Thursday, October 20, 2011
Monday, May 25, 2009
THE MAN IN THE JAR
My pet you say? From the door where you stand, perhaps you thought, Old Mr. Svenson has an odd-looking fish or a reptile splashing in that jar. Then as you slowly walk towards the table, your pretty eyebrows inch up towards your forehead, your eyes grow large, and I must restrain myself from laughing uproariously. It happens every time. Reactions are so predictable, aren’t they? And isn’t it obvious that from a distance one sees what he or she wishes to see, but up close, as you step yourself nearer to the object of your vivid imagination, truth rears its head. You see life for what it is. And sometimes, like in this moment of your epiphany, you are not pleased with it.
“What is it, Mr. Svenson?”
I stand beside the tripled pickle jar in which a man floats in the briny depths. There it is! A man floating in the briny depths. I have allowed the thought to neon in my head for all the world to read and marvel at my genius.
“Mr. Svenson, what is that?”
Read the pure delight written like a magic marker across my face, child. Do I need to speak? Does the man’s captivity not say it all?
“A man,” I finally say and the man in the pickle jar opens wide his little mouth to scream but the salty taste causes him to grimace, to twist his blue lips into two grotesque eels of sorts.
“Do not be frightened, Colette. He cannot hurt you.”
“But why is he––”
“Why, why, why. When will my visitors stop asking so many whys? He is. And that is sufficient. Yes, he is a man. Yes, he is my prisoner and I shall keep him submerged in that seawater until he learns to repent.”
“Repent, Mr. Svenson? What has he done and how did you put him in that jar?”
“Do you believe in demons, child?”
Colette’s eyes grow larger now than they had when first she witnessed the man in the jar. Her full red lips seem to collapse open, flashing the sparkle of pure white teeth.
“Do you?”
“I suppose,” she says now. Suppose. Still not sure. Suppose. What are you supposing? That demons exist? Might exist? Can exist?
“Demons from Hell, Mr. Svenson?”
“From Hell!”
Colette steps back a step or two as if a line across the living room rug separates Hell from Earth and all one need do to remain safe is not to cross that line. But there is no line. Hell is everywhere!
“Have you ever seen one, child?”
The teenager shakes her head to match the shaking in her hands. She is afraid. Truth is finding its meandering way into her psyche and soon she will scream loud enough to start the man splashing again inside the jar.
Colette has never seen one, finds no reason to reply. Warily she takes backward steps truly believing when her heel taps against the door behind her it will magically spring open, she will be able to run into the hallway, run for her young life, hide somewhere far from the man and the demons whom she knows well can steal her last breath, leave her still beautiful but dead. Cold. Free.
“Where are you going, Colette?” I ask her, though I already know she’s grown tired of my company. The nasty little man in the jar has spooked her and she wants nothing to do with him. Or with me.
I touch her arm. She flinches like one electrified.
“Stay.”
“My mother––”
“Please, child. Stay,” and then I gently walk her to the chair that sits waiting for her beside the pickle jar.
“Look at him. Feast your pretty eyes on what a determined man can do and where a foolish man can spend the remainder of his miserable life.”
“Why did you…how did you put him––?”
Why again. Even how. Questions. Questions.
I took a seat in the chair beside Colette. I let my hand touch the softness of her bare knee. She did not push my hand away for fear perhaps I might decide to––
“That man made a deal with me a long time ago, child. And he did not keep his word. He took from me but he refused to give to me. We had a pact, he and I. I gave him all he wanted because he had confided to me that he wanted so much to be a big man. An important man among the peers he soon overwhelmed with his greatness and his riches and his heart’s desires. But when it came time to abide by our contract, he reneged. He dared to laugh at me! That big man needed to give me my due; instead, he laughed and challenged my power to take it all away.”
Colette began to cry. She raised the two cups of her hands and buried her face in them.
“Please, Mr. Svenson. Let me go home. I won’t say––”
“Anything? Keep the little man in the jar’s secret safe forever? Not divulge that old Mr. Svenson has a man in a pickle jar because a man broke his word and got himself in a fine pickle? Jar? Did I not have to jar the man back to the agreement we made? He got the world in his hands. All riches and women and song and all the fine wines. In return I asked only his miserable soul. What is that to a man who cursed his gods?
“I won’t tell anyone, Mr. Svenson.”
The man in the jar was splashing again. If I read his lips they would have said, Free me from this. Make me whole again, but I am of my word which I kept faithfully. Now it is too late for him. I will reach down in the salty brine and pull him into the living room air, drop him on the floor, stomp him till he stops his wriggling like a worm, and then watch his ebony soul waft up to my mouth where it will be swallowed in the fiery pits for all eternity.
“Please let me go,” Colette says again and again. Why not? I tell myself. Who would believe her? A teenager rambling on about a little man in a jar, about demons with the power to bring the high down to their rightful size and then when bargains are not kept, broken like a toy and the soul squeezed out of the carnage and taken swiftly to hell.
“Colette, child, go now. But remember: tell no one about the fellow in the jar. Or about who dear old Mr. Svenson truly is. Can you do that, child?”
Colette nods her head. I can see the blue waters in her eyes like a tempestuous sea. Colette nods her head like one reprieved. I will live! She tells herself. I will not be put in that jar.
When she is gone, I close the apartment door so I can be alone again with my little guest. Though he tries so diligently to get my attention, I am no longer on speaking terms. When I lift him from the jar, he will wonder what next in my roster of torture. Perhaps he will find some contentment when I grind his salty shell into the shag rug. Perhaps his dark soul will delight in what I have in store. It’s hard to tell. Some souls accept and others, just as when they carried bodies, do nothing but complain the live-long eternity.
#
“What is it, Mr. Svenson?”
I stand beside the tripled pickle jar in which a man floats in the briny depths. There it is! A man floating in the briny depths. I have allowed the thought to neon in my head for all the world to read and marvel at my genius.
“Mr. Svenson, what is that?”
Read the pure delight written like a magic marker across my face, child. Do I need to speak? Does the man’s captivity not say it all?
“A man,” I finally say and the man in the pickle jar opens wide his little mouth to scream but the salty taste causes him to grimace, to twist his blue lips into two grotesque eels of sorts.
“Do not be frightened, Colette. He cannot hurt you.”
“But why is he––”
“Why, why, why. When will my visitors stop asking so many whys? He is. And that is sufficient. Yes, he is a man. Yes, he is my prisoner and I shall keep him submerged in that seawater until he learns to repent.”
“Repent, Mr. Svenson? What has he done and how did you put him in that jar?”
“Do you believe in demons, child?”
Colette’s eyes grow larger now than they had when first she witnessed the man in the jar. Her full red lips seem to collapse open, flashing the sparkle of pure white teeth.
“Do you?”
“I suppose,” she says now. Suppose. Still not sure. Suppose. What are you supposing? That demons exist? Might exist? Can exist?
“Demons from Hell, Mr. Svenson?”
“From Hell!”
Colette steps back a step or two as if a line across the living room rug separates Hell from Earth and all one need do to remain safe is not to cross that line. But there is no line. Hell is everywhere!
“Have you ever seen one, child?”
The teenager shakes her head to match the shaking in her hands. She is afraid. Truth is finding its meandering way into her psyche and soon she will scream loud enough to start the man splashing again inside the jar.
Colette has never seen one, finds no reason to reply. Warily she takes backward steps truly believing when her heel taps against the door behind her it will magically spring open, she will be able to run into the hallway, run for her young life, hide somewhere far from the man and the demons whom she knows well can steal her last breath, leave her still beautiful but dead. Cold. Free.
“Where are you going, Colette?” I ask her, though I already know she’s grown tired of my company. The nasty little man in the jar has spooked her and she wants nothing to do with him. Or with me.
I touch her arm. She flinches like one electrified.
“Stay.”
“My mother––”
“Please, child. Stay,” and then I gently walk her to the chair that sits waiting for her beside the pickle jar.
“Look at him. Feast your pretty eyes on what a determined man can do and where a foolish man can spend the remainder of his miserable life.”
“Why did you…how did you put him––?”
Why again. Even how. Questions. Questions.
I took a seat in the chair beside Colette. I let my hand touch the softness of her bare knee. She did not push my hand away for fear perhaps I might decide to––
“That man made a deal with me a long time ago, child. And he did not keep his word. He took from me but he refused to give to me. We had a pact, he and I. I gave him all he wanted because he had confided to me that he wanted so much to be a big man. An important man among the peers he soon overwhelmed with his greatness and his riches and his heart’s desires. But when it came time to abide by our contract, he reneged. He dared to laugh at me! That big man needed to give me my due; instead, he laughed and challenged my power to take it all away.”
Colette began to cry. She raised the two cups of her hands and buried her face in them.
“Please, Mr. Svenson. Let me go home. I won’t say––”
“Anything? Keep the little man in the jar’s secret safe forever? Not divulge that old Mr. Svenson has a man in a pickle jar because a man broke his word and got himself in a fine pickle? Jar? Did I not have to jar the man back to the agreement we made? He got the world in his hands. All riches and women and song and all the fine wines. In return I asked only his miserable soul. What is that to a man who cursed his gods?
“I won’t tell anyone, Mr. Svenson.”
The man in the jar was splashing again. If I read his lips they would have said, Free me from this. Make me whole again, but I am of my word which I kept faithfully. Now it is too late for him. I will reach down in the salty brine and pull him into the living room air, drop him on the floor, stomp him till he stops his wriggling like a worm, and then watch his ebony soul waft up to my mouth where it will be swallowed in the fiery pits for all eternity.
“Please let me go,” Colette says again and again. Why not? I tell myself. Who would believe her? A teenager rambling on about a little man in a jar, about demons with the power to bring the high down to their rightful size and then when bargains are not kept, broken like a toy and the soul squeezed out of the carnage and taken swiftly to hell.
“Colette, child, go now. But remember: tell no one about the fellow in the jar. Or about who dear old Mr. Svenson truly is. Can you do that, child?”
Colette nods her head. I can see the blue waters in her eyes like a tempestuous sea. Colette nods her head like one reprieved. I will live! She tells herself. I will not be put in that jar.
When she is gone, I close the apartment door so I can be alone again with my little guest. Though he tries so diligently to get my attention, I am no longer on speaking terms. When I lift him from the jar, he will wonder what next in my roster of torture. Perhaps he will find some contentment when I grind his salty shell into the shag rug. Perhaps his dark soul will delight in what I have in store. It’s hard to tell. Some souls accept and others, just as when they carried bodies, do nothing but complain the live-long eternity.
#
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
I love to read mysteries...
I just finished two of Carl Hiaasen's books, Nature Girl & Sick Puppy. Hiaasen is a quirky writer and truly understands gifted crazy type people that he writes about. As a professional clinical social worker & a writer, it is very important that the characters have substance and their traits are well developed. His humor is ironic, biting, like the bite of a Labrador puppy. I'm ready to read the rest of his books now. That's usually the way for me; being a completist once I find an author I like. Hiaasen's timing is exquisite as his comic relief. If you want to be entertained & laugh read him. The story follows an independently wealthy guy, Twilly, who happens to drive by a schmuck who is throwing garbage out the window of his huge van. The shmuck is Palmer Stoat, who is a lobbyist. Twilly sets out to teach Palmer a lesson on littering. Whether or not he succeeds is the mystery. The characters are completely believeable - I think I've met a few...
Another author who I highly recommend is Jasper Fforde, Lost In A Good Book & The Well of Lost Plots. The characters escape from books - his humor reminds me of Catch 22. The heroine, Thursday Next, hops from book to book literally, becoming part of the plot of each story she gets into. Thursday is part of an undercover task force aimed at preventing escaped characters from committing crimes. I've already covered too much ground discussing two authors.
The deal is these are two mystery authors who will make you laugh and both have excellent literary skills.
Another author who I highly recommend is Jasper Fforde, Lost In A Good Book & The Well of Lost Plots. The characters escape from books - his humor reminds me of Catch 22. The heroine, Thursday Next, hops from book to book literally, becoming part of the plot of each story she gets into. Thursday is part of an undercover task force aimed at preventing escaped characters from committing crimes. I've already covered too much ground discussing two authors.
The deal is these are two mystery authors who will make you laugh and both have excellent literary skills.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Rumor de Montaña
From Aguaclara en Tierratierna
Alvaro Rogelio Gomez Estrada
Santa Cruz del Quiche, 2006 (Copyright)
La montaña suelta un canto
tan extraño y tan profundo
que pareciera que llanto
le fuese a brotar al mundo.
Es nostálgica cascada
derramada en vaso pleno.
alma que viaja extasiada
en pos de un rumbo sereno.
¿Llora acaso la montaña?
¿Por què en su canto se queja?
¿Por què es su voz tan extraña
que en el alma angustia deja?
La montaña es una nana
vestida de verde intenso
que en la tarde y la mañana
prodiga su canto immenso.
Hint of Mountain
Translation by Thomas D. Jones
The mountain cries a song
as strange and profound
as the release of tears
sprout buds to the world.
A nostalgic cascade
poured in a full vase--
the soul’s ecstatic journey
toward a serene memory.
Why these tears from the mountain?
Why does the song groan so much?
Why is its voice so strange?
What’s in its anguished soul?
The mountain, a grandmother
in an intense green dress,
morning and night
lavishes her immense song.
Friday, January 16, 2009
try at tanka
I went on the internet to read about tankas and then tried my hand at it. Tell me tanka readers, does this make it?
I'm warm in here
Out there it's
20 degrees
the trees
are confused
They ask me
If they should
bud or go bare
they're aware
yesterday
Was 50 degrees
Today it’s snowing
My heart is
Virulent
Like the weather
I'm warm in here
Out there it's
20 degrees
the trees
are confused
They ask me
If they should
bud or go bare
they're aware
yesterday
Was 50 degrees
Today it’s snowing
My heart is
Virulent
Like the weather
Thursday, January 15, 2009
COMMOTION IN APARTMENT 16B by DubbleX
He beats his wife thinks he owns her life
She is bruised and battered like it does not matter
their marriage nearly shattered
her skin turns colors and shades of purple and blueish
her wish that he would not be so pissed she feels dissed
he spends his time chatting on facebook meeting women
taking a long look he goes on dates takes the bait
this she hates he wants to be a player playing the field
his mother tells him be for be for real
you should yield your wife can't deal
She clutches the baby and hopes maybe he won't go astray
she wants him to leave and at the same time stay
He kicks her out half dressed she can't take the stress
folks wonder why she settles for less
he is the first and only man to press her flesh
she knows no other
some think she should return to her mother
or find another lover as on her body bruises are discovered will she recover
They argue and fight deep into the night
Some wonder how long they will last
the question has to be asked because of their rocky past
She screams and cries and wonders why her guy has a wandering eye
there is no reply so she sighs and says she loves him and will stay with him until she dies
No baby should see his mama get beaten and mistreated and many times repeated
pretty soon the cops get called as she is once again slammed into the wall
locked out in the hall she cries and bawls can't take it all
But she tells everyone that she loves him
can love grow dim or thin with too many blows to the chin
only time will tell if it breaks the love spell
She is bruised and battered like it does not matter
their marriage nearly shattered
her skin turns colors and shades of purple and blueish
her wish that he would not be so pissed she feels dissed
he spends his time chatting on facebook meeting women
taking a long look he goes on dates takes the bait
this she hates he wants to be a player playing the field
his mother tells him be for be for real
you should yield your wife can't deal
She clutches the baby and hopes maybe he won't go astray
she wants him to leave and at the same time stay
He kicks her out half dressed she can't take the stress
folks wonder why she settles for less
he is the first and only man to press her flesh
she knows no other
some think she should return to her mother
or find another lover as on her body bruises are discovered will she recover
They argue and fight deep into the night
Some wonder how long they will last
the question has to be asked because of their rocky past
She screams and cries and wonders why her guy has a wandering eye
there is no reply so she sighs and says she loves him and will stay with him until she dies
No baby should see his mama get beaten and mistreated and many times repeated
pretty soon the cops get called as she is once again slammed into the wall
locked out in the hall she cries and bawls can't take it all
But she tells everyone that she loves him
can love grow dim or thin with too many blows to the chin
only time will tell if it breaks the love spell
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A friend of mine from way back recently wrote to me, I love your blog & I love your poem Tupelo Honey, but why is it, time after time after hearing it read once completely, then I have to hear it again, the same thing all over again.
Dear Reader, for your convenience, here it is the GCast player moved up so you can manipulate the dial. If you click on the icon you can choose which poem to hear. The dial is easily accessible to turn the GCast off if your preference is to browse in quiet. I need to sing my new shit blue scores to you I have more blues for you, these tunes are here on GCast are so familiar to you now.
I promise to record some of my latest loves for you, my latest offspring sings the blues to you.
Peace out brothers & sisters. We're supposed to check out one mic lounge in the hood tonight and hey I & I may dig it! Shout out once in a while they let the dogs out. Ya' neva' do know.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
NOT EVERYONE’S A POET by DubbleX
Don’t be that poet who takes too long
Who goes on and on
That poet that you don’t get
that poet that as soon as they finish you forget
Don’t be that poet who sounds like that other poet or every poet
or that poet who sounds good and theatrical but who’s words are dull
Don’t be that poet who hides behind their poem
Or that poet who just talks about sex just to talk about sex
And please don’t be that poet who talks about sex but does not have sex
Or worse yet that poet who is not a poet who talks about sex to try to get poets to have sex
Don’t be that drunken poet or too high poet who stands on the stage and laughs and can’t remember the poem or read it
Don’t be an undercover rasicist Nazi poet and use the stage as your soap box mic stop to push infantile political platforms cause that poet will get punched
Don’t be that poet who I can’t hear or that poet who talks so fast its unclear
And don’t be that poet who tells me about your poem before you read me your poem
And last thing don’t be a poet who listens to me
be the poet you want to be and write poetry
The worst poet to be is the poet we never see
Who goes on and on
That poet that you don’t get
that poet that as soon as they finish you forget
Don’t be that poet who sounds like that other poet or every poet
or that poet who sounds good and theatrical but who’s words are dull
Don’t be that poet who hides behind their poem
Or that poet who just talks about sex just to talk about sex
And please don’t be that poet who talks about sex but does not have sex
Or worse yet that poet who is not a poet who talks about sex to try to get poets to have sex
Don’t be that drunken poet or too high poet who stands on the stage and laughs and can’t remember the poem or read it
Don’t be an undercover rasicist Nazi poet and use the stage as your soap box mic stop to push infantile political platforms cause that poet will get punched
Don’t be that poet who I can’t hear or that poet who talks so fast its unclear
And don’t be that poet who tells me about your poem before you read me your poem
And last thing don’t be a poet who listens to me
be the poet you want to be and write poetry
The worst poet to be is the poet we never see
I Sing The Blues For You Today
I want to do poetry like Billy Holiday singing the blues
I want to do poetry like Ella Fitzgerald
I want to be me singing my holiday blues
Billie’s songs are poetry so fine it makes me think I’m her doing rhyme
Thoughts about Billie make me go off line, hook line & sinker, she puts me back in time
I sing to my lover, I want to make your poetry mine because you spout rhymes
while observing my life become an unending grocery list of things to get done
Your life or mine, yours is on my mind - the list of to dos keeps growing exponentially
Number 1, try out a mattress, I just got too many things to do. 2, buy it, 3, buy new locks to keep someone out number 4, find someone to install it, make 10 million calls & keep writing lists. What did you say? How many sessions, any lessons in storage? Will the Divine power of intervention help.
I don’t want to bore you with the details and derail you from my song.
Damn, wonder if I’ll ever see Willa Dean again– oh man, you know the women I mean
Kept her head wrapped up like an African Queen with her creamy coffee looking self?
Willa said the secret to good potato salad is to go heavy on the mayo
Willa Dean days, they’re all in a haze now. I was so high back then.
The memory lingers, listening & watching while she told stories. She’d whisper, her voice barely a breeze, tell me about her lovers, say, “I’m gonna get me some.” Sometimes I’d get confused & asked did she mean her husband or lover. Willa’d have dinner waiting when her husband got tired of cab driving & came home to rest. She’d show me wilted lettuce and bring it back to life telling me about her lovers, drugs, & children while making potato salad. I thought she’s a woman of many talents, a stoned cold junkie and a working mom combined
The nose that knows, her preference was coke, good moist coke at a good right price too on the upper - upper west side in Washington Heights, 162nd street to be exact
Willa was friends with a famous New York jazzman and his wife, a New York City teacher. Willa had class & style combined; she took me to dress models at the Ritz one time. Got paid for it too. It was such a pleasure to do. I even got a pair of designer gloves out of it.
People accepted Willa everywhere we went –
We were at jazzman’s apartment, small tight crowded living room upper west side 90’s.
Willa’s friend sat across from me staring at my big breasts. I can see how tight your muscles are.
Let me massage you she said aggressively hurting me so bad physically we had an argument instead.
Passing through hundreds of lives so many colors
Let me take you back to what we share - strivings for love – wanting to go somewhere - wanting to discover who we really are - got anywhere to go? - uncover ~ see ourselves through the eyes of others and – finally see who we really are.
extend this power to the umpteenth degree. We still wonder who they think we are ~
uncover recover to turn to return to who we want to be
Dreams are reality - stop thinking, dreams are the color of my true love’s hair
Beyond the color of my true love’s hair, his dreads caress my bare hands
A whole-years grocery list pressed into a foggy mist of autumn red
turns bright chartreuse before bleakly the list dissolves before my eyes
True colors make my heart sneeze amidst a perpetual mist of violet-blues
a dream more real than a memory
I want to do poetry like Ella Fitzgerald
I want to be me singing my holiday blues
Billie’s songs are poetry so fine it makes me think I’m her doing rhyme
Thoughts about Billie make me go off line, hook line & sinker, she puts me back in time
I sing to my lover, I want to make your poetry mine because you spout rhymes
while observing my life become an unending grocery list of things to get done
Your life or mine, yours is on my mind - the list of to dos keeps growing exponentially
Number 1, try out a mattress, I just got too many things to do. 2, buy it, 3, buy new locks to keep someone out number 4, find someone to install it, make 10 million calls & keep writing lists. What did you say? How many sessions, any lessons in storage? Will the Divine power of intervention help.
I don’t want to bore you with the details and derail you from my song.
Damn, wonder if I’ll ever see Willa Dean again– oh man, you know the women I mean
Kept her head wrapped up like an African Queen with her creamy coffee looking self?
Willa said the secret to good potato salad is to go heavy on the mayo
Willa Dean days, they’re all in a haze now. I was so high back then.
The memory lingers, listening & watching while she told stories. She’d whisper, her voice barely a breeze, tell me about her lovers, say, “I’m gonna get me some.” Sometimes I’d get confused & asked did she mean her husband or lover. Willa’d have dinner waiting when her husband got tired of cab driving & came home to rest. She’d show me wilted lettuce and bring it back to life telling me about her lovers, drugs, & children while making potato salad. I thought she’s a woman of many talents, a stoned cold junkie and a working mom combined
The nose that knows, her preference was coke, good moist coke at a good right price too on the upper - upper west side in Washington Heights, 162nd street to be exact
Willa was friends with a famous New York jazzman and his wife, a New York City teacher. Willa had class & style combined; she took me to dress models at the Ritz one time. Got paid for it too. It was such a pleasure to do. I even got a pair of designer gloves out of it.
People accepted Willa everywhere we went –
We were at jazzman’s apartment, small tight crowded living room upper west side 90’s.
Willa’s friend sat across from me staring at my big breasts. I can see how tight your muscles are.
Let me massage you she said aggressively hurting me so bad physically we had an argument instead.
Passing through hundreds of lives so many colors
Let me take you back to what we share - strivings for love – wanting to go somewhere - wanting to discover who we really are - got anywhere to go? - uncover ~ see ourselves through the eyes of others and – finally see who we really are.
extend this power to the umpteenth degree. We still wonder who they think we are ~
uncover recover to turn to return to who we want to be
Dreams are reality - stop thinking, dreams are the color of my true love’s hair
Beyond the color of my true love’s hair, his dreads caress my bare hands
A whole-years grocery list pressed into a foggy mist of autumn red
turns bright chartreuse before bleakly the list dissolves before my eyes
True colors make my heart sneeze amidst a perpetual mist of violet-blues
a dream more real than a memory
Monday, October 27, 2008
Autumn Breezes
My eyes need to rest on soft colors of nature
Soothed by blues & purple flowers with green leaves
I need to see maple trees turning red,
Queen Anne’s Lace runs rampant round here
I’ve born enough fruit to stay violet for the rest of my life
My eyes need to rest on soft colors of nature
Larkspur, Baby Blue Eyes, Forget-Me-Nots & Borage
Orange Bird of Paradise flanks the entrance to the nearby park
Exhorts me to see
Flowers before the winter breeze steals them away
From my window all I see is the steel gray hardness
A light silver sky glinting so brightly it makes my eyes squint
The farmer from Iowa tells me the cornfields all brown now
Yet inside my head
I long for chartreuse & kelly green Iowa cornfields
Swaying in the breeze
I examine velvet blue bells in the grass as I tread them beneath my feet
I feel a poem coming on like an urge to eat something sweet
A craving to see something beyond these city streets
Simultaneously the sun breaks through the harsh steel gray sky
Beckoning me outside to greet New York City streets
So many flowers spring to life in fall
Fuchsia Shooting Stars along with Saint John’s Wort & Violets
Ah, finally my eyes rest as I fest them upon a flowering dogwood tree
Scarlet tipped leaves & white blossoms
A final hurrah before the white blossoms scatter the ground
Autumns’ last blooms before fall’s first freeze
all photos courtesy of Joy Leftow unless otherwise noted
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
In Memory of Robert Dunn by Thomas Jones
(Pen Master in Charge)
He was the king of the pun,
He held your head to the gun,
Everything he wrote he wrote for fun.
His name was Robert Dunn.
Never mind his name is common,
That “imposters” took his name for theirs.
This is not about splitting hairs!
It’s about poetry as come-on.
Never mind Zen Yentas in Bondage,
Or Vanished into the Slammer,
Those medicinal porpoises, boy,
They can’t live beyond the clamor
Of a cartoon character on the cover
Of Baffled in Baloneyville
Or hoot and holler at the thrill!
The sky’s the limit when you have a minute
To spread your word and make a spat
Of poetry in simplest punning form, Donning
Oops I mean Dunning, a large brimmed hat
While peddling stand-up comedic versions
Of Ogden Nash reduced to a minor brat
In comparison to His great pen and pun
Now at once and, shall we say, forever,
UnDunn?
(His sightings will occur to loyal fans
For many years to come,
Or will they?)
He was the king of the pun,
He held your head to the gun,
Everything he wrote he wrote for fun.
His name was Robert Dunn.
Never mind his name is common,
That “imposters” took his name for theirs.
This is not about splitting hairs!
It’s about poetry as come-on.
Never mind Zen Yentas in Bondage,
Or Vanished into the Slammer,
Those medicinal porpoises, boy,
They can’t live beyond the clamor
Of a cartoon character on the cover
Of Baffled in Baloneyville
Or hoot and holler at the thrill!
The sky’s the limit when you have a minute
To spread your word and make a spat
Of poetry in simplest punning form, Donning
Oops I mean Dunning, a large brimmed hat
While peddling stand-up comedic versions
Of Ogden Nash reduced to a minor brat
In comparison to His great pen and pun
Now at once and, shall we say, forever,
UnDunn?
(His sightings will occur to loyal fans
For many years to come,
Or will they?)
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Low Jacked Elections By DubbleX
Votes die
This election
This unnatural selection
Rejection of the truth
What really went down in the election booth?
Did they count the vote note you wrote?
Or did they delete it remote
Modems get hijacked
No paper facts on a die bolt touch screen
Smoke screen
I want to scream
As GW Bush once again has been deemed supreme
By the Right Wing Neo-Conservative Regime
As Native American
Latinos
And Africans
Stand in long Soviet lines
Are harassed and attacked
How could it be that exit polls are wrong?
59 million strong chanting mass hysteria song
They live in a delusion of spin
That is spun
Unable to understand
That Gore and Kerry really won
CNN, Fox and many daily’s
Provide the fodder that the public chews
Swallowed digested and regurgitated on the nightly news
But still next time
Let’s not rock the vote
Or vote or die
But lets make sure over votes don’t die
This election
This unnatural selection
Rejection of the truth
What really went down in the election booth?
Did they count the vote note you wrote?
Or did they delete it remote
Modems get hijacked
No paper facts on a die bolt touch screen
Smoke screen
I want to scream
As GW Bush once again has been deemed supreme
By the Right Wing Neo-Conservative Regime
As Native American
Latinos
And Africans
Stand in long Soviet lines
Are harassed and attacked
How could it be that exit polls are wrong?
59 million strong chanting mass hysteria song
They live in a delusion of spin
That is spun
Unable to understand
That Gore and Kerry really won
CNN, Fox and many daily’s
Provide the fodder that the public chews
Swallowed digested and regurgitated on the nightly news
But still next time
Let’s not rock the vote
Or vote or die
But lets make sure over votes don’t die
Friday, September 19, 2008
15-MINUTES OF FAME
A moment opens to eternity
Fastidious, attached to passing moments
I live in Warhol days
An open heart mends wounds
Are you for or against them?
What’s your political game?
Everyone's got his15-minutes of fame
Are you on their side or mine?
Is it them or is it us
Is there an us anymore
Who is us anymore anyway
Anywhere I’m supposed to know?
Did you know …
My headache keeps me awake to cover the worldwide news
An open wound
Nightly sound of the evening news
A bleeding ulcer seeking to be healed
Closer to home news too,
All news is bad news
Except the rescued puppy thrown in to control you
A news-forecast makes everything worse –
Ignore the news a week or two
Say your regards to Pluto
Ignore my bleak forecast of doom
All of us are doomed
As we all are doomed anyway
The more you do - the more gets done
When you stop doing there’s no more to get done
Another open wound
Always the dream remains of
Another go-round
Take care
Hope …
To see you there
If & when there is another go-round
Fastidious, attached to passing moments
I live in Warhol days
An open heart mends wounds
Are you for or against them?
What’s your political game?
Everyone's got his15-minutes of fame
Are you on their side or mine?
Is it them or is it us
Is there an us anymore
Who is us anymore anyway
Anywhere I’m supposed to know?
Did you know …
My headache keeps me awake to cover the worldwide news
An open wound
Nightly sound of the evening news
A bleeding ulcer seeking to be healed
Closer to home news too,
All news is bad news
Except the rescued puppy thrown in to control you
A news-forecast makes everything worse –
Ignore the news a week or two
Say your regards to Pluto
Ignore my bleak forecast of doom
All of us are doomed
As we all are doomed anyway
The more you do - the more gets done
When you stop doing there’s no more to get done
Another open wound
Always the dream remains of
Another go-round
Take care
Hope …
To see you there
If & when there is another go-round
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Cat in the Liberals' Porch
Somebody actually read Michael Moore's election guide? Wow, I bet that's a pretty trustworthy document. May as well buy his weight loss book while you're at it. Jelly donuts aren't fattening. It's just a big conspiracy by Big Veggie!
Democrats are professional losers not because of some obscure conspiracy of Freemasons that began over 200 years ago--what the hell is the point of a conspiracy that takes over 200 years to complete, anyway? That's ridiculous. Democrats are professional losers because the secular socialism they embrace is an alien belief system to the majority of Americans. Sure, like a drunk guy at 2 AM, Americans sometimes go home with one out of desperation now and then, but they wake up in the morning and realize their error, take a really hot shower, and go down to the clinic and get tested.
Bill Clinton lasted 8 years because Americans had two years of a Democratic executive and legislative branch, nearly got Hillarycare, and then promptly cleaned a lot of Democrats out of the House. Clinton is a smart politician and he got the message. Republicans got welfare reform, tax cuts, and other things while they let Bill take the credit for a growing economy. Win, win.
The Clintons are the most skilled politicians the Democrats have had in 50 years, but they were outmatched by the raw emotion surrounding Obama. It was just "wrong place, wrong time" for Hillary. Against anyone else, she would have rolled through the primaries and "Who was Hillary Clinton's Republican opponent in 2008?" would be a Trivial Pursuit question. Unfortunately for liberals, they may fall victim to one of their character flaws--inordinate reliance on emotions over reason. The "Obama-non" was just too enthralling and now Democrats are left with the substantially inferior candidate. Sure, he's a great speaker (when the teleprompter is working), he's young, dynamic, and black, to boot, but what has he really done?
In an ironic twist, McCain was the least loved by the Republican base, but he turned out to be the best possible candidate available to run against Obama. Had it been Clinton, he would be experiencing the familiar sensation of an airplane being shot out from under him, but as luck would have it, he's running close with Obama in an environment uniquely hostile to Republicans. Then he picks Sarah Palin and totally changes the game. With one stroke, he made the media look foolish as they flailed about trying to take her down, he made liberal feminists look like hypocrites as they suddenly questioned her ability to raise children and be a VP and wondered aghast how she could decide not to flush a Down's baby like any other "reasonable" woman would, and he totally threw off Obama's game. Not to mention the contrast with Obama's running mate...Joe...who?
When I was a kid, there was this mean cat down the street that finally earned a one-way trip to Animal Control. Somehow that cat was lured into our screened porch and the guy went in to trap it. That thing defied gravity as it ran on the walls like a 10-pound tornado, making a total mess of things. Palin is the cat in the Democrats' porch and they don't know whether to shit or wind their watches. The idea that the first female VP (and possibly P down the road) would be a conservative who is pro-life, has five kids, hunts, and believes in Jesus is just not at all what Gloria Steinem fought for! The ultimate indignity for them would be if she chooses a black running mate should she find herself running for president in four or eight years. I'd be careful walking under any open windows in Manhattan's Upper West Side when that happens, lest I be a victim of an effete liberal's suicide. I think she's a hell of a choice because it's just so damn funny watching the circus. She's definitely a strange duck, but anyone who lives in Alaska has to be a bit eccentric.
Democrats are professional losers not because of some obscure conspiracy of Freemasons that began over 200 years ago--what the hell is the point of a conspiracy that takes over 200 years to complete, anyway? That's ridiculous. Democrats are professional losers because the secular socialism they embrace is an alien belief system to the majority of Americans. Sure, like a drunk guy at 2 AM, Americans sometimes go home with one out of desperation now and then, but they wake up in the morning and realize their error, take a really hot shower, and go down to the clinic and get tested.
Bill Clinton lasted 8 years because Americans had two years of a Democratic executive and legislative branch, nearly got Hillarycare, and then promptly cleaned a lot of Democrats out of the House. Clinton is a smart politician and he got the message. Republicans got welfare reform, tax cuts, and other things while they let Bill take the credit for a growing economy. Win, win.
The Clintons are the most skilled politicians the Democrats have had in 50 years, but they were outmatched by the raw emotion surrounding Obama. It was just "wrong place, wrong time" for Hillary. Against anyone else, she would have rolled through the primaries and "Who was Hillary Clinton's Republican opponent in 2008?" would be a Trivial Pursuit question. Unfortunately for liberals, they may fall victim to one of their character flaws--inordinate reliance on emotions over reason. The "Obama-non" was just too enthralling and now Democrats are left with the substantially inferior candidate. Sure, he's a great speaker (when the teleprompter is working), he's young, dynamic, and black, to boot, but what has he really done?
In an ironic twist, McCain was the least loved by the Republican base, but he turned out to be the best possible candidate available to run against Obama. Had it been Clinton, he would be experiencing the familiar sensation of an airplane being shot out from under him, but as luck would have it, he's running close with Obama in an environment uniquely hostile to Republicans. Then he picks Sarah Palin and totally changes the game. With one stroke, he made the media look foolish as they flailed about trying to take her down, he made liberal feminists look like hypocrites as they suddenly questioned her ability to raise children and be a VP and wondered aghast how she could decide not to flush a Down's baby like any other "reasonable" woman would, and he totally threw off Obama's game. Not to mention the contrast with Obama's running mate...Joe...who?
When I was a kid, there was this mean cat down the street that finally earned a one-way trip to Animal Control. Somehow that cat was lured into our screened porch and the guy went in to trap it. That thing defied gravity as it ran on the walls like a 10-pound tornado, making a total mess of things. Palin is the cat in the Democrats' porch and they don't know whether to shit or wind their watches. The idea that the first female VP (and possibly P down the road) would be a conservative who is pro-life, has five kids, hunts, and believes in Jesus is just not at all what Gloria Steinem fought for! The ultimate indignity for them would be if she chooses a black running mate should she find herself running for president in four or eight years. I'd be careful walking under any open windows in Manhattan's Upper West Side when that happens, lest I be a victim of an effete liberal's suicide. I think she's a hell of a choice because it's just so damn funny watching the circus. She's definitely a strange duck, but anyone who lives in Alaska has to be a bit eccentric.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Is Obama In Like Flynn
I cried last night after I got over the shock of who McCain picked. I cried because I'm still not convinced that there's not some deeper underlying conspiracy theory here. I cried because I'm also still not convinced that Obama will really win. Of course he has my vote.
Yes, I know you've heard it all, but how do you explain it that the one president we had who was Catholic was killed? How do you explain that the Freemason symbol adorns our dollar bills and that every president we've had has been a member.
I cried because I read Michael Moore's Election Guide and saw the truth written there.
Hope is all I'm left with; that & the desire to create a better world to leave to our children tomorrow.
Yes, I know you've heard it all, but how do you explain it that the one president we had who was Catholic was killed? How do you explain that the Freemason symbol adorns our dollar bills and that every president we've had has been a member.
I cried because I read Michael Moore's Election Guide and saw the truth written there.
The Democrats appear to be professional losers. They are so pathetic at their ability to win elections they even lose when they win! Al Gore won the 2000 election, but for some strange reason, he didn't become the President of the United States. If you are unable as a party to get the landlord to turn over the keys to a house that is yours, what the hell good are you?Do we all remember our outrage & impotence back then. And Katrina??? How many Katrinas & 9/11's do we have to suffer before we get it.
How many Democrats does it take to lose the most easily winnable election in American history? Not many. Just a few "close advisers" to Barack Obama who tell him a bunch of asinine stuff and he ends up listening to them instead of his own heart. As the party hacks in the past two elections have proven, once they get the candidate's ear, they rest of us might just as well go all van Gogh on ourselves with oursIf Obama is going to listen to his handlers who want to take care of the "Michelle" problem, they're eliminating the charm of his campaign. If he begins to discuss how he is going to deal with the Iran Israel problem with punitive methods, he falls into the trap of agreeing with the scum we're trying to rid ourselves from. Four more years of McCain is four more with GW Bush.
Here's what Obama said: "The danger from Iran is grave, it is real, and my goal will be to eliminate this threat."Why he would say this is obvious, he's trying to gain supporters from the Republican side. But then why would the Republicans pick an imitation when they can have the real thing.
and
". . . Let there be no doubt: I will always keep the threat of military action on the table to defend our security and our ally Israel. Sometimes there are no alternatives to confrontation."
Hope is all I'm left with; that & the desire to create a better world to leave to our children tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The Voice of Reason
In his election campaigns, Bush made just as much of an appeal to emotion as Barack Obama has done. Both men are Harvard educated, but Bush's language isn't as eloquent as Obama's. Countries DO need leaders who are articulate and eloquent. People need leadership through reason as well as through inspiration. Both are required to lead.
Whether Bush is actually born again or not is a different matter. Like any politician wanting to get elected, he appealed to that group which would likely give him the most votes and get him elected, just as Obama is going to do. What politician wouldn't?
In his election campaigns, Bush spoke about just as many platitudes as Obama does. Even when Bush was specific, the question, as has always been the question in campaigns when the issue of what programs he (or she) is going to offer arises is...How is this person going to pay for it? Payment for programs will come one of two ways: make businesses pay for it or make the taxpayers pay for it. Either you scalp businesses or you scalp taxpayers. Tax cuts are a loss of revenue to the government and are passing the buck on to somebody else.
Even Republicans sin with the issue of taxes. If Republican legislators really want to make a difference, they should push to pass legislation which abolishes the income tax. But of course that would wipe out their fatcat paychecks (along with the paychecks and perks of the Democrats), and abolishing income tax would potentially defund their contituents' programs. It'll never happen. The only way abolishing income tax would happen is if there is a WILL to make it happen above and beyond screaming constituents, special interests, etc.
The government probably doesn't have enough money to fix potholes because of what it's spending on the Iraq war; although potholes are often the job of the local municipality or state in which we reside. The larger issue is that the people have no way to tell HOW and on WHAT the government is spending its money. If we received a balance sheet and income statement every year, then we could more fully hold our government accountable as to what it spends.
I get the sense with right wing people that they believe they are right and the liberals are wrong. Likewise liberals believe the same about the right. I suggest the healthier approach is to acknowledge both have flaws and find one thing both can agree on.
The question of how to pay for things without income tax is for a separate posting entirely.
Whether Bush is actually born again or not is a different matter. Like any politician wanting to get elected, he appealed to that group which would likely give him the most votes and get him elected, just as Obama is going to do. What politician wouldn't?
In his election campaigns, Bush spoke about just as many platitudes as Obama does. Even when Bush was specific, the question, as has always been the question in campaigns when the issue of what programs he (or she) is going to offer arises is...How is this person going to pay for it? Payment for programs will come one of two ways: make businesses pay for it or make the taxpayers pay for it. Either you scalp businesses or you scalp taxpayers. Tax cuts are a loss of revenue to the government and are passing the buck on to somebody else.
Even Republicans sin with the issue of taxes. If Republican legislators really want to make a difference, they should push to pass legislation which abolishes the income tax. But of course that would wipe out their fatcat paychecks (along with the paychecks and perks of the Democrats), and abolishing income tax would potentially defund their contituents' programs. It'll never happen. The only way abolishing income tax would happen is if there is a WILL to make it happen above and beyond screaming constituents, special interests, etc.
The government probably doesn't have enough money to fix potholes because of what it's spending on the Iraq war; although potholes are often the job of the local municipality or state in which we reside. The larger issue is that the people have no way to tell HOW and on WHAT the government is spending its money. If we received a balance sheet and income statement every year, then we could more fully hold our government accountable as to what it spends.
I get the sense with right wing people that they believe they are right and the liberals are wrong. Likewise liberals believe the same about the right. I suggest the healthier approach is to acknowledge both have flaws and find one thing both can agree on.
The question of how to pay for things without income tax is for a separate posting entirely.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Megalobamamania
Some people on the Left (and some extreme libertarians, too) believed that George Bush wanted to start a war in the Middle East to bring about the Second Coming. I wonder if they are as creeped out by Barack Obama. Listening to his wife, you might get the impression that the Messiah has arrived. She tells us that our souls are broken and that Barack is the only one who can heal our nation. It's hard enough to get government to fix potholes, but souls??
His rallies are more like Benny Hinn revivals, complete with swooning attendees. I heard a string of audio clips from different rallies where a nearly identical sequence of events occurs: somebody faints and he says some variation of, "Is somebody feeling a little faint?" "Just make some space." "Can we get a bottle of water?" It's almost like a script. Maybe he's like Michael Jackson or the Beatles and some people just get overcome, but there's something disquieting about the consistency of it. Once or twice I can understand, but six, seven, eight times?
Barack Obama is the ideal candidate for a generation trained to value emotion over reason. His policies differ little with Hillary Clinton's, but Hillary is a rationalist and doesn't have the natural emotional language necessary to compete with Obama. It's like Leon Trotsky versus Che Guevara. While they were both communists, you don't see "Viva Leon" t-shirts. The fact that Obama's biggest fan--or prophet--is Oprah is proof beyond a reasonable doubt that his appeal has little to do with reason. That's not all bad, but like faith in Christ, it must be bolstered with sound logic at some point. Religion without reason leads to all manner of bizarre doctrines, or to a faith that disappears at the first disappointment. The risk to those overcome with megalobamamania is that they will be dreadfully disappointed when his campaign based on hope crashes into the brick wall of the reality of what he can actually do as president.
His rallies are more like Benny Hinn revivals, complete with swooning attendees. I heard a string of audio clips from different rallies where a nearly identical sequence of events occurs: somebody faints and he says some variation of, "Is somebody feeling a little faint?" "Just make some space." "Can we get a bottle of water?" It's almost like a script. Maybe he's like Michael Jackson or the Beatles and some people just get overcome, but there's something disquieting about the consistency of it. Once or twice I can understand, but six, seven, eight times?
Barack Obama is the ideal candidate for a generation trained to value emotion over reason. His policies differ little with Hillary Clinton's, but Hillary is a rationalist and doesn't have the natural emotional language necessary to compete with Obama. It's like Leon Trotsky versus Che Guevara. While they were both communists, you don't see "Viva Leon" t-shirts. The fact that Obama's biggest fan--or prophet--is Oprah is proof beyond a reasonable doubt that his appeal has little to do with reason. That's not all bad, but like faith in Christ, it must be bolstered with sound logic at some point. Religion without reason leads to all manner of bizarre doctrines, or to a faith that disappears at the first disappointment. The risk to those overcome with megalobamamania is that they will be dreadfully disappointed when his campaign based on hope crashes into the brick wall of the reality of what he can actually do as president.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Chemistry of Rain
Lightning, thunder, a strong metallic odor—
Sound on the windshield, window, and sidewalk,
On rooftops, street corners, and umbrellas,
The shape of an ovary, oval, or orb,
A capsule the size of a gnat or a sperm.
Each drop takes a unique journey,
Condensed in the air or coalesced in descent,
Some evaporate and some make it down.
Curious eyes see where these drops hit—
Little pinwheels turned by invisible hands,
Tiny records spinning their music—
The ripples flow out from the center.
These rhythms copy the flash of life,
From the spot of origin out to a full body,
To decay and the last breath.
Like time, these wakes turn in an instant,
Each one blinking in and out, split-second neon,
Light switch flicked on and off,
A galaxy here then gone.
They come from a trinity of elements,
Protium, deuterium, tritium, a piece of atom,
The Hydrogen present three minutes into creation,
In the heat of many suns, the first life on a planet,
Sentient beings who create and destroy
And return to the clouds once more—
Lightning, thunder, a strong metallic odor.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Liberalism today
People are so concerned about liberals today and about how society has degenerated because of alternative lifestyles (e.g. homosexuals), immigrants, etc.
Perhaps the "liberal" backlash is a reaction against what is perceived as stifling conservatism. The more people think our rights are taken away, the more we're going to see a push for same sex marriage, affirmative action, etc. It's like saying the more oppressive society becomes, the more there'll be people who are way out of the mainstream pushing the envelope.
Perhaps the "liberal" backlash is a reaction against what is perceived as stifling conservatism. The more people think our rights are taken away, the more we're going to see a push for same sex marriage, affirmative action, etc. It's like saying the more oppressive society becomes, the more there'll be people who are way out of the mainstream pushing the envelope.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
newly retired; celebrating being a life coach
I just retired and am so pleased about it. Now I have time to watch tv all day if I feel like it. Actually newly in the process of redoing my entire kitchen. We already put down terra cotta colored porcelin floors and now we're putting in new cabinets. It will be much more pleasant than.
I'm also now listed as a practitioner with the Flower Essence Society and as an LCSW with NYS Licensing with the 6-year R psychotherapy privilege - I'm ready to do some life coaching. I will provide services based on a sliding scale, payable through pay pal and can consult online or by phone if preferred.
Please check out my new page and newly launched webiste.
http://joyleftow.com
I'm also now listed as a practitioner with the Flower Essence Society and as an LCSW with NYS Licensing with the 6-year R psychotherapy privilege - I'm ready to do some life coaching. I will provide services based on a sliding scale, payable through pay pal and can consult online or by phone if preferred.
Please check out my new page and newly launched webiste.
http://joyleftow.com
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