now i am the old lady

{..}

sitting alone in my old rockin’ chair
ya think i’m neglected? i don’t
time with my loves have only
two measurements:
time they are here, time they return.
holding no expectations
here and returns
make for great jubilation

there’s rhyme and reason
rockin’ alone
thru the ashes one finds
flip sides to past consternation
forgiving others becomes as easy
as forgiving self
seeing self as friend is to
reclaim our very own birth right

golden years become golden
in full acceptance of
all life is a circle
bury me please
in an old pine box
don’t want no
ashes to ashes
want fertilizer
.

A Tribute To Truthiness

{..}

once we have seen there’s no exit
hate is a violent word
loving to hate is the same as
hating to love
don’t mess with Mr. in-between

of course we have addictive compulsions
that’s one way Huey
to survive the mad hatter head

compulsive compassion
being the order of the day
so long delayed
by he/she who would rule the world
still limited to the ‘known world’
foolishly some even would rule
outer space

“Stand on you’re own two feet!”

yeah?

so?

our walking wounded numbers grow stronger
bigger, one by one
two if by sea
so unused to coming over and play
it was a long and weary way
just lookin’ for a home
where family and community recognize
the humanity of all
who abide there…
now is a good time
for a community on Planet Earth
to be a Good Neighbor Sam…José, et al

the gig is up
nobody’s rewriting history anymore
(both sides accusing other of same)
we have a live martyr in the limelight now
an honorable Mr. Wiki Leaks
may he not lead us into human morality?
that “Brotherhood of Man”?
so many profess
so few
understand
the essence

we had it once in full measure Louie
the House Undivided
and No One has torn us more asunder than
our very own politicians
…not all… TYGG !!

some are listening to our children
what they say
and yes there is a better way
to get from here to there
what parent has never desired
their children be more intelligent, make more heart-felt choices
than we?
it is our shame it shall be our glory
if
someday
soon
we overcome

.

Father’s Day Play Time

{..}

no, a
cars turn into robots
funniest thing almost i’ve seen
silliest thing
i think i’ll send
my daughter to he who
loved
of course i’m kidding
my daughters are quite evolved
don’t make me sad
or do i’m leaving
too soon
or not
i am the dealer of my own cards
the paver of my way
that brought me here
to this safe place
human guardian angels
garloppy & galore
a yellow camero
there came a wind
blew all the way thru June
want wind energy?
take me take me take me

it’s supper time
you hafta come in now
.

HOOTIE’S SONG by Doreen Glover

.

this is how Hootie wakes up……sung to the tune of “joy to the world”
(after a slow one second stretch getting out of the kennel/bed)

GOOD MOR OR OR ORNNIG……….. THE WORLD IS GREAT
I’M AWAKE I’M AWAKE I’M AWAKE
LETS PLAY LETS PLAY LETS PLAY
OH YEA TOOOOOOO DAYYYY IS ANOTHER DAY

LETS GO LETS GO LETS GO
JUMP HIGH JUMP LOW LETS GO
LETS GO OHHHHHHH LETS GOOOOOO …….CAN WE GO

GRAB THAT TOY AND RUN
GRAB THAT TOY AND RUN
GRAB THAT TOY AND FLING HING IT ONNNNNNN THE HU UU MAN

(repeat twice)

i sit on the couch for a good mornng “get run over” and (pet me please)
then off to coffee and that’s when she will finally start to chill and play
with a toy on the couch when i start the computer up.

when i finally get up from chair her excitement starts up again with:

WHATS UP WHATS UP WHATS UP
YA GANNA PLAY YA GANNA PLAY
COME ON NOW LETS PLAY…………ITS A GREAT NEW DAY
.

REVOLVE, poem by Michael W. Eliseuson

.

When the trempola plays,
Sad Sarnia runs down the page,
Blood-stained revolution,
When freedom cried alone,
Unheard in the wilderness,
Of the damned,
And the yet unborn.

What blew the bakery,
Also blowed the baker’s brains,
Blew bread loaves to bits,
Blasted all warm biscuits to hell,
And the cakes,
I cannot describe,
Only that they were all dead.

The girl with no head?
Held her headless doll,
Neither wept no more,
All tears dead and lost,
In streets of anguished rubble,
The black corpses of cars,
In jumbled oily smoke,
Jammed in laments of violence,
In that first second,
Of grief eternal.

Today,
We raise the monuments,
Amidst the tended graves,
With speeches made,
The band does play,
Harsh notes indeed,
Each bomb blasting note,
Riles the ears,
Ordering gladness,
For what I do not know,
The vexed poet stands afar,
Empty pen in hand,
Empty pages falling,
From disfigured hands,
Who shall remember,
And how shall they know?

THE ROAD By Michael W. Eliseuson

.

The road,
Is the mind,
And the mind,
Is the road,
We mind the road,
The road does not mind us,
But I don’t mind,
The road is just an idea,
And so am I.

I shake out a Marlboro,
Stick it between my lips,
Light it with a lighter,
And drag on it,
I smoke it.
I am a smoker,
And I do it well.

Smoke is just an idea.
I don’t mind it.
Odd that people,
Should worry about death,
Since they will die anyway,
And death is just an idea,
Just like the road is an idea,
So why should we mind?

There are many roads,
Each is different,
Yet, we drive them all,
About the same,
Except the really hard ones,
We drive those differently,
And sometimes we mind.

I have driven many roads,
I cannot remember them all,
And none of them remember me,
I was just a wheeled machine,
Nothing else to the tar,
The macadam,
The gravel,
The clay,
The cement highway,
The grassy road,
With its ruts,
Sometimes wet,
Sometimes dry,
Sometimes rocky,
And sometimes so smooth,
It felt like a dream,
To drive that road,
Through woods,
Along the riverside,
The cool brooklets,
The lake,
Don’t you remember?
I do.

I remember,
Riding in an old car,
Back in the 1950’s,
With my father,
At the wheel,
My mother beside him,
My brother next to me,
In the hard back seat,
Looking out moving windows,
Buggy and old,
The countryside so green and sere,
The still land,
So silent,
So green and golden with harvest,
Cows in the fields,
Old barns,
Older houses made of simple wood,
Unpainted,
Seared by the the sun,
Gray boards and Black roofs,
Tired-looking tractors,
And old dogs,
And father would always say,
“Bountiful. Bountiful.”
And in those simple words,’
My heart felt glad.

The road today,
Is not so good as that,
It is faster now,
On the big roads,
So much looks all the same
Repeats itself over and over,
Until my brain feels lame,
And empty,
And I do mind.

I mind enough,
To write these words,
I mind enough,
To remember,
And to care,
To even share,
A bit of yesteryear,
When things moved slower,
All things on a human scale,
Except New York City,
Chicago,
Other big cities,
But that was alright,
I didn’t mind.

Today,
Millions of people,
Make their living by the road,
Because that’s where all the people are,
They are all on the road,
Everyone gets on the road sometime,
Some never get off,
Some are born on the road,
Some live on the road,
Some die on the road,
But we don’t mind,
We want the road.
The road is us.
We are the road people,
And by the several billions,
In our countless millions of cars and trucks,
We should be scared.

We go and go,
Then we return and return,
And then we go again,
We keep going,
And returning,
And going,
Until the return going,
Is the going return,
And we live that way,
Day after day,
Week after week,
Month after month,
Years upon years of it,
The going and the returning,
And the going again,
And again the returning,
We are the road people,
We should be scared.

What happens on the road?
Not much.
We just want to get there,
And then get back.
We call it normal now.
It is normal,
To be a road person.

This Rabbit Wants Proof by Daisy Dormouse

.

No proof
No proof
Said the white rabbit
But the king and queen
Don’t need a trial
Really
They just need
The jury to
Believe in
Fog, and smoke
Send out that smoke
Smoke machines, little grenades
On the six o’clock news
Launched over a decade
Decade of words
It must be true
If everybody says so
Everybody said so
For ten long years
Talk, as always,
cheap
Costing only
The ad time
For pharmaceuticals

We cannot have a trial
If there’s no proof
explained the king
He might be found
Not guilty
Ghastly
Unpatriotic thought
To find our chosen enemy
Our scapegoat
Innocent
People want revenge
The people might
The king said carefully
Lose their faith in us.

Faith, the hideout for
Manipulation,
Lies and fraud
Not seeing that the roses
Have been painted red
No need for trials
And juries, anymore
Just the faith
No need for logic

A dead enemy
Can’t defend himself
One-sided conversations
Don’t arrive at
Truth
But truth, like logic
Doesn’t seem to matter
To the crowds who
Dance with such abandon

Evidence?
The smoke’s enough
To make us throw away
Our trials and juries
Put aside our logic
Put those brain cells
In the closet
And celebrate
A meaningless
And maybe false
Revenge
.

The Negro Speaks of Rivers by Langston Hughes

~

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of
_____ human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
_____ went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
_____ bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

~