Is have someone take care of your head.
There's no chance of more drama
Without Futurama -
Don't say you weren't warned! Act, instead!
Published online: Transhumanity, November 2005
December 20, 2008
CRYO LIMERICK
The correct thing to do, when you're dead,
Is have someone take care of your head.
There's no chance of more drama
Without Futurama -
Don't say you weren't warned! Act, instead!
Is have someone take care of your head.
There's no chance of more drama
Without Futurama -
Don't say you weren't warned! Act, instead!
December 13, 2008
THE THIEF
More than the actual loss, it’s helplessness
That we most loathe when suffering a theft:
The arbitrary way one daring, deft,
Brass act leaves careful order in a mess;
The knowledge the thief’s wilder and cares less;
The easy way he tears the warp and weft
Of dull security; the insight left
The cosmos can as quickly curse as bless.
Therefore the fears are mostly overblown –
The thief himself causes no loss or strife
More than insurance or day’s work redeems.
But there’s a greater thief, and more unknown,
Who comes each night and steals one third your life,
Leaving no more than fingerprints, your dreams.
That we most loathe when suffering a theft:
The arbitrary way one daring, deft,
Brass act leaves careful order in a mess;
The knowledge the thief’s wilder and cares less;
The easy way he tears the warp and weft
Of dull security; the insight left
The cosmos can as quickly curse as bless.
Therefore the fears are mostly overblown –
The thief himself causes no loss or strife
More than insurance or day’s work redeems.
But there’s a greater thief, and more unknown,
Who comes each night and steals one third your life,
Leaving no more than fingerprints, your dreams.
Published: Candelabrum, UK, October 2008
December 6, 2008
GRIM REAPER
The Reaper, with hourglass and hoar locks,
Sees me dreaming of witches and warlocks,
Of doing and fighting,
Of loving, of writing,
Taps my shoulder and says “I’m from Porlock’s.”
Sees me dreaming of witches and warlocks,
Of doing and fighting,
Of loving, of writing,
Taps my shoulder and says “I’m from Porlock’s.”
Published online: Snakeskin, UK, October 2008
November 29, 2008
WARRIOR
His armor is silver, his ’chute is khaki,
A grenade on his belt, and a shield on his arm;
And she thinks of the kiss by the loom and TV
And his camouflaged, war-painted lost face’s charm.
He went off with his pals in the longship and jeep,
As brave as his rockets in the boat prow.
And disease, gas and tomahawk put him to sleep….
What is his mouth, to laugh or kiss now?
A grenade on his belt, and a shield on his arm;
And she thinks of the kiss by the loom and TV
And his camouflaged, war-painted lost face’s charm.
He went off with his pals in the longship and jeep,
As brave as his rockets in the boat prow.
And disease, gas and tomahawk put him to sleep….
What is his mouth, to laugh or kiss now?
Published: Ryerson Free Press, Canada, April 2008
November 23, 2008
NORTH AMERICAN FALL
The red leaves in the sunshine are
So red! So red! So red!
There are no buried Caesars here – instead,
The dispossessed of all the Earth,
With native wisdoms, human worth,
Bleed through the trees like a reopened scar.
So red! So red! So red!
There are no buried Caesars here – instead,
The dispossessed of all the Earth,
With native wisdoms, human worth,
Bleed through the trees like a reopened scar.
Published: Candelabrum, UK, October 2008
November 22, 2008
MAYA
When God took Time to spin a length of Matter,
And, nothing at each end, tied the ends together,
He held between his fingers and surveyed
The first cat’s-cradle, and since then has played.
Flames dazzle, dance, and fade to a friend’s face;
Dogs mime all features of the human race;
The willow weaves a walker from the air;
All Nature helps us see things that aren’t there.
To read Life’s Meanings, we must write the text:
What’s Right one day is often Wrong the next –
I’m rich or poor only as I profess,
Must ask your love or hate, for you can’t guess.
If love’s illusion, so are hate and fear…
Why not choose love?, when it’s so great, and near?!
And, nothing at each end, tied the ends together,
He held between his fingers and surveyed
The first cat’s-cradle, and since then has played.
Flames dazzle, dance, and fade to a friend’s face;
Dogs mime all features of the human race;
The willow weaves a walker from the air;
All Nature helps us see things that aren’t there.
To read Life’s Meanings, we must write the text:
What’s Right one day is often Wrong the next –
I’m rich or poor only as I profess,
Must ask your love or hate, for you can’t guess.
If love’s illusion, so are hate and fear…
Why not choose love?, when it’s so great, and near?!
Published: Rubies In The Darkness, UK, Summer 2005
October 31, 2008
CEMETERY - First Robishover and Chelmer Graveyard, NJ
Places of rest and quiet
Places of death
Where the leaves of crowding trees fall;
Where the squirrel buries nuts,
But no new tree will grow;
Where a swarm of tiny flies in the last hot and shaded air
Live short lives
Before the year dies;
Where the grass lives to be mown
Where the bones rot beneath their polished headstones
Saying Chesner and Shaber are at rest
But the dead do not rest
For the dead cannot rest
For the dead no longer exist.
Places of death
Where the leaves of crowding trees fall;
Where the squirrel buries nuts,
But no new tree will grow;
Where a swarm of tiny flies in the last hot and shaded air
Live short lives
Before the year dies;
Where the grass lives to be mown
Where the bones rot beneath their polished headstones
Saying Chesner and Shaber are at rest
But the dead do not rest
For the dead cannot rest
For the dead no longer exist.
Published: Candelabrum, UK, April 2008
October 25, 2008
SOME FLING AWAY
Some fling away
Some stay and cling—
Each their own Way
To do their own thing.
Sacrifice meaning
For love of the rhyme;
Know that in dreaming
You make up the time.
Sacrifice meaning—
When thought becomes sight
Your soul from its mole-hole
Blinks into life-light.
Some stay and cling—
Each their own Way
To do their own thing.
Sacrifice meaning
For love of the rhyme;
Know that in dreaming
You make up the time.
Sacrifice meaning—
When thought becomes sight
Your soul from its mole-hole
Blinks into life-light.
Published: Metverse Muse, India, March 2008
October 19, 2008
THE BUDDHA DIED AT 80
The Buddha died at 80, and they say
That Lao Tzu reached 200, by the Way;
But Jesus, only 33, was stood
Arms out against the circus side-show wood:
His hands first, then his feet and side and heart
Pierced by the drunken dagger-thrower’s darts;
The crowd had lost a man, but, quite unbothered,
Named him a God, and went and killed each other.
And you and I and sanity lost out
With Christ’s name from Humanity crossed out.
That Lao Tzu reached 200, by the Way;
But Jesus, only 33, was stood
Arms out against the circus side-show wood:
His hands first, then his feet and side and heart
Pierced by the drunken dagger-thrower’s darts;
The crowd had lost a man, but, quite unbothered,
Named him a God, and went and killed each other.
And you and I and sanity lost out
With Christ’s name from Humanity crossed out.
Published: Rubies In The Darkness, UK, Winter 2005
October 18, 2008
THE MORAL AESTHETICS OF POLITICS
The sense of poetry pervades all life:
Intense sensation, far-abstracted math,
Calm observation, passion-fired strife,
The glorious rise, the decadent aftermath.
Forgive me, pitying gods, for loving all
When “all” includes the tortured, starving, mad.
Symphonic raptures round pride’s bugle call
Drown out the truths where glory would be sad.
The very movement of the people lives,
Starring a missionary, or clown, or thief;
The moral climate either steals or gives –
It faithfilled strives, or slumps in disbelief.
So, in these patchwork years of peace and war,
Detached to calm the passionate lies that lurk,
We love life’s good and ill, but, more and more,
Our sympathetic vision makes us work.
Intense sensation, far-abstracted math,
Calm observation, passion-fired strife,
The glorious rise, the decadent aftermath.
Forgive me, pitying gods, for loving all
When “all” includes the tortured, starving, mad.
Symphonic raptures round pride’s bugle call
Drown out the truths where glory would be sad.
The very movement of the people lives,
Starring a missionary, or clown, or thief;
The moral climate either steals or gives –
It faithfilled strives, or slumps in disbelief.
So, in these patchwork years of peace and war,
Detached to calm the passionate lies that lurk,
We love life’s good and ill, but, more and more,
Our sympathetic vision makes us work.
Published: The Penwood Review, US, Fall 2005
Awarded Editor’s Choice certificate
Awarded Editor’s Choice certificate
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