Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Fools Parade

It's so cruel
all we learn in school
is mocking behavior
reciting some rule
not that life's here to savor
for each free playful fool
Enter dear Fool upon the Precipice, prattling ditties of daily airwaves.
She is whirling blithely, eyes upon a distant rainbow, breathing in clouds.
Breathing out daisies and daffodils and a brilliance of pansies.
She is dancing to her own symphony, entranced in her deepest essence.
Without thought, without prayer, without a government authorized identity,
there are no guarantees, no happy ending.
Brief infusion
of giddy illusion
just enough to guilefully entice.
Sparkling Neural net
a secret
clue revealing
purpose, meaning;
wild eternal child,
ages' flamboyant fool,
Here’s to the weary.
Here’s to the fun.
Here’s to the berry that makes us all young.
Here’s to the rulers.
Here’s to the fools.
Here’s to the toilers and tellers of truths.
Here’s to the end of another decline.
Here’s to the best of our time.
April’s Fool
A Fool I've been,
jogging behind visions,
cringing from derision,
seeking solace from a merry Moon
too soon gone old.
Peeping back on follies,
sticking pins in pain -- jolly?
no, morose, cold ...
Harridan crone.
Have my wanderings sown
no happy harvest, no cozy home?
Snuggling into punishing remorse
"You knew you should have run a better course!"
"You know you deserve to be alone."
Is that true?  Am I the Fool careening
down the precipice,
broken, no meaning;
is this my hapless fate?
Daze of failure insists I mistake
castigation for a goal?
A Fool can be a cherished, merry soul,
lightly traipsing heroic mountain trails,
reveling in freezing rain and snow,
tasting bite of ice and flame without bitterness.
This I know.
Somnolent glide, sinuous, silvery stair.
Burnt eyes still, closed to the world.
What glimpse might I witness
if only I dare?
Is there purpose to wandering Earth?
Should I care?
But what if I'm missing the thrill?
What would carry me there?
Over the boundaries; into the wild.
Not a safe task to commit to a child.
A quest full of questions.
A fool's 'oliday.
And, have I mentioned,
no promise of pay.
Just a born again supplicant
reshaping the code,
creating the tale I'll tell
when I'm old.
Mood’s choral turns to Spring.
That special lethargy that poets faux affect,
reflective as a silver pool.
We like the love that lets us play the fool,
exudes good humor, respite from
sober shame of longing heart.
That flame, that spark that arts
wish power to capture,
that rapture.
Let the goodtimes roll
down fresh verdant hillside,
winter's sorrows
spilling out like seed.
Cleansed free.
Elegant foolery open to bountiful showers.
Flagrant flowers, emergent liberation.
Layered legend long ripens, tangled,
mired below in
torpid traipse through dust and gloom.
Swept into light as destiny,
revealed by labor of cultivation,
excavated, bestowed honoured place
in ritual chorus.
‘round hallow table, exultant vibration.
Energies blend, fuse.
Recombinant winds call timeless tunes.
Rhythmic movements re- and un- engage,
ever changing,
never wholly new.
Wrested from Mama's warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it's ladies' choice as you squirm
in fool's corner.
Such a chore -- kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter.
Penny Fools
Pound Fools
run ruinous errands,
rush past threshold of Hell
in cheap reticules.
Cast into a class that laughs at rules,
what holds grimy chaos at bay?
(Fools at least are pure, are gay and
without malice.)
Smoke simmering black deliciously divides while cackling
into echoes far seeking.
But there's that puppy-dog barking need for love, for
status, for a wise old fool to follow into certain death
and beyond.
Who believes these mutterings?
Who would want to?
I tell Your secrets
in riddles, rhythms
If those fools would but
smile and dance
the sands would fly into music
Play on
People I became over ages.
Foolish sages.
Slave to wages.
Humble servant to whomever
gave a glance.
Always ready for a game with chance,
burning bridges to
swim in fate's brave waves.
What fool would risk stability,
shame, neighbor’s hostility,
to resist?  Stripped of private self-determination,
could such fools exist?
What can I say?
There’s valid point in
all this farce?
That the fool on the precipice
dances beautifully?
No matter
what the cost
there's a prize worth the price
of steadfast duty?
There is bountiful advice
in the stars?
There's a lucky star;
and it's ours?
There is magick,
to believe in?
Requited hope, ecstatic grace?
There is more than we imagine?
There is gold in inner space?
There is danger; there are dragons?
There are knights and righteous cause?
There are chaos taming tactics  --
There are underlying laws
that we obey?

Sunday, March 8, 2015

woman's worlds

Your Philosophy
movie plot as object lesson
boys find valuable object
boys lose valuable object
boys fight to get valuable object back
I am woman born
no source of father's pride
too early in my days, they
track my aroma
I know not to hide
use me in some back room
until my womb rises with a new slave
for their diversions
I am sacred mother
tit tied to feeding, always feeding
(agonized bleeding in secret shame)
No more than a tether, a trough, and
tantalizer of the profane. I am a wrecked
train, a vehicle left to rust, blamed for
slatternly stagnation,
never quite thrown away.
Reject me; reject hard truths,
long trod on diamonds, golden geese brought
to slaughter.
Obscured like icebergs, amphibious myths
kept subdued, symbolic
work songs, prophetic exaltation,
labyrinthine gardens,
we who are only dreams in your philosophy.
You may well be better
stuck, your own
wheel of clay.
My lesson, when I am ready,
is to leave you to your way;
cleave to ecstasy
loose, fanciful, subjective,
Athena's Gift
Athena fair
stalwart daughter of Zeus
graces her time and place
with divine knowledge.
Today unlined face,
silken hair,
robust yet fragile form
are proclaimed as the graces
of womanhood.
Athena, lost in the pantheon,
whispers to the nightears
of her faithful,
saying:  "True woman's mind
inclines to wisdom."
But Daddy's girl
wants more recompense
for loneliness.
Here at the bar again
Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.
Deepest Scorpio, gusts tinged icy.
Onward toward Chumley's  2 pm Village poetry reading.
Searching outside book stall for bargains,
found a Paul Goodman
with cat and dog and baby photographs
to give to Cindy
a gift of love for a fragile child
Still affright from last night's heavy scene,
wherein the police took my man away again,
this time with my blessing and accomplicement.
. . . A man is a hard thing.
Also a drag on my developmental aspirations.
When all he does is loom and threaten
Big Brute Violence
to storm my sensibilities.
(What's frustrating is he doesn't hear me
plead for shelter.)
Laughing in the park we loved
Crying in the night we parted
Oh, beseech I, gods above:
Why must you leave me broken-hearted?
(and I know he'll be returning with more disregards
and diatribes and possibly pistol drawn to fire)
So I sit here in the bar, again.
Drinking sweet Kahlua and awaiting the poetry.
Taking a respite, you see.
Oh, Goddess, for this while,
bar nothing to this troubled child
(for child I feel, though woman grown).
Let peace alone assail me.
Pink and Blue
(and red all over)
Fist shakes from rage
channeled, coursing,
flailing bloodlines.
Caught, snarled,
stagnant dying ocean
willing to be taken down
from fear to violence.
Call wild arms,
breast, sinew, shame.
Chemistry surges, overplays.
One mortal coup de grace
burst sword to heart
that never lived
beyond desire.
If man is fire, dissolved
into greater waves,
why does Woman weep?
Why does not the flood
of pain absolve and
succor?  Why should fate
deny blessings of mortal
release in wash of blood
to lady fair,
snakes and thistles to braid her hair,
expose her tortured face?
Eyes that kill in silence,
stone lips, wrinkled nose,
washed out in times of
stoic denial.  Why must
she kneel, vile, victim
of violence, not its cause?
Who makes these laws of
natural selection?
Who takes the stone?
Who takes the stone's projection?
cubicle woman
The moments slither by if you forget they're there.
Sucking in sweetness,
hot sugared coffee, aroma of memory.
It might be a sluggish, clammy
descent of summer afternoon. Hints of autumn
like blackberry spicing the air.
The people here are decent.
They smile to make conversation a pleasant bit of business.
They want me to feel safe, subdued.
It doesn't matter that we are never more than strangers,
passing faces, complaisant.
They bring me coffee with sugar and plastic sticks for stirring.
In this moment all of the world
turns so skillfully
I move along without pause for acknowledgement,

stealthily aware.