING MY WOMB 

STRAPPED OUTSIDE  

OPEN CARRY

MY MOIST BENDOLIER

EXOSKELETON WEAPON

STRIKING FEAR 

I’LL TAKE IT INTO

DONUT SHOPS

ICE CREAM

and PIZZA MOM & POPS

LET LITTLE MEN KNOW

THE FEAR HAS STOPPED

I’LL FLICK THEIR HEADS

OFF MY SHOULDER WITH EASE

COMFORT-SEEKING VERMIN

I’LL NOT APPEASE

THEY’LL PROFESS TO ME

THEIR LOVE AND LIGHT

BEFORE VOTING AND

RECANTING MY RIGHTS

WHEN I RETURN

NO REGRESSION 

TO THE MEAN

I’LL HAVE A LIFE WITH MORE RIGHTS

THAN AN AR-15

                                                                                                                        G.D. FELDMAN 6/2022  

MAYBE

It has occurred to me

That 

I may not live long enough

To love my neighbor

Indeed

We may all perish if we don’t learn (quickly)

To love one another

And maybe this is the deficiency – like the dinosaurs

That will bring about our extinction

ADULTING

Aristotle says;

Education is the best survival tool for old age

What Ari doesn’t know is that the 

Truth found in education at night

Is now the lie used against you 

Circling the continent twice by the

Time you awake

    But you carry on as if it hasn’t

There’s frustration in being adult

When grown men fight in high-rise sandboxes 

In suits bullet-proofed with dollar signs

   But you carry on as if they don’t

There’s frustration in behaving grown up

When the agony of the human condition

Can be rationalized  

   And we carry on as if it isn’t

There’s frustration in being grown up

When the door to respond-in-kind

 Remains locked by decency

   Yet you pull on it anyway – as if it isn’t

There’s frustration in being grown-up

Knowing that civilizations have been lost to dreams of retribution

Ungovernable desires

For the “blood-dimmed tide”

To drown the babble

AND the rabble

   But you desire it anyway

There’s frustration in being grown-up

Knowing the constancy of war

Feeling the subliminal connections between 

Truth and chaos. 

   And we carry on anyway

Holding our truth in hands folded in supplication

As we kneel, unreasonable, at the edge of age 

Amid the *signs that tell us to behave like adults

   *Invisible ink 

We drag our middle-class, care-worn hearts

Across years of capitalist tyranny

Through periods of relative decorum

Retreating waves allowing enemies 

Time to deep-fake truth

And we must behave as if they aren’t?

GROWNUP FRUSTRATION

 

STAT OFLIB LIGHTENING

There’s frustration in behaving like a grown-up

It’s knowing that the lie told against you this morning

Has spanned the continent twice by the

Time you awake

         But you carry on as if it hasn’t

There’s frustration in being the grown up

When grown men fight the way they do

In suits armored with dollar signs

        But you carry on as if they don’t

There’s frustration in behaving grown up

When the agony of the human condition

Is reduced to excuses

And blame

        And you carry on as if it isn’t

There’s frustration in being grown up

When the door to respond-in-kind

 Is locked just by decency

        Yet you pull on it anyway –  as if it isn’t

There’s frustration in being grown-up

Where relief is found in dreams

Ungovernable desires

For the “blood-dimmed tide”

To drown the babble

AND the rabble

        But you desire it anyway

There’s frustration in being grown-up

In knowing the constancy of  war

Is but subliminal chaos disguised as

A throw of the dice

From congressional pits

        And we carry on anyway

         we adults

        As if it isn’t

Dragging care-worn, frustrated hearts

Across mountains of tyranny

Through valleys of decorum

We’ll wrest the locks from ballot boxes

        And slay the lie

        Leaving no weapons

        To defend it

PANDEMIC POLITICS

 

 

confetti

What is there to make the heart swell

Against those ungovernable desires?

Wars; showdowns at

The corral

The jungle

The beach

The half-learned lessons class

The thin stream of info-wire

Signifying new battlegrounds

Sneaky. Anonymously mean

And wrong

Stabbing at our rucksacks

Full of unused Gods

           •

What poetry can hold

What it can’t

Anger controlled

By rhyme or meter

Impolite bluster

Baroque or scant

Edgy words on pages teeter

Sweet noises overrun morning thunder

Evening song diminished in

Skeins of days torn asunder

                   •

May November carry our souls

From a hell lined with poetry stole

From that Shredded Parchment,

Now lying in confetti baskets,

To be strewn in ignorant rapture,

Over brides, babies, and caskets

MUSIC: LISTENING TO THE OLDIES

th

There’s a reason why it’s still here

       That “old” music, emblematic of all our firsts

History,  instrument-etched

       Rhythmic scorching guitars

Saxophones – longing or lucky

       Pianos running us up and down

ranges of emotion

Bass and drums defibrillating

beatless hearts

       All spooning with words

That led us in that timeless

       Continuous dance

Along the Watchtower

       Among the purple flowers

In that Purple Haze

       There’s a reason for “oldies stations”

Sanctuaries for melodic reminders, telling us

       Passion, its usefulness, is deathless

As long as humans prevail

       “Old–school” music will continue

Demanding answers to questions

       That should have been asked

Of the past

THOUGHTS FROM THE CENTER RING

well of sorrow

             It is inaccurate to say that I hate
             everything. I am strongly in favor
             of common sense, common honesty,
             and common decency. This makes me
             Forever ineligible for public office.   H.L. Mencken

I’ve written about my perception of decency and, it appears, I am writing/preaching to the choir. My friends feel as I do.

As for people who see things differently there seems no “healthy” debate available to them. So far, it’s all been name-calling and put-downs. People who want healthy debate, it appears, are having that debate somewhere other than on social media. And, honestly, I’m not so sure decency should be debatable. Aren’t there are rules already set for what is decent in a democracy?

There are recognized standards for decency. There is the recognized standard of what is proper and in good taste. And we live in a democracy in which our representatives are expected and elected to adhere to a certain standard of decency. I find it difficult to understand those who support elected officials who fail to follow even the faintest path laid out by (what used to be) our collective decency.
In 1954, as an amazed television audience looked on, Boston Lawyer Joseph Welch – after one of his associates was accused by Joseph McCarthy, of having communist ties – responded with the immortal lines that ultimately ended McCarthy’s career:

 
“Until this moment, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness.” When McCarthy tried to continue his attack, Welch angrily interrupted, “Let us not assassinate this lad further, senator. You have done enough. Have you no sense of decency?” 

What has happened to our collective sense of decency? When did it become okay to be cruel and reckless with the lives and well-being of American citizens and other people around the world?
Where is our sense of decency?
This is a question that should haunt us because the answer will certainly define us as we move forward.

CIRCUS FAMILIAR

I’ve come to accept the spectacle

The morning face that stares back at me in the mirror

Large pores packed with night-sweats and frustration

There’s lots to do but nothing to say

That will ease the guilt of not doing

Most likely I’ll clean my keyboard

remove the fingerprints

angry smudges that dappled my screen with hope.

I’ll open the Times app before adjusting a pillow behind my aging back

I’ll sip some tea as I consider the tilt of the screen and font size

I’ll search for good news as if

I’ve not already thrust my chin up to the edge of humanity

To improve my view of its destruction.

CIRCUS FAMILIAR

  Gwen glad pty  I’ve come to accept the spectacle

The morning face that stares back at me in the mirror

Large pores packed with night-sweats and frustration

There’s lots to do but nothing to say

That will ease the guilt of not doing

Most likely I’ll clean my keyboard

       remove the fingerprints

       angry smudges that dappled my screen with hope

I’ll open the Times app before adjusting a pillow behind my aging back

I’ll sip some tea as I consider the tilt of the screen and font size

I’ll search for good news as if

I’ve not already thrust my chin up to the edge of humanity

To improve my view of its destruction