What do you see as the role of art in public life at this moment in time?

I think that art has many different roles in public life. But if there is one thing I keep coming back to, I believe that art, and poetry in particular, can make you feel something, anything. It’s not always a soothing feeling, most times it’s actually more of a disruption, a piercing of the thick armor we must wear to move through life. But we need that disruption, that reminder of our humanity, of our desires, rage, and our tenderness.

Stopping by with Ada Limón

#poems #poetry #literature #poets

Awaiting."!

Out there - the melancholy buzz
of thawed snow behind the window
- In here
my temple's creature is in the opening of a winter cave.

It whispers! it whispers! It calls
in the crowns of trees & waiting souls!
A call of spring freshness.

It evokes a point of light in the Darkness.
It found me in spite of the fledgling mile.
. . . Yes, I obediently bow
and soulful welcomes - the sensitive muse of spring.

Begone then, my wintery world,
You who clothed my soul with chills -
Now finally, A shrinking hiss - of darkness and cold
Now, give way to the waiting warmth of the soul..

TsL 2024
#poems

• as a Kiss in my Ear. . .

There is a white sky sailing down here,
a mist of a thousand
small ice flowers in swirling orbits.
They were born somewhere in the blue —.
As white and thronging Crowds,
who flees, pursued by a Cold,
but come full of festivity.

Look, I'm in the middle of the dance,
The ballet that steps into the room.
I feel that the City and the Day
has removed itself, seems silenced. . .
Although the snowdrifts Whirl and swirls
and the steps seem wild to me,
The dance is wonderfully quiet.

Only the Wind, throwing its melancholic chatter
its whirring in breathy beats,
its World of pure white ice flowers
around a buried Observer —,
Provides the Music for the Dance,
a Murmur that I can only hear -
It lives as a kiss in my ear. .

TsL 2024
#poems

Cycles in Your Depths

Winter has its altar, scarcely lit
by stars, as hoar-frost jewels, calling forth
hard light, within stark, crystal ice, and stone.
Build with me a fire; here, let us sit
in silent worship of this sacred deep,
where storms and calm unite, where spirits soar
beyond this world.

Spring blossoms hardly dare raise a head
into a sky, that darkness won’t forsake,
for fear of threats of cold, prospects of fire.
Must we be recalled into the day,
to suffer worlds rejoiced by garish light,
forgetful of the mysteries we keep
in silence, locked?

Summer’s scorching heat burns not so deep
as night-borne stars, that seek beyond my soul,
but brings, to melting earth, deceptive ease.
Hear me call, through hours of precious dark,
to share our heartbeat, lest a skittish day
should lose our grip on sure reality,
and leave us, bare.

Autumn’s promise sings, impatiently,
an invocation to encroaching dark,
to manifest its blessing from the void.
Come, with me, gather wood, and rebuild
a pyre, to celebrate the sinking sun,
and welcome, to the diamond glint of stars
that call us home.

© Simon J Ashcroft, 2024

#SJ_AshcroftsPoems #poems #Poetry #MyWordsMyWork #CycleOfSeasons

#SJ AshcroftsPoems

Well Met, my Love

Deep shadows in the canyon,
unmoved by howling gale,
lie hollow, hiding empty, sadder thoughts.
Could all the passion of this wilderness
move my soul to light? Self doubt,
will ever seek the void.

A mountain crag, my vantage,
speaks a watching eagle,
with eyes to pierce the heart that, silent, waits.
No storm too violent for such wings of strength;
no night to dark for vision
to see hidden shadows.

Within the tree lined valley,
pale and frightened, standing,
to steadfastly repay the raptor’s gaze.
Eyes that glinted, empty, in the ice lands,
with softer fire, ignited,
will catch a nervous heart.

Swift to comfort, on cold wind,
I fly to meet this plea;
to shield from glaring sunlight pure hope’s form.
Run with me on the air; I will shelter,
these coal-black, glowing embers
of soul's rekindled fire.

© Simon J Ashcroft, 2024

#SJ_AshcroftsPoems #poems #poetry #MyWordsMyWork

#SJ AshcroftsPoems

Seeking My Dawn

Across the night,
voluptuous, of starry decadence,
my mind, at last, released, flies as it will,
with wings that span all vastness in one beat,
and feathers, burning, golden, in the void.

Hide not that heart
of beauty, more than mortal flesh may bear.
I, a hunter of the velvet darkness,
but waiting sacrifice, worship the blade
by which my ancient fate will claim me, whole.

© Simon J Ashcroft, 2024

#SJ_AshcroftsPoems #poems #poetry #MyWordsMyWork

#SJ AshcroftsPoems

Lost

Wasted, mountain moor,
where hard night holds, fast,
shadows, that confuse my crossing paths
into a maze, I cannot navigate.

No torchlight, guiding
homeward, takes me on,
through darkness, thick, which I never sought,
whilst frigid gales howl secrets of my soul.

Fierce, screams this stormwind,
to provoke my fear
and kill the flames ice could never quench
when melting in a warmth I long for, now.

I see no refuge,
save a rocky mass -
a granite skull, beckoning, that grins
for me to freeze, again, in Khayyam's hell.

I won't walk that way,
but bear, still, harsh teeth
of bronze, which I may wield as I will,
against this power of bloodless, tempting cold.

Let me tend my fire -
if needs be, alone,
and for one span more, 'til life revolves,
to give, at last, our glory in the sun.

© Simon J Ashcroft, 2024

#SJAshcroftsPoems #poems #poetry #MyWordsMyWork

Wordsmith..

I gleaned from the random speech of fools:
For the wordsmith, the word is a material. !
I learned to dream the dream that I want —
I realized that the word Organic existed.

---

I am looking for the inspiring words that live
as beauty somewhere in the creative phrases —.
The words - which are my material - are a wordsmith's metal.
And my muses are a melting pot, an oozing hall.

I hammer on the text anvil and forge the words into —,
an ornament of words which mirrors the eternal game —.
I dip my pen in the magical water —.
There it takes the shine of the land of the stars.

I separate the vowels from my words.
I put them away like stones on my table. . .
I call every sound a bright diamond —,
which hides its resonance in a dull consonant.

I throw my words into a smoky retort,
and separates every disfiguring murmur —.
I fetch from the crucible - a shining stone,
a sonorous vocal that is piercingly clean.

I want my words to be a stone in my hand,
a living substance, which is a glimpse of my spirit —,
the inspiring words- in whose eternal play
is a living dream - which exists.!"!

TsL 2024
#poems

The king's new clothes..

It was the day of the royal attitudes - Masquerade
Their stiff and oh so distinguished customs—
A false politeness which now fills all the theatrical newspapers.

A circus of spectacles in public places,
where the people love those who have the most expensive clothes—
The routine of elegant waving hand gestures to the people,
while they drive around in a gold chariot
United with a cold and haughty smile -
Ohh- See, They looked at me : the people thought.-

However, in the middle of the crowd stood a little boy
Who saw through the picturesque falsity & said:
Oh, look, it's our tax money that's being spent
While both the elderly, the sick and the poor suffer..

TsL 2024
#poems

Love - Evol../ recreate humanity ❣️

Sitting at this year's New Year's table
All around me are the Muses of the seasons
Dressed in mother earth's fair splendor
Have even invited my own shadows,
which at times is clothed with the wrath of the world.

Here we sit talking & wondering
Why the World Should Weep
Why People & Animals Must Suffer -
When do we learn that just because you disagree
You don't have to fight
Either way, Everyone bleeds when they're hurt..

TsL 2023
#poems

Yep....I've never liked Poetry magazine or the foundation either....too stuffy and now this.

https://lithub.com/over-2000-poets-and-writers-are-boycotting-the-poetry-foundation/

#poems #poetry #politics

11/11 (and one to grow on)

Support Our Troops

Bravery?
What if they gave a war
and nobody came?
What if our ethos gave up
on targets to blame?
March of disorders;
unstable bonds break down,
crush frightened innocents
to dust.
We meant to serve our nation.
We meant to save rights, defend
threatened treasure, stalwart
bulwarks against disaster.
We meant to honor sacrifice, work of
our fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers
for the good life:
family, God, country
and a wholesome recompense of pleasure.
Not executors of horror so intense
as to reverberate through our
remaining consciousness.
Who is advanced?
Who left in pieces that never heal?
God is on the battle field
not as commanding general or inspiring
mascot,
as witness
and gentle minister
of last rites
to shattered soldiers.

Not in Our Name

Nobody wins in a war
(well, maybe a few financiers of war industries, but)
Not us, not them, not humanity
Not the dead, not the living
Not the yet to be born
Not the land, water, air, our natural resources
Not the roads, buildings, pipes, utility lines, the infrastructure
Not love or peace or morality
Not human nature
Not Right
Not Justice
Not God
Not the battlegrounds or the cemeteries, or the unhealable wounds in our souls
Whatever we may hope to accomplish with war,
There are better ways.

Child of War

My daddy died saving our country.
My mommy cries, so sad and lonely.
But I can see, she’s also scared.
Our neighbors spit our names like swears.
I try to be respectful and kind.
They curse out threats, scream “We’re not blind,
you people are evil, your faith makes you kill.”
Sometimes if I stand, eyes closed, so still
I can hear my daddy say “Be strong,
my beloved child. Those people are wrong.
Wars aren’t decreed by Gods from above.
War is the sad fruit of the failure of love.”

Soldier

Soldiers, persons of honor, heroes of
common cause, deserve concerted worship on the throne
of myth. No longer men or women alone, adrift,
seeking meaning, solace for their losses,
receivers for their gifts. Sins and virtues
washed in wars’ conflicting visions, no longer fit
collective debt. Cynics’ crimes against our mirrors
deserve reflection. Does the command of empire
demand recursive lies, impossibility of true
repentance, vicious alibis, endless pitches into
death?
Early learning cast the play of we and they.
Blood, bone, face
is not man, soil intent on destiny.
Shadow marketeers sell swords, honour,
blessings to follow the faith as good fathers demand.
Soft blood dries — throes of maggots and microbes
cunningly feast on folly.
Can the wage of war pay to feed our habit?
Vegetation of these mythic forests grows
twisted, tinged in dark crimson layers.
Smell terror, violent death —
fresh meat, or fresh enough for remnant
gnashed snarls of teeth and salivation.
Lullabies drenched in sweet hope
snapped for a dream.
War, to improve the species,
cull the less fit or fortunate,
revitalize with hybridization.
Trained adversaries of different kin join in
biocultural cross-fertilization.
New semination, ideas, vigor, replace those
destroyed in battle. Hegelian dialectic played out
in donnybrook and brothel,
conquered and conquerors commingle in the everyday.
Warrior upon warrior.
Young, aggressive, strong, culturally arrogant,
seeking honour, adoration, through attack.
Like young male cats
of the archetypal jungle, sent out from the tribe
to trouble the enemy.
Lesser punks relegate to jail. Yeah, yeah, get the scofflaws off the street;
scapegoats for collective demons need be punished well.
While locked in hell, too, losers from the gene pool.
The privileged and their entourage
seldom serve time. Innocents sans means
get rousted and warehoused. The holy encourage:
Keep ’em chained until aged weak beyond appeal.
Modern reason might usurp these adaptations.
Species, in danger of elimination, needed arrogance
to demand resources
to feed more warriors
to keep each kin group scrambling
for position. To get more competitive, through competition.
Billions of voices shout cacophony.
Sentient choices blend better as harmony.
By liminal command, young aggressors channel
to sport, fantasy war, adventurous work.
Next level survival demands we assess, re-learn.

War Games

More and more
get less and less
the best sacrificed
to great God Success
Anger
building
brick by bloody brick
Is it a surprise
(“Look! Into my eyes!”)
when the peasants cackle
resurrecting the guillotine
Raw power
hot metal shooting
making unmistakable mark
burning ragged skin and guts
and glory
.
Tell me a story, daddy
about before the war
when water flowed
in abundant freedom
when the air was pure
of the stench
of progress
when everybody had
a sacred right
to feel
and believe
and dance in the moonlight
when we could afford to be
young, untried, open
to possibilities not cut off
by a sacrificial knife
repeatedly deeply severing
vital organs
without regard to the waste
with no respect for place
or the people for whom that space
holds stories

Weapons forged in anger
built up shattered layers of
desperate pride, disrespect, grief
create festering wounds
poisoning the populace
unto the Seventh Generation
caught up in some grotesque
morality play

Hiroshima

Fight for peace
Our sacred honor
Arrows fly
piercing armor.
Piercing amor, pride’s
full measure.
Wrath, revenge,
mortal fear, coiling
paranoia
bayonet strong.
Toddlers at play,
unarmed, unwary,
skeletally still.
Bared secrets slip
from space and time.
Scorching pinprick holes
in heaven’s fabric;
petrified souls thrust into
premature rebirth.
Hellfire ripped from metaphor
rends scream-echo,
palpable texture,
daring phantoms,
death’s brigade.
Crying “Peace!”
— unheeded command
because real glory
belongs to destruction.

The Enemy

Hiding from bombardments.
Thick, black water.
No thirst is worth this
indignity.
Running through rubble,
recently devolved
homes, commerce, community.
Extended families,
aunts and cousins,
good neighbors,
valued friends
devolved to shattered corpses.
Wailing at the wall of freedom,
of humanity.
Chaotic prophecies whisper,
Hell reigning upon
modern Earth.
Policy statements fly
in protective formation.
“We can not give in to
the enemy.”

Study War No More

What lesson can be applied?
When imperialist troops crash down upon a people’s pride?
When might as right meets the instinct to survive?
When Midas greed lashes out to destroy?
We’ve been here before, o my brethren, o my children —
repeating the fouled lessons poured into our thirsty minds,
pushing back the horror before our eyes with blinding rage
forged into weapons by mortal foes
who hide in plain sight.
The only thing I know —
The lesson repeating agony in all our souls,
Haunted by the pleading eyes and bloody hearts
Of the slaughtered sacrifices to malignant gods —
There is something vital here to learn.

They win a stupid, miserable battle because they’re all about the fight,
all about taking out any foreign concept or perpetrator of perceived slight.
The war continues because soldiers are so much fun to play with,
so easy to control by those who enjoy divide and conquer games.
For the few outsiders who don’t want to play, well, we make good
training exercise targets.
Fine, be a “hawk”
go to war with the other hawks
in a hawk war stadium
kill each other off
to cheering crowds
all the blood and glory you so
badly crave

It’s a strange philosophy,

making war the ultimate decider of conflict or disagreement.
Over and over it fails, miserably, tragically. Yet the demand persists.
What you say about the military life, it’s just life.
We are all in a way soldiers,
soldiering on in whatever function we find, in getting through.
There are occasions for heroism,
for that adrenaline pumping into action we never knew
we could perform.
There are all the horrors that we may or may not encounter,
how we learn to live anyway.
War may be a more condensed way of living,
a faster ride,
often on the most brutal side.
There was a Roman soldier bored with war,
with whores, with bloody babies.
Hoping to escape, he wrote a history,
moved into
his Holy fantasy.
It’s but a Shangri-La, a piper’s dream.
Metal men, formed from clay,
scream upon fields of hostility,
when scathing nerves
catch up with senses.
Soothed with martial melodies,
gratefully they rise to serve.

Ballad of a Modern Hero

Young Julius Jones
Born in the month of his naming
Trained in the fine art of gaming
Grew in the wilds of Manhattan
Among the sticks and stones.
Young Julius Jones
Learned soon to hate with a passion
Whoever was most then in fashion
Learned soon to pummel and flatten
Whoever was not of his own.
He grew swift and strong
A fine looking man, and a tough one
With women was always a rough one
But knew how to use all to please him
Sure of his own right and wrong.
He went off to war
Glad to be raising his station
Proud to be serving his nation
He’d ne’er let the enemy seize him
Of this he was sure.
He shot proud and true
And sent letters home to his mother
Of how he had killed yet another
Taught those damn Commies a lesson
Gave ’em what they were due.
He died in the night
And when, in the morning, they found him
It was nothing new to astound them
Someone just said, “What a mess.”
And soon he was out of their sight.
Young Julius Jones
Born in the month of his naming
Trained in the fine art of gaming
Gone from the isle of Manhattan
Among the sticks and stones.
Young Julius Jones
Had learned well to hate with a passion
Whoever was most then in fashion
Learned well his lesson and that
In the end justified his bones.

Honoring peace

Honoring lives left behind
not in consecrated fields
open to air and sunlight
tended father to son,
mother to daughter.
Dust to carry forward.
Lives not given, not shared.Taken.
Ripped asunder.
Limbs, guts, glory.
Shrieking abandoned waifs,
wailing inconsolate lovers.
Screaming bombs, squealing tanks.
Arms shattered,
vision scarred
for peace, for Fatherland, for prosperity.
Today, cold, raw, ice flecks
obscure a longed-for Sun.

#poems #antiwar

November's kiss of snow...

With a luminous lightness, you enter my terrace
Quickly recognizes your snowy mood
Your wintry sigh - exhaling icy snowflakes
Chills my soul -
Snow crystals, glistening in your hair
Just like melancholy stars in your eyes,
which now - so wintry - looks into mine.

Ah yes, Muse of November
Dressed in the year's first Snow kiss
Embraced my senses, with light-hearted wintry tenderness
Just like melancholy stars in your eyes,
which now - so wintry - looks into mine

TSL 2023
#poems

The rhythm of the witches' brew

Ah, Welcome Halloween
All invited by the Wicked Witch Queen
Her nose is bent
She always has an evil intent
The fingers, like a skeleton, with spiked nails
In the witch's cauldron, a vile cocktail
Brewed from gnawed bones & snails.

TSL 2023
#poems

blood #poems for an October Moon

they bring on pain and want to share it all around, make one big hurt.
This is the pain of the sins of the forefathers,
the founding fathers,
the captains of industry,
the capitalist barons and kings.
It is the painful tightening of nooses and stirrups,
the calculating cackling of Nazgul riding high on misery.
Taste the pain.
Savor the flow of blood from damaged hearts,
wounds of battle,
beggars kicked into oblivion on darkened streets,
excessive violence.
Pain is, after all, the great motivator.
Grind them all into a massive meatball,
cover with condiments extracted from the Earth,
this is the wealth that is worth
every sacrifice.
…
Early learning cast the play of we and they.
Blood, bone, face
is not man, soil intent on destiny.
Shadow marketeers sell swords, honour,
blessings to follow the faith as good fathers demand.
Soft blood dries — throes of maggots and microbes
cunningly feast on folly.
Can the wage of war pay to feed our habit?
Vegetation of these mythic forests grows
twisted, tinged in dark crimson layers.
Smell terror, violent death —
fresh meat, or fresh enough for remnant
gnashed snarls of teeth and salivation.
Lullabies drenched in sweet hope
snapped for a dream.
…
Seeking for the power of wisdom
Multiple paths converge on star points
Pierced by light, taste of blood in darkness
Feed on what feeds your blossoming
…
I am inspired by anger engorging my blood-brain barrier
by symphonies of guilt and shame and hope
by simple positionings glimpsed from roving eyes by lightening,
darkening, liminal desires,
by brave warriors who cope with more than could be required
and the songs my silent ear demands I hear
…
It is foolishness to think that paradigm-wrecking change will not inflict pain.
Perhaps it would be better if the shift would just Poof! —
all the trauma and bloodshed washed up at once
into it horrific tableau, then Enlightenment!
I don’t think it can work that way.
Mostly we seem to not be inclined to any major changes
without being so miserable that we see no other option.
I am emphatically not “for” this; but it seems to be so,
beyond my ability to control.
…
Do not struggle with anger, my son
Give in to the luxury of ire and woe
Dance to the music of bloodlust, fire, passion
Avenge the angst of life’s attractions
Get caught up in the lava flow,
burning to spend and leap without reserve
Then, in sweet afterglow, in mild day’s reflection,
take in the view of battlelands subdued.
In this fading light, this waning Sun,
aftermath of action,
take time and patience,
eye of storm,
tongue of meditation,
clear mind of wisdom to wish.
.
.
.
Not a Lucid Dream
.
.
She is not some willowy fragile damsel Queen
waiting for champions to compete
for her hand.
She is not grand, Imperious.
Not more than a child, yet strong of will,
of purpose.
She sings herself to sleep,
deep lullabies enticing
prophetic dreams.
Potent streams of consciousness
offer drenching
hydration.
To drown, to release all pretense,
to surrender to fate —
or collaborate in adventure.
It takes a Queen to drink
from the sacred cup, to
read the trails of sludge,
to answer.
She heeds the call,
heals her aching wound,
hears soft moisture mark her path.
Cracking ice, spelling runes,
guide, sprite luminous shades.
Wavery arms, blue ectoplasm,
trace salutations.
This is not lucid dreaming.
This is the sign promised.
Taste the frozen blood;
know its story, sharp, shining.
Live the legend,
even when
it is furthest from your mind.
.
.
.
At the edge of the real
At the plummet of denial
At the summit of all we pretend
Re-echoing ecstasy crescendo
No where to discover again
Drunk on this neverending run
To the End
.
.
.
Doorway into Scorpionic revelation — severe, profound, grabs from beneath the conscious realm.
.
.
.
Drunk on koolaid.
Sputter junkie cultural jargon —
a separate, unequal, reality
you choose.
Soggy comfort of misery.
Slobby, whiney;
lobbing fouled barbs to amuse.
Cheap deterioration,
failure explained:
Not mine! The way of the world.
Ascertain blame by direction
in which orator’s stones are hurled.
Can’t look back, or around
to track the blood on the ground.
Life seeps in pain.
Drunk in a pool of despair.
Left to sleep, unaware,
drowning in caustic rain.
.
.
.
Study War No More
.
.
What lesson can be applied?
When imperialist troops crash down upon a people’s pride?
When might as right meets the instinct to survive?
When Midas greed lashes out to destroy?
We’ve been here before, o my brethren, o my children —
repeating the fouled lessons poured into our thirsty minds,
pushing back the horror before our eyes with blinding rage
forged into weapons by mortal foes
who hide in plain sight.
The only thing I know —
The lesson repeating agony in all our souls,
Haunted by the pleading eyes and bloody hearts
Of the slaughtered sacrifices to malignant gods —
There is something vital here to learn.
.
.
.
unsound
.
.
I have no words
no Earthly limitations
imploded aggravation applies
bloody bolts of magma impale my eyes
you wisely sidle past, mouth aghast,
while my presence lasts
I never doubted
your indifference
Out here, in space beyond
no one listens
.
.
.
sickly, fever vision
slow to remember action
whining in a corner
never seeing the Archer
guiding or the rainbow
calling from that window
We once called to vision
cry to see your anger
pitiful and collared
primped in cold and silver
Who are we to mourn you?
So reviled and tattered
that our vision barely sees us
We hope as if that mattered
retreat in pleasant manners
and expect you to believe
in some envisioned chance of promise
not destined to lie broken
trod upon by wrathful demons
drunk on hate and blood
.
.
.
maybe this is the fantasy world where businesses become our greedy robot overlords, squeezing out our blood and guts and leaving the excrement for our sustenance.
.
.
.
Cross Purpose
.
.
At time’s crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
radiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Taken from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter
“I could bite off that little thing — make
you squat to pee.”
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
“We’re right. They are inherently wrong.”
“Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride.”
Against our better fate, our race divided
along strict lines, by difference
nature instilled to make us strong
.
.
.
Nature Cure
.
.
The wild has been bred out of us.
We are city creatures now.
Citizens of common culture
down graded along the main stream,
abraded to fit
today’s fashion,
to fit the form.
Wild dreams tug deep,
feed bloodlines unappeased,
misnamed disease.
.
.
.
Spring Fever
.
.
Such a psychotic mess
Such a mood slave
Prickly dendrites, echoes of abandoned lives.
Voiceless words compel, demand hearing.
Why do they beg at my door, cloying, whining,
grabbing at my eyes with scarring claws?
I who possess only obsessed carvings of dried blood,
only curdled nightmares where I’ve lost my way,
lost the thread that was to sew me whole.
Shiny coins twinkle, fit so comfortingly in
cyborg skin’s mechanical slot.
Brite tinkly musical phrases effervesce.
Beautiful, hungry dancers consume,
piranhic bliss.
No magical kiss, no fated lover to heal
and carry me home.
My gifts spurned or derided for their
inexcusable tackiness, stinking with mold
and decay, cannot pay any price.
Mock, if you must for warmth.
I curl against entropy into a trashed
cardboard box of stale air.
.
.
.
metawakening
.
.
Sharal the Hunter runs from the Warrior of Destruction.
She has lost all honor, all reason, all possessions but the skins that cover her.
Her village burns, all she has known forever ashes.
This ought to be a nightmare.
Here, now, it is horribly … overwhelming.
Heart, blood, breath, these are what matter understands.
Mind is elsewhere. It has screamed into submission, reptilian —
Heart, blood, breath.
.
Terror reverberates
shakes tree limbs, wavers
vision. Terror waits ahead.
Grabbing strength enough to veer,
steer clear,
running thoughtless through loss,
unafraid of the unexpected, uncharted,
new.
Unencumbered by old terrors,
expectations.
Ready by necessity to make do,
to start from simplest principles.
Who am I, today?
Tomorrow will take care
of itself.
.
.
.
oracle
.
.
Dusty bones
buried in sand of ages
carried from days when sacrifice was still fresh,
still blood.
I carried you, sank into shifting sand,
drank your blood, or you mine
to keep us, to bind in eternal compromise
scythe of death, scythe of fulfillment.
Bones shatter,
scatter into oracular arrangement.
The days don’t end.
They carry into Sunset
oracular bones, dust, coagulating blood
possibilities not yet desired.
…

#blood #poems for an #October 13 evening

Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow
her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed.
Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep
and shallow, ravage disease.
Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath
outside rational context.
Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where
she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled.
.
.
.
Government happens
Power differentials are natural
Makes sense to attend to these matters
consciously,
rationally.
Hot heads, coarse tongues, flail of arm,
crush of foot, outthrust chest, rancorous
demands
lively show and tell;
Yes, such forceful yell might get bells
ringing, choirs singing, merry pageantry.
After roaring Sun’s descended, crowds
disbanded to bars and beds
to dream lusty victories or private
histories, nobody charged to watch
for this twinkling of time.
Without law, there is no crime.
Without rules, no crown ascends
by common call – but only by
all against all
in squall of terrors,
contests of survival, games
scored in blood.
.
.
.
Muses dance,
explore motion.
Segue to and fro
two steps back; a flurry forward.
Satin cats, tails a’fling
pirouette, scurry choreography.
No tomorrow. No scheduled glee for
public appearances.
Time’s a’clanging, impatient clamors
for unknown seasons.
Rainstorm howls,
cleanses,
sends tidings, murky repentance and
beard for tears.
Savage rain tip-tapping
rhythms and blues.
Barrels for dipping, for ritual
washing, for tribal hydration, replenishment.
Agriculture,
hunger, health, hygiene. Sordid rain,
ashen water, terror, pain, diluted
blood.
Storm warnings advise caution.
Cover yer windows and blinds.
Hide in cellars and pray.
Find salvation in fearsome company.
Oh, Hell – give in! Cave into slippery ground;
swallow and be swallowed.
The rains came, carried fortune to further shores
and supplicants.
Long into unspoken tomorrows.
.
.
.
Dread – crusty needles eject embalming poison
Stiff, rusted shut, ooze tarnished prison door.
Electrified to molten waste.
Lost wastrel, chased into rough wood.
How could good ever tough through?
Seethe tooth and fang.
Anger will tighten screws, coils.
No mercy to win when cardinal sin is innocence.
Don’t chatter of cruelty,
turn red in shame.
Remember the wise one winked “No blame.”
while wheeling outside reach of stage.
There are no great secrets,
barbed network of lies.
There is this blood bludgeon
of power wielded by minions and slaves
with too little to win.
If a moonlit beach at midnight called siren songs,
embracing melody, calming waves —
if urgent desire brokered change.
.
.
.
Cypher
.
.
O’ evil Man
It is not your gods who make you so.
They laugh at their celestial balls,
silly little mood slaves
primed to vomit sour wine,
feast after bloody binge.
Who is the moral gatekeeper,
the celebrated purveyor of righteousness?
Who the masked scoundrel,
cross-dressed wolves and lambs
in demonic jig?
A lively game to wile away some
vague eternity.
Our children obscured in armament.
So many souls to devour.
.
.
.
Tonight’s Impression
Dig, deep into unlikely crevices.
Unsightly blemishes
covered in mud, old crusted blood,
more suffering than shame.
If none know my name,
can they curse me?
Always rehearsing for
untended curtains, productionless
plays.
.
.
.
Gospel
.
.
Sally, won’t you go
downtown
Pick up some teabag party
clowns
We’ll teach ’em tricks of trade
from streets walled in by
degradation
Ain’t this nation grand
for glad hands raised in celebration
of shames we dare not name.
.
Hallelujah Hallelucinations
Hallowed ground baptized
in blood
Saved from the cleansing Flood
by sticking to our kind
however we’re defining us today
If we were meant to live
a different way
wouldn’t He have told us?
.
.
.
(Hollow) Theme Party
.
.
Bleeding across the page
Not pretty
Naked self-pity
a turn off
better passed by
Rather, let us speak of
solitude, the advantages
of wealth
kept to oneself
No beasts lessen my load
No supplicants beg to share
Luxuriously wrapped in my lair
laughing and dancing on gold
acutely aware of thin cold urchins
out on a distant plain
They are no kin to me;
out there for atmosphere
I am Deity within this domain
blood you see splattered
on this page
fell from other veins
some poor unfortunate
released from pain
How pretty! Let’s party!
A gala affair, enraptured
alone in my lair
.
.
.
Our Gang
.
.
Outrage
Depression facing outward
Taking power to give it away.
This entrained impulse
See them crackling, jangling
puppets at puppy play,
bite, bark, entangle,
grab and tussle,
growl, muscle in for the kill.
Bloodlust arousal.
Natural as puke, as death,
violation as violent orgy
violation as ecstatic
initiation to the brotherhood.
Life elevated to dreams, goals,
careful weighing of coin and hours,
dependable plans, actions that honor can favor,
love, duty, allegiance to the rules of sanity
and kind regard
have no purpose here.
Men of blood and battle fluid
need no fine speeches, no valor —
only food and receptacles
for their waste.
…
.

#blood #poems for an #October Evening (week end)

Bad Seed
.
.
Guilt as a constant drip of toxin
a constant flow of tears
a constant beat of blood
pounding behind my eyes
exhorting me to arise
to rise to the occasion
to fall upon my knees in shame
begging for any scrap to salve
that gnawing, angry pain
a constant burning drip
a ring of fire — pass not beyond this point
for life is not a journey
but a downward spiral.
What could such an open, curious, loving child have done
to merit such punishment?
.
.
.
Timothy McVeigh Is Still Dead
.
.
It’s morning in America
The morning of June 11, 2001
A warm and beautiful Spring day
And in Terre Haute, Indiana — a little after 7:00 am
–Timothy McVeigh is dead.
What more is there to say?
We all know the score:
Death: 169, Mercy: 0
The hero “bloody, but unbowed”
Silenced, but still proud
Ashes to scattered ashes
Death to death.
.
.
.
Nursery Song
.
.
Scooping up the cornucopia of experience
gently nestled in moonbeams
at peace in a lullaby
easily descending
into the world of lights and pain
too bright, too loud, too cacophonous
to embrace whole.
Whisp whispers shhh, whispers
of ideas, harnessed light,
well-structured challenges
ease into bits by bits
hypnotic meme streams
world stories
of clearly constructed grammar
sharing common tongue
that we may ease our fractured
anxious turbulence
in chorus of soothing nursery song.
See, we are the progeny of heroes.
Hear the laughter of the Almighty
among hosts of angels
here we are home.
Sweet, splintered home.
Here we learn to serve the giants,
give piously abased homage
to the slingers of arrows
that could rend us
bit by bloody bit.
No wonder we sing louder,
dance jerkily on starched,
bleached strings.
Wouldn’t we agree to anything
that we be allowed
to sleep
just a few aeons more.
.
.
.
The Business of Sickness
.
.
Good Day, Good Sir, Good Madam,
I do hope all is well
If not, we’ve got a spell
to cure what ails
You have come to just the place
Let us take your case
history
to solve the mystery,
make you quite alright,
and collect our fee
What else could be our motivation
We entered into this vocation
quite consciously
to fulfill a need society
finds compelling enough
to be shelling out to us
big magic currency
So let us take control
of your health
your wealth
Whatever you hold dear
we’ll make our business here
Make a fist and let me take your blood.
.
.
.
Capital Crime
.
.
Sweet old daddy
Doing his will in the night
Keeping the mamas afright
for the plight of each
beloved child, so tender
so young
He really oughta be hung!
so say the neighbors, clicking
their tongues
Take him to the magistrate
Fill his ears with the voice of hate
while he’s tied, defanged, prostrate
Let our will be done!
Tie him down in a prison cell
Make him feel the wrath of Hell
’til we all are bloody well
exhausted of our fun.
No need to delete old daddy
sweeping shit and burning bones
any toil we deem atones
to repay society’s loans
of wicked sowing days
assuring he damn well pays
for the pain and loss his wicked ways
marred our happy homes.
.
.
.
Choosing Sacrifice
.
.
Sweet teardrop rainbow
celestial, demure
bright drops of light
clearing vision
from clouds
clean sparkling flowers
of grace
Taste enervating electricity
Feel blood bathing brain
Smell the air of change
so easy
like falling off a cliff
anyone can
In the Future
houses will be wired
to spy
‘No thought crimes allowed, sir.
You’ll be coming with us
for regrooving.”
Cats and mice will play nicely,
or feel the juice
from which none come back
the same
This is the way the world turns
from sanity or compassion
because we are cheaper than robots.
.
.
.
Rose Red
.
.
I am prickly, admittedly.
I come by it rightly.
Organically evolved defensive weapon
(note, no offensive weapon attached).
You must approach me with care.
Feel the velvet of my vibrant leaves, gently.
My flower, radiant in grace and wonder.
Musical poetry wafting, my enchanted perfume
calling for the discerning touch.
But grasp too hard, too clumsily,
without reflection, a thousand tiny cuts
push you far away.
In no time, you will heal,
leaving me to bleed forever,
attempting to clear from my system
your poisonous residue.

After thirty-five years, The Gettysburg Review, Gettysburg College’s quarterly literary magazine, is ceasing publication. We encourage everyone to continue to read and SUBSCRIBE to literary magazines and journals, where you can find great pieces like this essay on time in life and in fiction (The Gettysburg Review), an essay on passing in America (New England Review), Héctor Tobar on California smog (ZYZZYVA), a piece on personal and environmental grief (Conjunctions), a story by Morgan Tatly (TriQuarterly), a conversation between Margaret Atwood and Rebecca Solnit (Orion), fiction from Christine Schutt (NOON), and this essay on whale dildos (The Common). SUPPORT LIT MAGS, SUPPORT LITERARY CULTURE!

https://twitter.com/GburgReview/status/1709557701737316407

#poems #poetry #writing #authors #stories #essays #flash #literature

The storm of the world

There is a whirlwind from all over the world
The storm ravages the sighing night
and howls like an animal possessed by hunger.

The air is full of murmuring and lamentation,
like foaming trolls in seven-mile boots
invisibly chasing a wailing Enemy.

I falter in the storm, but will not budge.
While, I stand on a deserted boulevard
and is strewn with leaves left behind at breakneck speed.

It is as if the storm wanted to crush me;
it comes crashing down on me over and over again. -
as if I were a leaf to be swept away.

I stand stiffly, as if I had taken root;
Shouting: So many things you can tame!
But not me.

My will
I plant as a banner.
and defies all the storms of blind Tyrants! -
Or at least I hope so...

© TsL. 2023
#poems

#blood #poems for an #October evening (falling forward)
https://yprophecies.wordpress.com/2016/10/03/blood-poems-for-an-october-evening-falling-forward/

Red-Blooded
.
.
Let’s talk about this.
Exactly what are we afraid of?
Different skins, different thoughts?
“These people are not like us.”
Nor we like them.
Legends say we fear
and fight the barbarians.
A receding panorama
of battle upon battle.
Millennia of genocide
proudly proclaimed.
We must be strong warriors,
rough, sharp, explosive,
valiantly a barricade barrage
protecting Our valued and values
from Their predation.
Lines must be drawn clearly.
Womanly, childish fuzzy vulnerability
cast far behind, confined to
defended shelters
kept at bay with bitter laughter,
raucous play.
These patterns built up over
generations serve us well,
minimizing weakening contamination.
.
.
.
detached
.
.
Where were you when I was dying?
Now that I am all but (merely nearly) dead
you mock me
beg my assistance
to mitigate
the dark fall-out
of your fantasies.
Blind to my bleeding, and your own,
how can anything I say
reach you anyway?
Return your pleading to your
silent Lord.
Leave me to my resolutions.
Strangers all these years,
I feel no desire
for meeting
in your dream.
.
.
.
bloodlust
bloodlove
blood taste long after midnight
not to entice your fright
to find the one
whose blood
calls to mine
.
.
.
War Games
More and more
get less and less
the best sacrificed
to great God Success
Anger
building
brick by bloody brick
Is it a surprise
(“Look! Into my eyes!”)
when the peasants cackle
resurrecting the guillotine
Raw power
hot metal shooting
making unmistakable mark
burning ragged skin and guts
and glory
.
Tell me a story, daddy
about before the war
when water flowed
in abundant freedom
when the air was pure
of the stench
of progress
when everybody had
a sacred right
to feel
and believe
and dance in the moonlight
when we could afford to be
young, untried, open
to possibilities not cut off
by a sacrificial knife
repeatedly deeply severing
vital organs
without regard to the waste
with no respect for place
or the people for whom that space
holds stories
.
Weapons forged in anger
built up shattered layers of
desperate pride, disrespect, grief
create festering wounds
poisoning the populace
unto the Seventh Generation
caught up in some grotesque
morality play
.
.
.
Gnats, fleas, mosquitoes, biting, buzzing
can inflict disease beyond their size
or intellect. Best to discover and cover with repellant
to quell their appetite for terrorizing we they see
as tempting treats of invigorated blood.
.
.
.
When the national project was stolen before our horrified stares
When it became our duty to kill and destroy for the convenience of profit
When humane policy became anathema, unworthy economic drag
When the will of the gambling elite gamed the rule of law to their pocket
Did you scream so loud that bitter blood poured from your lungs?
Did you set up mourning camps to gather forces,
to train grief and rage into worthy opponents against true freedom’s foes?
Did you gaze into the cold eyes of propagandists and say “No!”?
Or did you march along in the parade, assured: “First they get theirs; then we get ours.”?
.
.
.
Pink and Blue
(and red all over)
.
.
Fist shakes from rage
channeled, coursing,
flailing bloodlines.
Caught, snarled,
stagnant dying ocean
willing to be taken down
from fear to violence.
Call wild arms,
breast, sinew, shame.
Chemistry surges, overplays.
One mortal coup de grace
burst sword to heart
that never lived
beyond desire.
.
If man is fire, dissolved
into greater waves,
why does Woman weep?
Why does not the flood
of pain absolve and
succor? Why should fate
deny blessings of mortal
release in wash of blood
to lady fair,
snakes and thistles to braid her hair,
expose her tortured face?
Eyes that kill in silence,
stone lips, wrinkled nose,
washed out in times of
stoic denial. Why must
she kneel, vile, victim
of violence, not its cause?
Who makes these laws of
natural selection?
Who takes the stone?
Who takes the stone’s projection?
.
.
.
Battle Fatigue
.
.
Honoring righteous anger.
Not mean little sprites,
Chironic knights protecting me.
Cradling me so sweetly.
“Oh, no, dear, never forgive, never forget.”
Torture is no way to say you’re sorry.
.
Love whispered to me
in dreamlike memory
told me tales
told me lies.
I told myself those stories
whispering in the night
bereft of sleep.
I told myself of soft surrender.
Of gentle caressing days
dappled in sunlight,
lusty heat-soaked revelry
sharing secrets
so poignant, so intense.
The anger
burns me through
each synapse,
each myelin sheathe
blood, guts, lungs, heart.
Viral penetration, consuming
strength, vitality, duration.
I am languid and torn.
From time to time I rally
to fight my own tears,
my own mind,
my own field of battle.
.
No one comes forth for me
to offer my surrender.
Battle weary,
I can no longer breathe.
The anger breathes for me.
Gently wrapping me in
blankets,
singing me a battle song
urging me to take respite
as it soothingly scrapes off
the scabs
refreshing my wounds.
.
.
.
hungry zeitgeist
.
.
slivers, splinters, failing meaning
catch it, spinning out into the stars
bleeding rags fine red droplets
shredded hands, hopes, hearts
I can’t hold on, hold out, hold a good thought
agonized neurons,
shattered mirrors
unable to
hold suction,
bind the wound
embrace me
tight and tenderly
as blood drips through your fingers
touching raw eroding senses
with gentle rain, dripping,
obscuring the view
I would curl up into destiny,
locking my lacerations
in dreams of false skins,
tightening, holding fast to the edges.
I would fall immortally into space,
dripping inward.
I would lock my dreams in pasteboard boxes,
too tight for mortal breath.
the words whirl around, whirl around, whirl
like scattered bits of paper tears
I would hide in the deepest hold and
keep to life slowly seeping through.
but the hunger calls
it growls and jumps in fits to battle