Showing posts from September 6, 2009

COLLECTIVE LENS - 19th September Song

We see them through our collective lens, behind the mirage of everlasting riches, on the frame of our simulated empathy, our shared eyeglass compressing the world.

Their faces then made beautiful and satisfied when we look upon them with a vivid shame just away from the hushed cries, just beyond where the silent do their weeping.

In this song, hope is gathering around to witness the pluck of death from the distended tummy. A song for the world, not just our eyeless span, for all of mankind, a song made from the meat of escape.

I have heard many other songs in yesterday’s mist shatter truth down like bones upon the ground; a noiseless breaking, ears masked in private pain; our own howling, our own wish, our own rescue.

Heed the song of absence within and without, elevate your joy to an infinite tallness, lift them beyond the tapering gaze, their bones lay gently down, near enough to cuddle them.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

LET THEM IN - 20th September Song (poems for hunger)

Let them in. They are knocking. Greet them smiling.

Open the door. Offer them food, shelter, water, truth. The collectors of the ripe morsels, the architects of delusion and transporters of despair, have reaped from your wide eyes already steeped in filth, flooded your hearts that have ceased to clang.

Obedient tyrants are holding stained flags with equally stained hands, streaking ugliness across your flooded soil, washing away all proof that anyone actually loved there.

Tell them that the history books will be thinner for their starvation, remembrance, nothing more than a cackling emptiness, scripture and prayer devoid of conscience, ripened of spiritless gods.

Let them in. They are knocking. Greet them smiling.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

PUNCTURE - THE 21st SEPTEMBER SONG (poems for the hungry)

The call of hunger punctures this, our center, as scoundrels polish the machinery of coldness splashed over every beautiful and birth-riddled thing. Again and again it calls to us with a sirens’ whisper.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

THE 22nd SEPTEMBER SONG (poems on hunger)

Something reaches us.

Within arms length, something waits on our hearts. This, our diluted resolve, has weakened our senses of what breathes so near.

Why can’t we wake to it? Why do we move closer?

A lighthouse stretches before us yet we sail toward the rocks like droning machines.

Something moves nearer with abandonment, stepping mightily over alleyways of waste, our generous arms, tick tock, heavy stones.

O! What grips our hearts, weights our hands?

Something reaches us.

We have questions of it, is it Monstrous? Is it hungry? Is it human? Is it death? Is it God? Is it us?

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman


The drama begins innocently enough, in a corner of privacy, a shadowy crook, a charade of grief in the heart of America.

Three children rehearse. One child plays the casket filled with starvation, another a pile of unwashed laundry that stands for the grieving mother, and the third swoops about the room, the ravenous vulture.

The casket poses, “What’re you doing?” The laundry huffs, “You’re the dead kid!” The vulture shrieks, “It’s not my turn!”

The drama begins innocently enough, in a corner of privacy, a shadowy crook, a charade of grief in the heart of America.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

OUTSIDE OF OUR BREATHING - 24th September Song

They’re like you and me though they are thinning from less than our bodies as if existence stood outside their frame, an extension of such sagging garments and wrought iron flesh absorbing survival.

Each one an outline of the next, a procession- hushed backdrop, busted picture frames fallen from dreary paneled walls. We trace their jagged inhalation back to a limitation outside of our reach.

They’re like you and me though they are like composers without a sense of time, bent fingers dulled with a weakened pace. Their demise, if it were visible, might absorb a different, more profitable noise.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Touch Starvation in America

25th September Song

They had to quickly move about the room to stay ahead of the shadows behind them. Sometimes their legs looked alive, sturdy as skinny logs, sometimes they looked like bent twigs flapping in the coiling wind. They had an odd union of glee and gloom, mouths turned upright, eyes turned down, hands clasped in hope, legs trembled, pale. They scuttled each day in front of darkness, the rasp of an acidy emptiness in tow. They were being pursued by something, something unaffected by fervent prayer or curbed by the ardent shuddering of death.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman