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Month: March 2017

Sing the Song: georgics

First off, it always starts with breath.
That sounds so simple, but in fact
so many who would stretch their speech
against set pitches set in time
forget to breathe – at least, to breathe
as if the air were precious fuel.

Second, you must know the text.
To even blunder through, one must
engage the phrase, not word by word,
but in whole thoughts. Communication
is goal here, after all.
You’re not just throwing random sounds
out in the void; it’s what you say
as much, if not more, that saying it.

Third, it comes up from the ground:
the song comes from the toes, and then
it rises through the body.
Let it rumble all along your spine;
it gathers power as it goes.
Don’t start too high – it will get caught
and tangled up there in your throat.

Again, just breathe and let it out;
and watch it as it leaves your mouth.
You can’t look down or you will lose
the thread that ties the sound to you
and to the listener.

22 MAR 2017

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Quite Different Chains: free verse

I’m not sure
I can even write
“free verse”
anymore.

Ever since I started
using specific
poetic forms,
I find
myself
writing poems
to be read aloud;
their purpose,
if they are to be effective
when spoken,
dictates employing some kind of
cadence,
at least the semblance of some
rhythm.

You see, even there, a sense of
time
emerges from what might
at first glance or gloss
appear to be just a bit
of prose.

It’s poetry, they say,
if it provides
a distillation of a thought,
an image meant to show not tell,
a conscious fight against just
words for words sake.

To agree,
or disagree,
with such a notion
is to put yourself
in one of two
opposing camps.

Myself?

I’d rather set up tent
out in
the land between.

21 MAR 2017

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See Here Now: forensic poetry

“See here,” one poet said, “for beauty’s sake,
I would enslave a thousand listless men,
and though it cause the earth’s deep core to shake,
would carve away the mountains with my pen
that one and all might see as noble truth
a majesty against which swords will fail:
the pure and simple honesty of youth
that conquers all despite seeming so frail.”

“Indeed,” a second poet made reply,
“You might, with that great monumental deed
achieve what heretofore has stayed undone
despite a seeming overwhelming need;
and with a mighty geyser spewing ink
lay waste to man’s vast petty enterprise
that with its many graveyards gives a stink
that leaches into both loved and despised.”

“No matter,” the first poet’s quick retort,
“What form that beauty takes, this much is known:
the fool who finds the chasing merely sport
will find at length, no beauty of their own.
And furthermore, despite the world’s distain,
true love may still play conqueror at last:
what else, pray tell, could lure a world in pain
to soldier on after the die is cast?”

“A vanity,” the other bard rejoins,
“the hope that without fact is false belief,
a wish that mankind’s reason would purloin,
and leave them no real succor or relief.
See here: what good is thinking something so,
if absent evidence, none prove it true?
Youth grows to age, and those who think they know
turn into drooling fools like me and you.”

“But poetry,” the first said in return,
“Is no mere fancy pushed out on the breath;
and though its fire may scald, rather than burn,
its soothing balm may also ward off death.
What harm in that? The world is hard enough
without depriving mankind of some salve
to bind its wounds and smooth away the rough,
the bitter dregs it is our lot to have.”

“Besides, everyone knows the world is pain;
we need no more reminding, everyday,
that loss is the finale of each gain
despite the heavy price there is to pay.
What good is sad complaining about fate,
or moaning on the future’s downward path?
Enjoy the moment, ’til it is too late.
While you still can, find some reason to laugh.”

20 MAR 2017

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How Tragic: epistle (rubliw)

Dear Dick:
That’s quite a trick,
to make a story stick,
dipped in pure bullshit two feet thick
and built up solid brick by brick.
Must say it makes me sick,
you egocentric
big prick.

Dear Rich:
I hate to bitch
about your latest pitch:
All lies, some truth, I can’t tell which.
Yes, you have truly found your niche:
you just speak and we twitch;
we are bewitched!
How rich!

Dear Rick:
Look, now, how quick
the carrot on your stick
turns out to be rotten and slick,
and your fawning, backstabbing clique,
who think themselves so suave and slick,
find themselves up the creek,
their charm toxic.
Tragic!

17 MAR 2017

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Luck and Chance: epistle

“Dear John,” the letter read, “I seek advice.
You seem to know some things, and seem quite nice.
I wonder what you think of luck and chance.
Do you believe we twirl in a mad dance
of accidental happenings and such,
or does belief in fate stretch it too much?”

“Sincerely, someone who would like to know.”
I thought a moment, tossing to and fro
a myriad of possible replies.
Just how to cut an answer down to size?
“Dear someone,” I began, “to tell the truth,
no matter which I choose, there is no proof.

Some folk would say you cannot beat dumb luck;
that skill and expertise are often stuck
and mired by subtle cages of the known –
restraints on movement within certain zones
that dilettantes so blithely disregard,
complaining learning them is just too hard.

It’s true enough that luck trumps skill at times;
one could lay odds and win most of your bets.
Still, in the larger scheme of things, one finds
relying on mere chance cause for regret.
What works due to coincidence a while
lacks substance and fades quickly out of style.

So count yourself as lucky, if you wish,
but while good fortune holds, learn something new.
Far better, in the end, to learn to fish
than to expect the fish to come to you.
Sincerely, just another wondering soul
whose portion often overflows his bowl.”

16 MAR 2017

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The Fall of Because: epilog

Of what’s been done, and heard, and seen,
one might well ask, “What does it mean,
that this and thus, in such a way
should through their actions in this play
express a meaning, none too clear,
expose a hidden weakness, fear,
and in absentia, second-hand
portray the worst or least in man:
the tendency to thoughtless act,
to find succor in faith, not fact,
and in the end, to just succumb
without a fight, struck deaf and dumb
by baffling bullshit strewn about
to fertilize the seeds of doubt
and fool even the wisest lot
into accepting what they’ve got
as the best way to run a thing,
and make the biggest fool their king?”

If that’s the king, then watch the knaves!
Observe the way the court behaves
when chaos in the castle breeds
a subterfuge that does not need
to hide its wretched plots at noon.
Beware! The end is coming soon;
and who is now called a buffoon
may turn to tyrant in a flash,
rewarding only those with cash
and sugared words upon their tongues.
What use then to be found among
brave souls for truth, or common sense?
That armor serves as poor defense
against the coming hateful rage
of those who cannot see the cage
outside the walls of the small cell
we think is the world where we dwell.

16 MAR 2017

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Fit to Print: englyn unodle crwca

What’s fit to print is not news.
Our bitter, contrary views
are merely stuff we seek to use as new fuel;
like fools, we think we choose

to fight false with what is true,
wielding light that will burn through
the lies and mad bugaboo everywhere.
Now there’s a hopeful coup.

Hopeful, but not meant to be.
The real world seeks symmetry
and balance, but will not be rushed ahead
or led like a pony.

No, to make news in these days,
one must seek out different ways.
To prove a thing, you must amaze the wild mob;
a big job with no praise.

15 MAR 2017

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