ONCE WORDS
Once the circle has assembled
once the prayer has ended
once the word is given
Let's roll
Hammer down
Head em up -- move em out
once hell has been unleashed
then all at once everything
will be uncertain. A curtain
drawn upon the future of the world.
Who will live and who will die and
will the fantasy of peace,
democracy and capitalist
prosperity form into reality?
My TV is turned to the cartoon
channel. My newspaper only
opened to the sports. I worry
about everything. I am certain
of nothing. I hold my breath,
what little of that I have left.
I take another Zoloft. I want to go
to that springtime place in the
mountains. I want to wake up.
I want to keep on dreaming.
Is this God's command or curse?
Once I heard two sayings:
May you live in interesting times.
Be careful what you wish for.
It will be quiet around here with
the television turned off.
SPRINGTIME IN IRAQ
The day our chickens died at the
murderous hand of a withering
sand storm and unrelenting desert
heat, proving there were no canaries
to warn our troops of the realities
of a Middle East springtime
by dropping dead to signal to
our boys of the danger in the air,
one of our boys died by his own
hand trapped in a sand storm of
unforgiving doubt about his own
proficiency as a Marine. Known as
"little brother", he was the first
to volunteer but the last to finish.
No one can know how lonely he felt
standing by himself in the desert
scanning the rows of tents housing
the men he feared were so much more
men than he. The tents, the platoon,
the war all dwarfed his 19-year-old soul
as he unflinchingly took stock and found
himself wanting.
What more could anyone want than
to take a personal gut check like
little brother?
He, like the chickens, saw his true nature
and got out before the horrors of war killed him
in unseen ways.
Return to Poem Titles
WHAT THE EARTH COULD TELL
Animals are the first to know. A dog howls
in advance of the earthquake,
horses becomes skittish in their corral.
But humans don't know yet. We have to wait.
People hear ominous sounds but
don't know what they mean. Muffled
snaps and groans seem faraway
when in reality they are just behind us.
When the avalanche decides to gather its energy
no force existing can reverse it.
The earthquake coils down like
a spring that the earth itself
cannot stop. It hasn't happened yet
so we wait.
Thrusting increases the friction
building to to the climax that even
the strongest man could not stanch,
the coming shots, intending love,
conception or rape.
The bullet is tapped and goes out,
the rocket is fired and goes off,
bombs are released and drop down,
souls are set free and go who knows where,
but there's no going back for any of them.
Spring is coming to the canyons.
There's no stopping the seasons either.
The old wooden footbridge crossing
the creek full of the frolic of water
tickled by her tumble down from the mountaintop
and the thrill of his plunge over falls.
Water is such a malleable presence
willing to change its direction at the
slightest suggestion. A rock says
I Ain't Movin and water says Ain't No
Problem and instantly finds the peaceful
path of least resistance, of no return.
Plum blossoms set free by the breeze
enjoy drifting awhile before settling down.
Liquorice-like fragrance of Laurels
hangs unseen in the air. Clouds like
white heads of broccoli puff up
in the new blue sky. The grass is
proud of its rain-blessed greenness
welcoming the children who play there
giving the grandparents a chance to rest.
All things come in their time and when they do
they are done. All we can do is wait.
We, masters, controllers of all in our clutches,
are brought to bow before the wind
and to cower before unintended consequences.
War will come. Spring will come.
Then we will pray for every life that may be lost.
Then we will rejoice for everything that is born.
Till then, all we can do is wait.
NEWS TODAY
The sound's heard round the world:
soft shuffling muffled snapping
like grandfathers old bones
or Billy Bob's knuckles
opening like the wings
of a black on almost white butterfly
or a gaping wound in the
sand covered by hungry things,
worker ants slavishly bringing
the news of the day in neat
inert black lines meaningless
to Chinese or Arab eyes
but through my eyes and into
my brain, images, meaning,
delivering fear and despair
wanting me to make it better with
flag and MasterCard. Otherwise
turn to newspaper's brothers
radio, television and baby intrnet,
it's the American call to prayer
as from a mineret.
Fall on your knees or just fold it
up and write ah the fluids of their passion
until the babies came. Then they worshiped
there only late at night and then not
at all when the kids got older. Now
they had gone on to marriage and college
and he thought some morning they might
come there again. They were so much
older now and he feared it would not be
the same. He reflected, also,
that as a boy he thought the carpet was
magic and he sat in the center, near
where the cat curls now, cross legged
eyes closed, traveling to Persia and
beyond seeing wondrous things and
meeting people he had seen in
national geographic pictures.
For years he held a secret, afraid he would
be thought odd or even crazy, that
he couldn't write a single sensible
line of poetry unless Mao slept
on the magical kaleidoscopic carpet.
He needed the cat more than ever there
now because he wanted to write a poem
against the war. Not just a poem but
THE POEM, the mother of all poems,
that who ever set eyes on the most
mysterious arrangement of words ringing out
sounds like etherial and erotic bells, presenting
most perfect imagery reflecting a truth
once only seen by an innocent child,
would fall to their knees and weep for
peace: all the people, even presidents,
would behold a new vision of how
the people's own the world could
live with each other without
violence or disrespect. But the
just right words, the lines and images abandoned
him. He felt impotent unable to call forth
poetry to match his exalted expectations.
The storm had indeed arrived early, clouds
black as grief moved in and shrouded out
the sunlight. Mao awoke from his slumber
and finding his golden blanket gone arose,
stretched out his forpaws as if bowing
to a fact much greater than him and walked
out of the room. The poet, now totally
alone, coffee completely cold, dimming
light taking away sight of the Persian rug,
then could see the war cruelly, truly
had been raging within him for years,
the battle for a creative voice, to liberate it
from the tyranny and death sentences of
doubt. No way to know how many lovely
innocents had been slaughtered or left
to starve or die by neglect. What is
terrorism if not what we have done to ourselves?
The poet who wanted to speak for the world
had nothing to say for himself.
He recently read a poem by Jose Guerrero who spoke
el verdad y con simpatico of Mexican day laborers
standing on a street corner in every town
who endur con majestad sometimes collapsing from
its own gravity. The poem was an expression of what
he knew, what he had lived. And what of war
had our poet lived? Predictable rantings
of an Anglo liberal? Good guys vs. bad guys
no different from those he condemned? What
difference would even the ultimate poem make?
Rain started to fall and the temperature never
reached 70°. The weeds would wait for
another day. The poet got up and stretched
and walked out of his writing room to brew
a fresh cup of coffee. The storm would pass,
the sun and the cat would return to the love-stained rug,
regime change in him may or may not happen,
but he will return to his writing room for
such is war and peace for the poet.
Return to Poem Titles
A Day in the Life
He's sitting in his writing room alone
searching his soul for a poem
that just won't come even though he
smacks himself in the head, his coffee
growing cold as he gazes out
the window at the dawning day. Clearly spring
has settled in as the garden is unkempt
with weeds and storm broken branches.
Still too wet though to go outside
and work, when the fog lifts it should be
almost 70° unless the predicted storm
blows in early bringing a pall of
thundering clouds and a deluge
like the uncontrolled sobs of heaven.
But now he can see
to the far end of the yard as the air
becomes increasingly translucent
letting the sun break-in through
the window which means he will not
the alone for long. The cat, a shorthair
golden tabby named Mao, should enter
soon and assume his accustomed position
curled and napping near the center of the old Persian
rug that his great-grandfather brought
from the old country in 1903 on a
steamer from Constantinople. Wrapped inside
were all his worldly possessions. Handwoven
wool dyed of insects, roots, insides of things
arrayed in a pattern hypnotic and exciting
called out by the direction of prayer
like the sun unchanged in more
than a century of life and love and cats.
He and his bride, he recalled, made
their first love on that rug. It had seemed
the most romantic and mysterious place
in their small San Francisco flat
and when they awoke and the morning
clothed in nothing but sunlight they began
their life together. The rug had become
they're sacred place for consummation
christened witoverview"
Return to Poem Titles
A Quick Goodbye
Is there space somewhere
for one more breath
in the farthest darkness
of night?
You know the time,
birthing happens, dying
happens, your dreams
are over or have yet
to begin? Just there,
in the breathless beat
between times,
the telephone
the telephone
the telephone
a bunkerbuster slicing
through so many layers of sleep
without knowing how I jump up
without knowing where I reach out
and grab
the telephone.
I can't think of the polite greeting,
angry, I wait, I listen.
The voice distant but so familiar
my own son saying
dad, we're shipping out today.
I only have a minute left
and I wanted to say goodbye.
Goodbye dad. I love you.
I stood dumb and numb with
stunning grief. I think I said
I love you too. Take care.
Nothing left but to crawl
back into bed and sometime
closer to morning fall
into a dream.
Sand met the horizon and all
was still. A wind started blowing
the sand into rolling clouds
which became whiter and whiter
till infused with a light quite
compelling welcoming a multitude
of radiant humanity to enter.
One turned around to waive his hand
goodbye.
Return to Poem Titles
Letters from Lindsey to her Dad
on active duty somewhere in the Middle East
David 35 Electronics technician, SSgt. Army Reserve
Jennifer 34 Customer Service Rep.
Ryan 13 8th grade
Lindsey 10 5th grade
Bucky 3
Dear Daddy,
Mommy said I could write anytime
I wanted so here goes. Yesterday
when you went into the airplane
Mommy started crying then I did
then Bucky. Even Ryan started.
Then Mommy said lets go to
McDonald's. Bucky started
shouting "go have pig yak" until
Ryan told him to stuff a sock
in it. We all laughed.
Love Lindsey
Dear Daddy,
How are you? Have you got
there yet? Where are you
going to be stationed? The
Army won't tell us. We really
miss you already. You know
Bucky's favorite animal book
that he only let you read to him?
Now he only wants Ryan to
read it to him. Yesterday
when Ryan was playing video
games Bucky just went over
and sat down on his lap and
said read. Ryan got all mad
but read it to him anyway.
Love Lindsey
Dear Daddy,
Today at school Stephen T.
said you were just going over
to kill a bunch of people. He
said you would be a murderer.
I felt like killing him. But Mrs.
Hammond told us to sit down.
Later I told him you would never
kill anyone. Would you?
Please write and tell me.
Love Lindsey
Dear Daddy,
You haven't written to us yet,
are you ok? I asked Mommy
where you were and she said
the Army can't say that it's a
secret. Amanda's mother got
called up too. She is a nurse.
It's going to be real hard for
her dad because he got laid off
from his job. Amanda has three
sisters and one brother.
Love Lindsey
Dear Daddy,
I'm really worried about Mommy.
She cries a lot and doesn't get up
in the morning until late. Kimmi's
mom has been coming over in the
morning to give us breakfast and
get us ready for school. When we
come home mom is still in her
bathrobe. Uncle Dennis is coming
over tonight to talk to her. I
think she misses you a lot.
Love Lindsey
Dear Daddy,
Mommy had to go to the hospital
for a few days. We stayed with
Uncle Dennis and Aunt Sally.
Now Mommy has to take some pills
but she is feeling better. But she
still wishes you were here. So do I.
Love Lindsey
Dear Daddy,
Are you ok? We get no letters from
you. Yesterday Ryan got suspend
from school for fighting. He has been
getting bad grades since you left. He
and mom fight all the time. I wish
you could come home so our
family could be happy again.
Love Lindsey
Dear Daddy,
Grandma and Grandpa Elson came
over Saturday. They brought me
the newest Harry Potter book!
They were going to a big antiwar
march in San Francisco. They
wanted mom to know that they
love you and pray for you every
day but they think what the government
is doing is wrong. They had a big
sign with your picture on it.
Love Lindsey
Dear Daddy,
The news says we have attacked Iraq.
Bucky is really mad because none
of his cartoon shows are on TV. They
talk about it all the time but they don't
say much. I hope you are safe. Have
you killed anyone yet? Mrs. Hammond
had to stop class yesterday because
so many kids were crying. We are going
to have an assembly today.
Love Lindsey
Dear Daddy,
When is this stupid war going to be over?
When are you going come home? Mommy
is starting to cry again. Ryan was caught
with some marawana at school and was
suspended again. Mommy is worried
about losing her job. We got a new
puppy to make us feel better.
Love Lindsey
Dear Dad,
Please come home now. Things are
getting really bad for Mommy and
Ryan. We need you here at home.
Bucky gave me this picture for you.
He says it's him and you painting
the house. I love you. Come home
soon.
Love Lindsey
Return to Poem Titles
All the News That Fits
Local News
Aunt Bessie Christens Dance:
"Everybody's Flingin' Groovin' Hoedown"
National News
Invasion Justifies Killing
Losses Mounting
Nations Outraged
President Questioned Relentlessly
Saddam? Terrorism? Unilateral Violence?
World Headlines
Warmongering
Xenophobic Yahoo's
Zapped
Return to Poem Titles
In Times like These
In times like the these
when the warm wool of illusion
is ripped from the eyes
focusing, trying to comprehend
the new shape before us,
the lion does not look like the lamb.
When concrete and steel envisioned by men
can't stand up to the coldness of men
and gives way to the vengeance of men
they draw in on themselves,
and surround themselves
with a fortress of moral certainty.
This is a time that arouses
men of iron to vie
with gentle nature to quell
civilization's uprising impulse
for compassion,
for community.
In a time of life when
old beacons of dreams fall away
taking down with them the certainty
of earning, of building, of me,
paranoid panic for protection from
the touch of alien skin,
something akin to night falls,
something from outside the walls
calls with the alure of the lamb
and the roar of the solitary lion,
whose fearsome cry is only
to say, "I am here".
At times like these
when old truths give way
to longings and senses still
without substance or realization,
ghosts of regrets or inklings of what
is wanted to come. . .
At times like these the greatest
security is called for.
Where the warmest wool of the lamb
and the most terrible tooth of the lion
blend into the touch of a hand
drawing us all together,
bringing youth, middle and age,
diversity into communion, comfort:
the security only humanity can bring
by banishing the primary fear,
filling the most powerful unspoken desire
to die only in your arms.
Return to Poem Titles
Drums of War
Drums are beating out long knives again
and this time the river
doesn't run red or yellow
but brown.
Queuing in the dimness before dawn,
gathering on command,
in ocher shades, the line forms
like strangely familiar Arabic script
its natural calligraphy
rounded and subtle now kinked
and corkscrewed
with confusion and fear.
It was a dead line for men whose homelands
made menacing headlines: Iraq, Iran
Syria, Libya and the Sudan
ordered by powers themselves contorted by terror.
Men, gentle fathers, earnest students, proud descendants
of cultures that once thought
for the civilized world while our forefathers hunched
in medieval hovels plagued with ignorance.
Devout men on pilgrimage around half a world hoping
to learn in the brilliance of this age's
beacon of knowledge, promise and freedom when
they might have gained more from the Hajj.
Instead, awarded degrees of "Threats in Potential",
and like criminals photographed, fingerprinted,
interrogated and even, for the slightest amiss, handcuffed
and herded into basement lockup.
The drumbeat grows louder reaching out farther to men,
innocent, it is presumed, but for the crime of birth
in Afghanistan, Algeria, Bahrain and Eritrea,
Lebanon, Tunisia, Oman, Qatar, Somalia, Morocco,
United Arab Emirates, Yemen and, of course, North Korea.
The cry goes up, "Why"?
And from the Department of Justice
the official authorized to answer
refuses to pick up the phone.
Those who love them say the dragnet has settled
a season of fear cold and quiet
as snow upon their homes, fear learned first in shadows
cast by their former rulers.
And America the mighty is no safer.
The haystack has only grown higher,
no more needles have been found.
Return to Poem Titles
Just Dreamin'
I dreamed of the White House and then in a woosh
I was in the Oval Office alone with George Bush.
As soon as he saw me he said, "Howdy pardner"
he said, "Y'all want a pretzel?". I started to wonder,
here stands our leader who's preparing for war
to roundup some oil or to settle a score
and he wants me to eat a dry salty snack
but I wanted to know what's the big deal with Iraq?
I opened my mouth to ask him how come
we are picking on them now, Saddam once was our chum?
And Osama bin Laden is still on the run,
there's a whole lot of work here at home to be done.
People are living out on the streets
corporations are run by liars and cheats
many grown-ups and kids have no health insurance
many are laid off, hey, we need some assurance
that you care about us not just some macho war
that Rumsfeld and Chaney and your "base" hunger for
to show us your manhood's intact I guess
while causing the world to hate the US.
And now that I was on quite a roll
I asked if he thought about the civilian death toll
Iraqi old people, women and children
cats and dogs too, we shouldn't forget them,
and our young men too surely will die
and I don't see one single tear in your eye.
I stopped my tirade then looked all around
there was Dubya on the couch sleeping sound
with nary a worry as the world waits for doom.
I was pounced on and handcuffed and led from the room.
I awoke from my dream with an ache in my head
and tears flooded my heart as I got out of bed.
I WILL NOT STANDBY I heard myself say
I will do what I can this and every day
to keep peace awake
for God's sake.
Return to Poem Titles
What's the Difference?
What more could she live for?
Deeply asking as only a mother can,
gazing with wonder into half opened eyes
what life, with outstretched hands,
awaits her child just
days old, suckling with a rhythm
of hearts sensed more than felt,
the warmth, the all-ness of her breast.
They are as one.
Sisters and brothers, pandemonium
of laughing, shouting running
through the kitchen, out the door,
outside to play. The infant stirs.
They are as one.
Grandmother washes dinner's
dishes, watches her darlings
through the window playing tag
in the courtyard. Grandfather
reads his newspaper deaf
to the television newsman.
Father sits next to the fire
contented, praise be to God
for his family's fullness.
They are as one.
They don't live in Baghdad
or Baltimore, Takrit or
Tacoma. They live now
only as image. A tableau
of peace replaced in a flash
by the errancy of war,
a "smart bomb" gone stupid,
collateral damage covering
with a cloak of fine ash all
the family values.
Some in the world are indifferent
and some cheer on the fight
while others in Baltimore
or Baghdad weep in shame
for the arrogance of our leaders.
We are as one.
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