Mars and the stars . . .

Men, like the spurm they are,
spurt and spume
themselves into the vast
vagina of the universe
which waits, hot upon entry,
Until relativity cools them down.

Yellow Ribbons . . .

On the trees,
Yellow ribbons on their sleeves

But red is the blood
You spill in war
And colors are what
Dead eyes can see
No more.

So yellow ribbons
Wrap the trees while
Bombs blast the sand
To its knees

     And


Countries begin to sew
Yellow ribbons to the body bags,

Let yellow ribbons become

Refugee rags,

And remember that dead yellow

Eyes can not see their
Own toe tags.


This poem grew out of the frustrating realization that ending Vietnam, which is what we libs liked to think, hadn't meant we wouldn't have to face the same idiocy over and over again.  But here we are, a second Gulf War later, Homeland Securitied and 1984ed, and supposedly scared to death.

Stress and Strain

Here's my first rewrite.  This poem's origin is in the poet's reaction the first War in Iraq.  I'll post the original later.

Stress and Stain

Killing my brain
Leaves my train of thoughts tangled as twelve people

Dead in a confusion of crashed railroad cars,

Cabooses up, engine ends down.

No, yes, I can or think I could, toot-toot.

Just empty sounds of parts falling, echoing away
        like oil fire dust clouds in arid lands or
Blownup up Twin Towers.

Glad Roses . . .

I can fix sad roses . . ., she says

And her smile confirms
Like rain on the earth
That indeed sad roses
Is familiar turf.

But it’s not so easy
This task in my mind
The world with its roses
Is definitely blind.

They’re scentless you see
And sad for that reason
These roses I give
No matter the season.

So it isn’t the wilt from
Stem to the hilt
Nor the mad range of
Colors that drives me so sad.

But the lack of a scent
And the image it recalls
That hammers at my heart,
Raises my walls.

I can fix sad roses

Her smile supposes . . .

As she arrays them in a vase
Then turns and pauses
At the frown she can see
Is still on my face.

So she takes my hand and
Pulls me in a way
That suggests dancing
As we begin to sway.

And it’s then that my senses
Pick up the scent
Of timeless embraces
And memories well spent.

I can fix sad roses.
I can here her voice murmur . . .

And her smile is my smile
As we waltz down the aisle

And the laughter we hear
Is from a child at play

Or a family gathered
At the end of the day.

And the roses are real
Red, white, and yellow
And the music is moving
And her touch smooth and mellow.


And its night on our porch swing
In a light breeze
And the roses are shadows . . .
With a backdrop of trees.

Space . . .

Robert Ardrey posed the question for the ages
When he offered up his treatise on rats in cages.
As space recedes, said he, the pace of life leaves us no
Time to breathe, crowds in, forces us to cross against
The yellow to red light, doesn’t wait nor hesitate.
While the breath of fresh air becomes the fetid exhale,
Heat, the result of speed,
Expands each encounter’s
Press
Sure as a cavein cuts off
Light
Turns day into night, begins the claustrophobic’s fright.
Crushed against each other, each instant seems longer and so the
Press
Sure grows – We move – Race against
The red light or even more (maddeningly)
Cruise through it at the end of the line obdurately refusing to look left or 

Right.
You know this truth even as you sit in denial waiting for the last car to 
Hurtle
Past and the cars behind you begin their honking cry
All ready to race to where the next lights lie. 

And even each recognition of this act of speed compressing,
Instead of giving us peace,
Becomes another form of the press
Sure to push us even faster.
Ever closer to the edge that’s despair. Consumed, subsumed . . .
Our terror turning ist.
And meanwhile, there it is blinking, the cursor light winking,
With it’s only eye – telling us
That it’s Pentium (TM) process can take us there,
Race us there out into inner space,
Our gameboys palmpiloted.
Our implanted synapses
Imploding at Warp 8.
Which seems great, until
We realize like the Star Trekkers we so wish we were,
"Beam me up Scotty"
That that is the speed at which our universe begins to disintegrate,
Begins to un relate.
And only Super (the person that is) man can reverse our fate,
Can retract the boarding gate,
Can reinvent the late great time when we all had a little 

SPACE . . .

We need . . .

the stress, the strain, the obstacle to breach, the winters and the rain, torrents of pain.  So maybe we're about to get what we need.

To Kiss and Tell . . .

rolls real well
along the seam
that seals my mind.
But instant thoughts
like kisses soft
and lips that loft
rush fools into kisses that tell far too well,
that instant thoughts can have lasting
effect
on those who’s minds let kisses dwell . . .