Showing posts from October 11, 2009

BAD (Climate Change & The 15th Violent Verse)

In the throb of atmosphere
a rumbling has begun in the home,
the sanctuary of family and air
for exhaling away an aching world,
it's pressing in too tightly now
without kindness or acquittal.

Echoing behind our anxious eyes,
a wobble of fear; over the sky, over the fierce hue of time,
no break, no dawn. A vicious flailing- kindness, hope
joy, laughter, sold for days, minutes, seconds more;
bartered for an nth of miserable anger.

Humankind anon will scrape its lust with
the common shroud of coldness- the children
and their laughter, their dance and their patter,
the moon and stars and intercourse,
all a whisper, one god-awful unspoken bereavement.
No more sunrises or sunsets seen through fist-split eyes.
No more joy and laughter.

Here every lawn is trimmed, groomed like a preacher’s beard.
Trees replaced by tool sheds, garden plots shrunken, dead.
Shiny green pools, television screens as life-sized as bloodshed.
Everything is lighting our path away from home,
Away from blue skies, …

THE HUNTERS (The 16th Violent Verse)

We're hungry for a mordant rage,
Food’s too difficult to come by.
When fury finally puts its hand on us,
The world will further its slope.
The days since she first began listing
In an ocean of grief, we’ve encouraged,
Applauded a wrathful clout like apes beating
Chests, shrieking allegiance to suffering.

There are gleaming waters here. There are
Gardens and farms. And trees,
Scorched and naked, still feeding off the sun.
Hunger won’t seek nourishment there; hunger
Will find its prey bathed in light, in slant of clay
And stone, camouflaged like angry hunters
Enshrined in huts of flesh. O! Summon the rain
So things might grow instead of die!

Call out to the hunters, send forth violent man,
Bring him before the world, under the sun,
Called away from his wars and mad pillaging,
Stand him up to see his soiled use,
Force his blind eyes open to see the ruin.
His sloping death called back from the edge,
Useless furor breathing a most foul hatred.

We’re hungry for a nourished future,

REAL MEN BEAT EGGS (The 17th Violent Verse)

Sure, it’s cute enough for a t-shirt, but
Its words are without richness.
Men are real enough alright, they are.
Beating eggs mere practice for the brutality
in the craft of oppression, oligarchy bent
on choking the souls of the multitude.

Passive man wrestles with himself, curbs
his primal senses toward humanity.
Real is a word made from our darkness.
Men are wide-eyed singular flesh and bone.
Peaceful man is neither violent nor bent,
Civilization, his champion, his tutor, his sin.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

TEDDY BEAR (The 18th Violent Verse)

She sits grim-faced in the living room, her bent eyes
upon the staggered lines of the cedar wood floor
where he stands half-cocked, waving his arms around
in the sticky air as if fighting off fierce ghosts.

All she sees are the dismal shadows of his flailing arms
as she grips her teddy bear tight, the smell of whiskey
hemorrhages through the air, her eyes trained
on the hardwood floor, her tiny back, stiff, waiting.

Soon it will get deathly quiet. She’ll know he is there,
she will feel his warm and liquored-breath on her hair.
She’ll close her eyes and hold her infant spirit in,
waiting on his coarse hands to embrace her skin.

Her teddy bear will let go of her hand and fall,
and he'll weep and rock her gently to his chest,
His tears will fall down upon her as his sad
hands begin to twist inside her hair.

“Sorry”, will again spill from Daddy's unhappy mouth
and she’ll wrap her trembling around his arm,
never letting go.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

THE RAIN (The 19th Violent Verse)

I hear the murmur of rain on the roof. She steadies herself
against the wall, her ears ringing a dying song.
The air smells of decay as she moves along the edge, blood
trickles out of her nose and she suddenly freezes like a scolded child.
The room moves without her, and her legs begin to quiver, drunken
with shock, locked down tight like a prison cell, they shudder.

I hear the rain falling harder now. She looks toward the door.
Could she make it? Would she go through the door, into
the nameless arms of the world, leaving her fear and home behind?
She has nowhere to go, but things do their howling in all places,
slipshod drifters in thankless alleys shriek above the darkness
and sometimes their lives come to shattering.

I hear her uneven breathing over the drumming of rainfall.
She moves closer to the door, edging toward her escape.
I know you. You’re the one that’s been banging the walls,
the one that’s been lying to everyone about your face.
You’re the one that’s rattling the walls w…

Columbus Day (The Red Plain)

Association on American Indian Affairs The Eastern Association on Indian Affairs was started in New York in 1922 to assist a group of Pueblo people who were fighting efforts to dismantle their pueblos. In the 1920's this organization merged with a like-minded entity, and again merged with a third entity in 1937. In 1946, the name was changed to the Association on American Indian Affairs. In 1957, the organization was granted non-profit, 501 (c)(3) status for federal tax purposes.
Columbus Day: American Holocaust and Slave Trader
By Roy Cook In 1492 Columbus' ships appeared off the coast of San Salvador. The Taino Indians greeted Columbus with unimaginable hospitality. Columbus reported to his queen: "So tractable, so peaceable, are these people, that I swear to your Majesties there is not in the world a better nation. They love their neighbors as themselves, and their discourse is ever sweet and gentle, and accompanied with a smile; and though it is true that they are nake…

OUR FILM (The 20th Violent Verse)

Why do we stand and watch as men beat others down?
Noisy machines mark all of our lives
As our children are trained to be assassins
By witnessing this appetite for battle.

Why do we then scream so loud after the deed is done?
It only brings about more watching,
More noise to capture our slope toward death
And the itch of transporting an untold grief.

Why do we march in formations with a mournful cadence?
Our soundtrack has a most cheerful rhythm
Written on the dangling air of its lessons
Designed for everyone's viewing pleasure.

Why allow ourselves to imagine we’re anything more?
Each of us are obliged to follow along,
Give credence to the wretched course
And wait for the scene to be our own.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman