My Jake Poem

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i wondered today thru the poems, Jake,
the ones i published, hard copy,
mine — and others

not gonna speak here
about your poems
or the one that found me you

my meandering didn’t start at the beginning
of publishing, i’ve wondered there quite often,
perhaps i will again, but not now

quite near the beginning, mid ’90’s
where my little ezine was born
i found interest of note,
mine
and others,
seventeen years post publishing,
clear as bell ringing
those that touched my heart again,
those remembered with hurt
i passed on by
passed by also
those
with neither

about one hour sufficed
to pause, to ponder,
to remember
my jake and all his facets
most important to me now

this day when i measured my life
as seventeen years a nurse
as twenty-four into poetics

bringing me around to Jake
my longest lasting understander
who never needed to ask me
for whom i write

tonight, my Jake,
i write for thee

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first letter in last letter out

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turns out
unknown but known
inside the outer covering
it’s getting cold
personal i say
not universal
one can hope
and do
lethal are the final scratchings
cultural
future shocks having come and gone
how many times too many
to count
will the last one out have a light
to turn out
one last shooting star remarking
here!
and gone again!

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Good Grief Reza Sayah! CNN anchor

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Charlie wants me to ask you
what is an Iranian doing
on national news (CNN at least)
espousing
US and Israel
needs to be “very worried”
about your country, Iran.

This Country Girl wants to know
) why and when you left Iran,
how and whaa-t?

for give me
i just can’t stop imagining
a world, this world
where all nuclear weapons
degenerate in the place
where all them that has ’em
and they
will be left to clean up
their messy pollution
.

if i could kill yesterday

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no, not kill…un-birth it,
yesterday, so
i wouldn’t have to knowingly know

there’s a kind of hurt
all over the world
all over the world
tonight

and it’s a powerful machine
of human flesh
from
“Ain’t gonna take it anymore!”
to
“Can you hear us now?”

one half hour till morning
the odor is not fading
nor the resolve

if i could kill yesterday i would not
somewhere somebodies learned
something
if not only
human evolution in time
for Compassion

if we ever needed you
we need you now

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when a grandchild dies

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the pain is too great to endure
there is no believing
in a Compassionate God
we look to the stars
see every parent’s grief
one by one a never ending

form your family circle
shed the tears for one another
knowing/remembering
we carry on
for one another
who are still here

there is a reason
there is a season
hearts touched
will touch again
in the peaceful valley
someday
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Open letter to Jonathan Pollack

I tried, three times, to send you a closed letter via Brookings Institution
unfortunately it seems
they do not want input from non members
ergo:

Dear Jonathan Pollack,

Please acknowledge what N. Korean wants from America – A Peace Treaty. To them, a Truce implies we may attack them again. Do the right thing.

Thank you,
Great Grandmother Summer

signing off

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ain’t packing my bags
i’m ready to go
more naked than
the quarter moon
no cover will up
the status quo

over the hill and far away
no loon will call me crazy
only people do
but i am not their matter

what matters is
i love
you love
he loves
she loves
we love
they love

and we are of this matter
tattered shredded scared
by far
the most
emotional creature
the strongest willed
the most
fragile hearts

somewhere between
Florence Nightingale and Captain Spock
emotion weds logic

when day dreams die
be consoled in
moon dreams

Mad Hatter step 77

~

set the self free to be
mad at self
raise your right eyebrow
feel it say “you’re ok,
laugh at yourself”

we are our very own
judge and jury
intuitively knowing
peace comes with justice

if our ego does not atone
our super ego will
id
activate

~

Pisces visits Aries

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ahh, coffee time
candle lit, tobacco lit, light lit
(kinda red and covered with Springgreen flowers)

tonight, predawn i hear/see
God’s Learning Channel admit
their God knew what they were doing
when they sacrificed the lamb
the Egyptians would know they were killing their God Aries
and that all of the plagues were aimed at their other Gods
and they, the Egyptians, would set them free…

but here we sit dear Aries
tiny mythos in the sky
reminders one might say
Gods are myth —
they are not killed by their symbols
wantonly destroyed
get over it
Spring will arrive
in 24 days
here or not here
Shooting Stars
here then gone
where?

Equinox Eve is coming soon
now my dear ol’ man
tell me what your love will bring
whisper if you can
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Front Page by Gillian Clarke

from the chapbook “Making the Beds for the Dead”

Front Page

It’s the photograph that does it.
A man howling for his child.
You can’t forget it
despite a let up in the rain,
sunlight on a river,
a flight of geese over an estuary.
It’s a rucksack of sorrow
on your shoulder, on your mind.

Try leaving it on the platform
to be defused like a suspect package.
Try leaving it on the train,
personal belongings
they remind you to take.
Try to lose, bin, burn it,
indestructible as polythene
of flowers in a filthy stairwell.

Maybe just this once
we should forego the minute’s silence.
Maybe this time, in supermarket,
street and school and public square,
studio, station, stadium,
standing together, eyes closed,
we should throw back our heads
for a one minute howl.

Carcanet Press