Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Alarmament

Alarmament

structures in inky blackness
rise 'gainst a light
taking shape
below
saturnian fields
exquisite lace
Casinos in torchlight
Great stones
forest and swamp
Rise from the muck

Racing digital criminals
urban ninjas
Chaos Ghosts
paying Dues
overcome
play the game
dont lose

Barren waste lands,  
hope seems lost
loved ones
mismanagement
step by step to carry on

Crying out
no one is answering the calls  
it settles in
the size of the moment
lingering watchers
pick at what is left
return once again to see
barks of a dragon
like peels of laughter

echo
function
muted yelling
squawk of
a scavenger
a march of rubble


Song of the Open Road - Walt Whitman

82. Song of the Open Road
by Walt Whitman

1
AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road,   
Healthy, free, the world before me,   
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.   
 
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune—I myself am good fortune;   
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,  
Strong and content, I travel the open road.   
 
The earth—that is sufficient;   
I do not want the constellations any nearer;   
I know they are very well where they are;   
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.     
 
(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens;   
I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go;
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them;   
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)   

The Bluebird - Charles Bukowski

The Bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that he's in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales in Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man weep, but I don't weep,
do you?

Charles Bukowski

Farmer Words

My Pa liked these, so I thought I would share it.




They buried a farmer today,
Gave him back to the dirt from which he came.
Earlier his family and neighbors walk by,
Looking at memories of a simple man’s life.
A table of photos, toy tractors and cards,
Telling the story of life on the farm.
There are the overalls he wore every day,
Except on Sunday, when he bowed his head to pray.
All things that kept him close to his roots.
Not born in a barn, but not far away,
From the fields where a boy learned how to play.
There are photos of his children and grandchildren, too,
And he and his wife, there are more than a few.
The smiles betray the hard times that he faced,
The worries and fears, the profits erased.
By weather and markets, out of his hands;
In the end, all he really had was his land.
The soil, the crops, and even the weeds,
To his way of thinking, that’s all he would need,
To take care of his family, and help them stay safe,
From a faster-paced world, not too far away.
A good life, a simple life, that’s what he led,
He’d struggled like most, but came out ahead.
And eventually, retirement, if ever a farmer could,
Stop worrying or working, but he did it, for good.
He enjoyed his last years, and made sure that he thanked,
The good Lord above for his life, and his land.
His time ended quickly, his loved ones in tears,
Hoping he knew what he meant to them all through the years.
Today they gather, to remember and pray,
About a simple man they loved, who was there every day.
Through joy and sorrow, laughter and pain,
He was there when they needed him, right up to the end.
Out to the cemetery, they carry him home,
To a small plot of land, just under a stone.
For they know he’s at peace, and praying for them,
As they stand on a slope, not far from his land.
The service now over, they leave him alone,
Knowing some day, he’ll greet them once more.
A dust cloud forms as the trucks drive away.
They buried a farmer today.
Jeff DeYoung



Advices from An Old Farmer

Your fences need to be horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong.
Keep skunks and bankers at a distance.
Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.
A bumble bee is considerably faster than a John Deere tractor.
Words that soak into your ears are whispered… not yelled.
Meanness don’t jes’ happen overnight.
Forgive your enemies; it messes up their heads.
Do not corner something that you know is meaner than you.
It don’t take a very big person to carry a grudge.
You cannot unsay a cruel word.
Every path has a few puddles.
When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.
The best sermons are lived, not preached.
Most of the stuff people worry about ain’t never gonna happen anyway.
Don’t judge folks by their relatives. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
Live a good, honorable life… Then when you get older and think back, you’ll enjoy it a second time.
Don ‘t interfere with somethin’ that ain’t bothering you none.
Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a Rain dance.
If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’.
Sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got.
The biggest troublemaker you’ll probably ever have to deal with, watches you from the mirror every mornin’.
Always drink upstream from the herd.
Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment.
Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back in.
If you get to thinkin’ you’re a person of some influence, try orderin’ somebody else’s dog around..
Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Leave the rest to God.
Don’t pick a fight with an old man. If he is too old to fight, he’ll just kill you.
Most times, it just gets down to common sense.

IN STILLNESS

when all these worlds collide
each lonely star in the sky
makes a clever design
side by side and far enough away
in the wash of old and promised place

where would you like to focus your beam
says the scattered dream king
cause i promise it all rests on you
you are the viewer
you're the point of control
you gotta shake off the heavy
and let the path take its course
take the blessing in the lesson
and forgive all the parts
and do exactly what needs to be done

The Merge of Democracy and the Insurance Company



we each play a part in the system
one to their own way
the way we fill our time
the way we teach
the way we grow
the point of living every day
to play
is to teach
the radiation
from which the power does spread
the east
in distance waves
workers on the other side
earliest film
a post apcolyptic playground
rhythm in frames per second
moving in comfortable silence
the eye watching you
the way a child sees his father



----------------------------------------------------------------

Breakfast of Champions

Dear Breakfast,
This morning I ate you... you were an extraordinary bowl of grape nuts which I drowned under 2% milk and topped with rice chex. It was a really nice combination, and got along dashingly with the banana I had eaten in two bites thirty minutes earlier. As I recall the peal had come off remarkably easily, not like the little yellow raincoats of doom that eventually break somewhere on the side oozing bruised banana pudding... but not this morning.

Dedicated to my nephew Kole, because one can do anything they feel like.

Dream Travel: Available



Give it a Listen

DREAM TRAVEL
West to East and worlds unknown,
every step through haze
the distance crossed to reach you
tip toeing on stars
tight rope walking between neurons
a box of memories
to hold me through
to the place I'm headed
your eyes are up ahead.
this is me coming back to you

Time Zones

THE FUTURE LIVES IN LONDON 

disappearing acts of the world 

spinning round cradle songs sung in sunlight and in time for time 

minutes turned hours while days slowly count down 

i say good morning and you say goodnight 

life carries on outside our overlapping cocoon 

unavoidable industry demanding attendance now 

locked in cycles and random outbursts 

rearranging shadows through the blinds and tugging at my mind 

we are still coinciding

Texas to LA with London on my Mind

Is not Sunday the day of rest?, As John Denver said "all my bags are packed I'm ready to go" I had stayed up all night some time ago to save on the waking you up to say goodbye...
The last days in Texas and I am hung on the last day in London two months ago. Time is slower here. And its a funny way to lose your head and find your feet: Blowing out the left overs of the lord. Clean again, finally free from the assorted guts of a Case International Harvester Combine. The best of me was futile here. I left it somehow In the United Kingdom. And the return journey was not a straight nor narrow.
West was the battle cry. California or Bust. The Industry of Make Believe. And the Freeways I knew all to well. Theatres, Movie Sets, Studios, All waiting with there ivory capped teeth, smiling a smile that one with the right eyes can see the sinister intention that will take you in and hold you there forever. This would be fine had there not been Europe. In the Golden state, my craft's at least were appreciated, though my direction changed steadily toward an Eagle Scout Mobility Badge. Music Is a tomahawk in the hands of a Moosechaser.