"Nightmares Still Unsaddled."
Fingers constantly
reach for the keys
but can seldom
open enough souls
to the hunger for change...
and even with a pencil, lead aches.
Poetry is a medium that
calls up
the ghosts of yesteryear's,
sometimes other spirits are moved,
but it's those silent
masses that haunt
me.
My soul is a stone tonight
cast into dark waters of despair
leaving ripples that note its passing.
The
world wallows in the mire
of historical hysteria
reliving lessons unlearned.
Tonight the daft debated the draft,
as
young flesh swallowed lead
and tasted foreign sands.
My twelve year old sleeps
a game boy on hold,
six years
from the
sacrifice of futility.
I can still smell
the stench of jungle and napalm,
when night calls me to
my deck
to shake the cobwebs of dreams,
long sealed in a dust covered sea-bag.
Dog tags rattle on the collars
of
my welsh Corgis near me,
like the nomenclature on an M-16.
There's a tiny cabin
in Canada,
where refuge waits
in lakeside splendor
for my flesh and blood
still untouched by war.
But the patriot in me cries out
for
America to come to its senses,
as a surge of blood
rushes through my ears,
only to puddle on Baghdad sand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis
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quite often
as a child
I was drawn to
a beam of light,
and would sit gazing
at the miniature world
that swirled all around me,
sometimes to
smote the dust motes
with tiny sputtering
sprays of saliva,
wee droplets expelled
with cheek stretched force
in little pfffffffts!
that caused many of the flying wonders
to tumble rapidly out of
the magic cloud they soared in.
But at other times I would
gently blow them in directions
that they never seemed to be
able to find on their own,
and was always delighted
in how many got caught up
in the wave of something new.
We are so much like the
dust motes in this world,
perhaps even God sees us
as this, in such light
for his creations now
are numbered in the gad zillions
since times beginnings,
and we all go our own way,
seeking warmth and joyous dance,
till we become the dust we used to watch
on sunny afternoons when life was
idle and oh so fine.
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This woman, one of Earth's greatest Grandmother
Behind the sepia tones
in the rectangle above
that formed the shadow, and light
so long ago projected,
into an image of yesteryear heroes,
lies the visage of one of
earth's greatest Grandmothers.
She was a duster, a truster
a cusser and a bustler,
a rock buster, and a luster
for the good life, on her own land.
Alas she wound up under a cluster
of weathered stones marking
the last stop in her pil"grim"age west
with emphasis on the word grim.
Long past the bone jarring Conestoga,
and the back breaking raising of a home,
and the flesh rending
expulsion of six babies, and
two miscarriages, and then the
small pox that marked a large hole
in some early settlers loves, and lives.
Leaving only this humble photo of one
who I know sleeps somewhere
unheralded and forgotten
in the prairie dust
~
In that prairie dust
lie the remnants of this woman,
just one of many prairie women
who struggled and fought,
all the odds only to become
the same dust of which she tried
so hard to scratch out a living from.
Sweeping it from
the rough wooden floors
of her homespun cabin,
and cooking it's gifts,
from the labors of her tilling
all those fresh vegetables,
that stubbornly yielded barely enough
to wipe the hungry looks
from her children's faces.
This toil hardened face
that saw so much,
and found so little
in the way of dreams
being fulfilled,
now sleeps peacefully
in a crumbling pine box,
her dust mingling with the land
she tried so desperately to tame,
her soul in the arms of God's care now,
and her flesh a part of the land
she grew to love to hate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis
In those final notes encapsulated.
we each make notes
and are duly noted
as we pass along the
measures that life
hands us to accompany,
sometimes we are sharper
or flatter by the journey
we take on the scales
the fairly balanced scales
we have our work weighed upon,
but in the end the melodies
we grew to love,
are played out for others
and they dance and whirl
on all we are and were
and hoped to be.
....Artis
when family becomes famine!
When discourse becomes Divorce,
then follows the remorse,
as families become famine
split by law into two parts.
In pain, that is doled out amongst all,
thus marriage is shared equally,
though Solomon is long dead,
and the children stand divided,
against the love of both.
Add to this grievous mix
babies being born by babies,
or aborted into non-family status.
Simmer the above with television, and movies
replacing mom's arm, and her reading,
as well as dad, and mom's quality time
sacrificed to work, to pay for
the increases caused by glut, and need.
Drain the fat of excess lust from some
Faiths, which are abusing their own
flock's children, by the thousands.
Add a pinch of bitter herbs,
as single parents struggle
into the madness of abuse,
of their own children,
when life turns sour,
all around the angelic faces
that they can't stand
to care for anymore.
Heap on levels of grief as
Schools keep piling tons of homework
upon the children's backs,
bent like pilgrims they progress
down rocky paths where there is
no time for father, no time for mother,
just homework, and proficiency tests,
that replace evenings of love,
games and sharing time together.
Where will it all end????
When no child is left behind,
but all are rushed into adulthood,
far faster then they can mature.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis
There is a God in all of this
who weeps for what could have been
but he chose to give men freewill
rather then to control men like robots
obeying his...and only his commands
he sees the problems that beset the earth
and he sends us the solutions
wrapped in the flesh of newborns
But in man's excessive need for greed
in his continuous hunt for power
in his unquenchable hunger for lust
in his self-centered, self-serving manner
these gifts sent are destroyed
one after another
and the problems go on
without solutions
yet still God sends down more answers
hoping this will change
willingly, and freely by the choices of men
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
And this God does not belong
to any "one group"
or any "one faith"
for that would surely
violate man's freewill
by denying them choices
even an atheist has gods
power, money, worldly gain
a quick, and final death
with nothing ever after
they are the atheist strongest desires
and the atheist worships them
with just as much faith
as a ninety-year old nun
His choice...her choice
freewill...not robotics
the heart of each person
knows the true path
and chooses his own direction
so be it!
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
and please do not attempt
to kill the messenger
this was an inspiration
It is not a belief
it is not a soul belief of mine
it just called to me
like all thoughts do
to put it down
to save it for posterity
for in every work
there lies some truth
and to make it known
for what is a poet
without a voice??
what is a writer
without readers??
so enjoy these thoughts penned
if you will
or deny them vehemently
it is your choice
it is freewill
and the next time you pass a graveyard
look upon it fondly
for therein might lay
the answers to all the questions
we've yet to uncover
the solutions to all the problems
we've failed to overcome
and the next time you pass a nursery
or a pregnant woman
look fondly on them too
and fight for their futures
take a stand for education
take a stand against poverty
against war
against crime
just take a stand
against all of the evil
perpetuated by men, on men
and maybe...just maybe
some day soon
one of these gifts
God sends will get through
maybe more
maybe tomorrow can be brighter
maybe not
it is our choice
freewill
mankind
choose your direction
and Godspeed
to you all
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis
At days end on Monday vanquished
I sit so comfortably ensconced
in my plush, scotch-guard recliner
munching chocolate-covered cashews
washed down with a frosty cola
connected only by remote
then suddenly the cameras pan down
to a startling revelation
televised in living color
humbling all the guilty masses
~
In a dusty, dirt floored hovel
lies a tiny, bloated baby
sunken eyes, and cheeks like craters
starving in the Afghan desert
its haunting gaze, in years that number
far more grief then my life's tallied
like an ancient shriveled prophet
on its face...etched tales of doom
~
Who decided I'd be snacking
during early evening...prime time
on some useless extra calories
mixed with sugared carbonation
all just for the sake of boredom
while this precious little infant
is denied the slightest tidbit
of the nourishment that's needed
to sustain its fragile life
~
and much earlier this evening
while I stood and scraped my dishes
clean...of quite a healthy portion
of fresh meat, corn and potatoes
my eyes much bigger then my stomach
it's what I would call leftovers
just more fuel to feed the maggots
in a dump full of nutrition
that lies just south of the city
plus in every house around me
plates are scraped, and food goes wasted
times one hundred...times ten thousand
every day a fact of life
~
While in some far third world country
they stack babies up like dishes
victims of some great starvations
scraped of all their life, leftovers
just more fuel to feed the maggots
in a flesh pile of attrition
that lies just south of the mass grave
that will cradle their frail bodies
~
Who decides upon the menu's
for the chubby worms, and maggots?
Is it God? or is it humans?
who allows the gluts and famines
to remain each day unbalanced?
sacrificing skinny babies
as we fill up bags called "Hefties"
with excesses that could save
all those who fill an early grave
"bone-apetit!"..."Land of the Feed!"
What's for dessert?...."Home of the Crave."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~from a not so starving Artis
A peace in the shade of a calmer place
S T R E T C H E D
out under a palm
after chaising a lounge
across acres of sand
sandals emptied of feet
bucket shoveled in chair
I sit savoring the tang
of my sweet margarita
a half lime for her smile
as she dips for a kiss
and she pours herself over
my lips and my tongue
July 2nd's begun
and it's so nice to know
there's still parts of this world
where the dark side is simply
a small patch of shade
in an Oceanside glade
of palm trees on parade
near this nest I have made.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis-2004
historically joined forever
In the shell of our flesh
we find the echoes of far way places
and stolen salty kisses by the seashores
in the summers of our youth,
and in the hollow of our skulls
two thousand years from now,
some futuristic archaeologist
will uncover our skulls and
hold it to his ear and still
hear the ocean roaring through
the eye holes left in worn and yellowed bone
and be filled with the awe
of such an eternal loves echoes.
~~~~~Artis
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