The Earth Without Art is "EH"

 

My class, I’m told, weighs heavily on their plate; they must scale back.

The spoken word must wait.

Things may change sometime down the pike.

We could relearn history or later take a hike.

A world without poems is going to leave a hole.

Admit it, can you face the world without a soul?

So, listen, mister, please, have a little heart

And contemplate my gist; let’s save some time for art.

Because if you take the art out of the E-A-R-T-H,

all that’s left are two letters; all that’s left… is “EH”.

They want to get back to basics,

cos vinyl fencing rules, and plumbing brings home the pay.

But humans don’t thrive on work alone.

Change is a process…in this drug-free zone.

They say that art is an act

for people on the fringe,

poets, painters, performers waiting to unhinge.

But we are not all nihilists on the periphery.

We are not immaterial

or The Walking Dead in misery.

Expressing yourself clearly, as you know, is an art.

Our Slam Poets learn to frame an argument

increase their gray matter

by reimagining their unique purposes in life

thereby translating the sea of information in which their minds swim.

Poetry teaches them to reflect on their choices,

raises their consciousness

enables them to define their place in nature

not apart from it.

Self- Expression must continue to be a part of the healing in force,

because their perspectives without writing or lucid discourse… is “EH”.

 

Stepford Love

 

I love you, sweetheart.

 

I promise to take care of you, always.

 

That is why 

you need to be quiet and listen

you don’t get to have an opinion.

 

You cannot be trusted to take care of yourself.

You would starve if left on your own.

 

You are not quick enough, strong enough

and besides, 

                        right does not have to explain itself to wrong.

 

Enough already

 

You made your bed.

 

Put your sneakers on, we have work to do.

 

And remember, I love you.

 

Now kiss me.

Midnight Sun

 

I stared 

at the silent phone

listened for a footstep

beyond the doorknob

that did not move.

Outside, the sun was still up.

I waited and paced,

wearing a track in the hotel carpet. 

The luminous clock face on the nightstand flashed 4 a.m.

You left us there, without so much as a see you later.

To wait and wonder

Forsaking us to the dread that overwhelms me now.

The pimply platoon that reappears to march up and down my arms

soldiers marooned with no place to go and nothing but time and fear to kill.

I share this sad night with our twelve-year-old son, an innocent casualty of your private scheme.

Then open and close the shade in the hotel room again.

Noting that it is finally getting dark. It is July

here in Fairbanks, where nothing is fair, 

the days are endless, and we wait sleepless 

for you to return from your private 

birthday celebration. 

Deadly Sins

Place blame on the fool, 

for the cost of fuel, 

for global warmth, zealous haze,

the access gap and angst-filled days,

housing costs, tainted meat

the average household debt; good grief.

Microplastic seepage and fish mercury seasoned

Dictators murdered, and rainforest depletion. 

Melting glaciers, shifting tides, and temps. 

endangered species,  common-sense exempt.

To save and recycle waste, we attempt ethanol in corporate haste,  in the final hours, doesn’t it sting

 to develop E10 and E15 with carbon footprints for the hardworking lean.

When our grandchildren ask about what we did, will we look them in the eye 

Dare we show them how far we slid?

Pareidolia

 

It would seem

I have a severe case

Looking at my new hip X-ray

The other day

I saw a face.

 

The nurse stated

It was my colon

I was extolling

To which I replied

Well, at least I’m not backed up.

She conceded this was true.

 

Then I showed her the itchy rash on my back

You’re allergic to something

What do you think it is?

It might be the laundry detergent. I had used a Tide Pod in the wash recently. 

No, she replied, that’s a medicine rash.

You may be allergic to the antibiotic. I’ll add it to your chart.

Great, I thought. I took that for seven days. But at least it was a different antibiotic. Not one I previously took. 

 

The surgeon was backed up with another patient, so I opted to leave and see him next time.

I had such a good report that I wanted to make the staff laugh.

I promised next time to ride a skateboard down the hall,

But she was unshakeable and serious as a judge

And replied, “Don’t do that.”

I left, smirking, imagining what the heart doctors 

would say.

I think my Orthopedic surgeon would’ve smiled.

(More later)…

 

 

 

 

A Fresh impression

 

She'd said she would shoot herself in the face

except for the dog

that lost weight that winter

because he loved to dance in the snow,

the white powder glistening 

on his wet nose, Shepherd’s tail, dull fur.

 

I tried to imagine the depth.

 

Although I couldn't relate

not like that, but

I sensed that it was time

to let go, to

stop feeling like the world sat on my chest

like it was all on me

so, I thanked her but took another path.

 

I’d start fresh 

lay back 

outstretched 

into the blank page

sweep my arms and legs

out and back,

to my fragile wings

declare my somber joy.  

 

It was a new beginning.

The salt and the ice pick would come later. 

 

After Electricity

 

It is dawn,

the lights have just gone out,

the cause yet unknown.

The roosters’ crow at distant stars,

their raucous contest continuing

as the sun begins its ascent into

a cloudless blue, tinted with pink and orange. 

The palms stand stiffly at attention. 

The Ko’olau peaks loom like ancient warriors, 

awaiting the first battle cry. But the Kahuna have long gone.

 

 

After electricity, 

we will run out of supplies.

We will need to hunt for sustenance, 

our way of life will fall prey to illness, and the elements. 

 

Eventually

You will kill all of them.

All the people who have done you wrong.

Real and imagined debts burned on your personal pyre.

The evidence of their so-called crimes is long forgotten.

Existing in an altered state of your drug-addled mind.

The ancients are

Holding open the door to your doom 

Taunting you into their final dimension.

 

You were one

I try to imagine how many more are out there.

Wandering adrift, free to plunder

And we are left here in the dark.