Careful What You Ask For

Do you really want theocracy,
to thin or blur the line
between what makes us get along,
and what God had in mind?

That means you’ll have to tell the truth,
and never get divorced;
make no income from interest
(that’s usury, of course);
respect your elders, even when
they say you’re full of shit;
give not your coat, but your shirt, too
when the homeless ask for it;
never bear false witness,
which means you’ll have to work hard
to learn what really are the facts
beyond your own back yard;
and stealing? Each and every kind
you’ll have to forthwith cease;
that means the end of espionage,
sly dealings, and palm grease.

You’ll need to give up judging sheep
who come from other folds,
and leave off all interpreting;
just do what you are told,
not by some politician, preacher,
or pope, full of zeal,
but by a judge beyond your ken
who does not hear appeals.

17 JUL 2005

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The Blackout

The streets are filled with idle, itching hands,
their owners on the prowl in vain pursuit
of some pastime to fill the vacant hours
in darkened rooms enswamped with summer heat.

Without their cellphones, TV sets and games,
and fast-food fare likewise beyond their grasp,
how will the city’s folk be entertained?
On what diversions will they spend their cash?

Driveways are strewn with fallen trees and wires;
on front lawns, baking in the noon-day sun,
we sit in wrought iron chairs, and just perspire.
And wait. There’s not much else that can be done.

Who wants to light a flame to cook a meal,
and add the stove’s hell-fire to this malaise?
It’s better to go hungry than to broil;
besides, the food’s gone bad. It’s been two days.

Tonight, the house is hotter in than out;
by candlelight, perhaps I’ll read a while.
I miss the air conditioner’s white noise;
Too bad such silence has gone out of style.

11 JUL 2005

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Volume is no substitute

Volume is no substitute for power;
It’s not the loudest shouts that prove most true.
These sounds that shake foundations may undo
in minutes what took builders countless hours,
but mere feats of destruction can’t compete
with the small, quiet moments of creation,
wherein the world, envisioned as complete,
becomes reality. And the frustration
of those whose gift consists of only noise,
whose talents lie in laying waste, in spoil,
is that they cannot know the simple joy
of water when it is not brought to boil.

03 JUL 2005

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the thin kings of aboutness

From Part I:

backward broken pushed against the known,
each awaiting defamation,
two armies fought and fled their thin kings
waiting down among the rushes

forward spoken harsh against the wind,
each a summons hoarse men whispered
plans and expectations lost are we to blame
the thin kings’ ponds were stirring

inwards driven quick against the mark,
each an inchlet close to dying
hopis lost and raiders of the damned sing
for the thin kings’ fateful pushes

outward spoken quick against the door,
each awaiting degradation
two armies raised and wasted time until
the thin kings planned the battle.

the thin kings of aboutness sought
to subjugate the realm of thought,
and ‘gainst the nothing that they fought
the void and emptiness they brought.

of when and what the why became
the struggle birthed from whence they came:
one blind, one deaf, one mute, one lame –
the thin kings and their sorrowed fame.

the thin kings of aboutness yearned
to separate the great unlearned;
and ‘gainst the grip of death they turned
the fire of life, and so were burned.

of which and who the where becomes
the battle spawned from endless drums:
one great, one small, one burst, one dumb –
the thin kings and their kingdom come.

From Part III:

the ink spilled swift and held itself
as nothing kept its silent vow;
letters cowered as the pages dressed
the thin kings in their shining raiment.

wordless crept the secret cause
as something slept in silent death;
whispers shivered as the horses swept
the thin kings through the alleys raining.

the crowd stood murmured and beheld
as nothing stood and spoke parables;
betters glowered as the gates pressed
the thin kings up against their subjects.

worthless wept the one lament
as something passed in hurtful bliss;
lepers wondered as the healers sought
the thin kings in their broken armor.

in winter’s cold and bitter debt
the mistress learns her alphabet
to write of sorrows unfelt yet
until the thin kings she’ll forget

too soon the memory fades, she knew
the trumpets blown the wind it blew
and who remembers then? too few
the thin kings and their kingdom, too.

release me from this hardened shell
outside into the fires of hell
for I’ve a riddle yet to tell
the thin kings and their tolling bell.

a riddle, yes, perhaps a tale
of riders, horses, crop and flail
of frozen rain turned into hail
and hands forgotten with their nail.

the answer sought the lonely kings
beyond the gallows where they swing
yet not a one could bear to bring
their focus on the ghastly thing.

1993

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What’s in a Pseudonym?

A lot of my online friends don’t use their real names.

They do this for a number of reasons.

For those of the neopagan persuation, it’s a way to keep one foot in the closet, so to speak. We are, after all, not in a country that actually embraces freedom of religion. There is also a kind of authenticity in hosting a site on matters “non-mundane” if your gentle leader is named Willow, or Ratsfoot, or Harmony Broomfinder, or Silver Pom-Pom. Jack (or Susie) Smith’s “Book of Shadows” just doesn’t have the same punch, does it?

Another reason for adopting a nom de ‘net is to embrace a persona, a part of your everyday individuality that for some reason has been forced into second (or further down) place.

Then there’s the privacy issue. You don’t necessarily want every Internet-based crackpot hunting down your street address in order to “throw down” on you in person just because your worldview happens to disagree with theirs. I can understand that, particularly if you’re young, and particularly if you use your online forum as a place to “talk about things that nobody cares…” or that are impractical in your current geographic and cultural wasteland.

A big one is more than privacy. It’s anonymity. With a false name, one that is tied in no way to your social security number, work, address, family or school, it’s much easier to be a total and complete asshole, flinging electrons into space with relative impunity, safeguarding only your IP address and your right to talk via emoticons in a way that would never dare speak face-to-face.

For me, there’s always been the sound of the name issue. Some names, for example, WORK as names of musicians, or poets, or prizefighters. Others are more of a stretch, regardless of what Arnold Swartzenegger once said, that the harder a name is to remember, the more difficult it is to forget. Mick Jagger, for example, sounds like the name of a lead singer. Mick Ralphs, on the other hand, sounds like a guitarist. James Joyce (or James Jones, for that matter) sounds like a novelist name. I think it’s a sonic issue. Poets probably have a little more leeway here, but not much.

I have often considered adopting a nom de plume, in addition to my pagan-use name Greybeard Dances (which came about thanks to the combination of a physical feature and my mate’s Native American given name, which is “Starlight Dances in the Treetops”, or Starlight Dances). I suppose it would be an easy way out to adopt something that just SOUNDED cool, the way Zane Grey rolls off the tongue, or George Sands. Or Marilyn Monroe. But I would like to infuse it with a little of my own history, rather than influences, which is how Elton John came from Reginald Dwight.

So here are a few options:

John Roberts (first and middle names)
J. Robert Grebnezlit (pretty ridiculous, actually)
Sean Baldun (taking the Irish ancestry approach to my first name, John, and my mother’s maiden name, Baldwin)
Schrier Baldwin (often considered as a country singer pseudonym, the combination of the last names of my paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather)

and of course, my new all-time favorite:

Jack Rattelfinger (which would be John transformed in combination with my paternal great-grandmother’s maiden name)

of course, none of these touch upon the issue of my Use-Name versus my True-Name … and did anyone but me notice that in the made-for-television version of “Earthsea” that the two were switched. The True-Name was supposed to be “Geb” and the Use-Name was “Sparrowhawk”. So I’m confused.

Of course, in the world of blogging, where the point is to share YOUR opinion with the rest of the world, and to accumulate a bit of notoriety for actually being yourself, it’s more likely that you’ll use your own name. Because you’re a journalist, so to speak, and your name is your byline. It’s unlikely that you’d hear Walter Cronkite (for example), say, “I’m Dancing Firefly (or satanlovesme_666, or green_lily4), and that’s the way it was.”

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Such Times Are These

Such times are these that rich men gloat
to turn great woods to creosote
and laugh to see the world take note
as style takes substance by the throat.

Such times are these that poor men work
their fingers fleshless for these jerks
who waiting in the shadows lurk
to claim as theirs both purse and perk.

Such times are these that men and boys
forgo their fortunes and love’s joys
to strut about and make loud noise,
their goal to other men destroy.

Such times are these that pious words
are used to pardon the absurd:
that war brings peace, that freedom’s bird
would choose to nest in such a turd.

Such times are these that there should be
cult worship of celebrity
where children want as destiny
a fleeting moment on TV.

Such times are these when young and old
accept as truth what they’ve been told
and do not mind that they’ve been sold
a fire that brings not heat, but cold.

Such times are these that perpetrate
the myth that might is right and great,
that the one path to truth is straight,
and those who rule control the gate.

Such times are these when poets must
regard their words a sacred trust
to speak against their culture’s lust
to turn what’s left of gold, to dust.

08 MAY 2005

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Who Says That Poetry Dare Not

Who says that poetry dare not describe,
except in abstract, the signs of the times,
when modern culture abounds with sound bytes
from cinema, like Puzo’s line
that all business is personal,
and we hang with pride by electron pins
our ragged, besmirched angst,
so that a global web of public noses
can share our hampers’ contents:
the tattered, faded t-shirts (now vintage wear)
that in high school twenty years ago
could get us suspended for dress code violations
(I think of the Ramones, the Clash, and Bauhaus,
who sell more accessories now than
they ever dreamed of during their lifetimes).

Who says that poetry must first, before all else,
be small and disheveled, a Pigpen trailing the muck
of his own me-o-centric dust bowl,
or soft and insecure Linus, grasping desperately
to the security of psychosis,
lamenting years of analysis that have left us,
as a people, addicted to neuropathic drugs
and fattened the wallets of countless would-be-Freuds
and their pushermen?

Who says that language must devolve
to suit the temper of the times,
instead of lifting, by the scruff of the neck,
its whining, self-centered congregation
beyond the dry and brittle pews of academia
into direct experience with the Divine?

Who says that poets must wait, patient,
while the world argues and decides their fate?

Who says that poetry dare not touch
upon the sacred? Without tangents
such as these, what good is it? Why, then,
keep on, and on and on, ’til break of dawn
insisting that the pen is mighty?
Wherefore comes that might? From lashing
oneself to the mast of culture’s speeding craft,
so that the Sirens on the rocks
may loose their soft, seductive stream
of sacrilege,
and yet not sway the poet’s course.

24 APR 2005

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