Showing posts from November 1, 2009

Something Moved (Fort Hood Head-Line poetry 11-6-09)

Deadly shootings at US army base
Ugly images on a cracking barricade- duty and honor, murder and rage woven together like distressed beasts on their way to some future slaughter.

Fort Hood suspect alive, in custody
All else is done and of no use. Something moved the barrel nearer, the commandment of executioners, killers of terror molded into a human face.

Massacre Leaves 12 Dead At Fort Hood
The train didn’t slow down enough to stop, it rammed straight through the station like fear was running late for target practice. There’ll be plenty of time for that after the dust settles.

Suspect Was ‘Mortified’ About Deployment to War
Consumption was nearing its march, it sensed the bones in the arid desert, the frailty of spirits deep in its bowels- O the bitter breath of cowardice seeps from us all in this!

Gunman kills 12 at Fort Hood Army base, suspect alive
Then stretch his limbs taut with your foul machine, pull his stomach out and pour water into his heart. Forthwith! We’ve things to glean …

Sondi, an ode

We know that grief isn't empty.
We know it is sated with the things
that we wish weren't part of our flesh,
this moving vessel that floats so close to us,
so near this, our living, that, as it passes,
we unload our apprehended breath
and dance… until it comes `round again.

When my friend told me of her daughter’s passing,
I was sick for days, and I imagined, if this news
pushed through me like infection, what gait it must
have granted those that loved her, the eternal flood
of sorrow in this still twisting unreachable,
the ferociousness of unrequited anger…

The boat will come round again.
But the shoreline will be bare of sweet Sondi,
save for the light glancing off the water.

We know that grief isn’t empty.
We know it spills over into our lives
with vigorous abandon leaving untold pain.
It has teeth and arms and legs and lips and hands,
and it waits upon no one, yet we wait upon its course like
a winter storm, laughter and joy, unbridled as it falls.

Yes. The shoreline will …

Recalled Public (Monday Head-Lines 11/2/09)

Snowcap vanishing from Mount Kilimanjaro
The climber met her beloved, the African crown. She noticed his sagging face and howled her water.

'Twin Towers' warship in New York
It is the fall we most remember, the dead and the living toppling as one.

Bomb blast in Pakistan's Rawalpindi kills 35
Horrible explosions, more and more, the weight of our anger falling like icy talons upon our worship.

Clinton Denies Easing Pressure on Israel
We hear this with the attention of a murderous scream at the World Series, and we hear what we see, but not what we hear and we grasp the sport from the full on roar of two sides, one victor.

Contaminated Beef Recalled After Deaths
Not that the dead will remember our disgust or contemplate before ingesting or recall any of it with urgency.

The GOP has created a monster
The Party of Frankenstein created doubt- I suppose disbelief itself could be seen as monstrous…

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

THE GOOD ANGEL (A Creation Play)

Scene: Present day. We are greeted with a blank stage, save for a spotlight upon a beautiful green blanket (a comforter, perhaps) lying center, softly lit throughout the play.

Just before houselights fade the symphony begins to joyfully play as backdrop for the eartH of Creation that begins its dance all around us. Houselights fade with the orchestra and the darkness begins to envelope the shadows as we here the stamp of feet begin to march toward our spirits until the stamping becomes fearful and as soon as it does, poof, it's replaced instantly with joyous strings reminding us that where we are is heavenly.

(A tree appears behind the green blanket, a massive weeping willow tree that is wafting gently in the ever-present wind blowing throughout the theater. (Hold on to your hats, or better yet, don't wear one.) After some time of this, the tranquility of wind and the tree changes to one caught in a fierce storm. The wind in the audience remains gentle, but the t…