2015 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 500 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 8 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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“MNEME´s FADING STOREHOUSE GOODS”

The light was going.
The light came & went.

It might last 20 or 30 more years,
until it flickered permanently out:
dark replacing light,
sucked
into empty space.

At some point he decided that
waiting forever was unrealistic.
He let that thought go too.

Tomorrow, her face would be back,
& he would caress the image with
delicate pain.

For now, he´d search Mneme´s storehouse
yet again.

She´d still be there.
He´d still look away.
It would happen until the End.

The light came & went.
The light was going.

DEATH OF A PROMISE

DEATH OF A PROMISE

The game is over.
Only dust exited, some say. Even the rock wasn´t so big.
The wind just carried away a puff of dirt Heavenwards
sprinkling the fields with old Earth ash.

Others still tried to build it up
but we were told to move along, and did.
“Nothing to see here”.
They were right.

A nothing that promises is still naught.
And a promise given and not kept sours
in the mouths of the spitters of curses and creeds alike.
“Deliver the goods!” they shout.
They have a point.

Barren trees cast spindly shadows across old olive fields.
The sun, unusually bright, oppressive as ever.
No one walks the roads.
A dog chews on broken lamb bones
in the thin shade between houses.

Later, comparing notes beside the fire
we wondered about the doves.
There had never been so many…

THE CALLING

THE CALLING
(A very different Christmas story)

Freedom is now another takeaway item,
grabbed as a side to an order
barely thought through.
Like a phantom dish, hovering
around the kitchen, elusive, evasive
to the touch, but
greedily clung to when gotten.
Never the main dish,
it morphs into whatever we want:
salvation, security, a new story…

On the afternoon of the Calling,
they´d heard of a new baptism,
the brilliant cold waters
swelled with throngs, waiting for the dip.

Far away in a classy cement tomb,
declassified messages revealed a different interpretation:
they knew it was even more dangerous, magical, in fact,
held together by slender threads
of yearning and a need to breathe free.

Sensing the illegitimacy of this,
they manipulated the intelligence, &
sent a crazy set of three black-clad agents
to assess the situation
& terminate if necessary.

They witnessed an amazing sight:
no celebrations
along the cobbled streets.

It was just a family needing a place to stay.

Questions remained.
What if, they thought, inside the dankness
of that little room
a pestilence is born
And darkness reaches out?

WE WALK ON FIRE

WE WALK ON FIRE
 (In memory of John Trudell, Feb. 15, 1946 – Dec. 8, 2015)

There is fire beneath our feet,
it doesn´t warm, it burns-
we plant seeds of red fire and
walk on scorched earth
Mother, Father, giver of food of medicine
of Life, but
We walk on fire now…

Black tar waters, poisoned fish,
the running streams are sick, the lakes emptied.
Water tables are set with bones,
dinner is served cold
over a cauldron of Death,
meat for the masses.
We walk on fire now…

A foot from his stomach
an extra head, no eyes,
no brains in Brownsville, either
(no heart anywhere).
They walk on bended knees
set securely with metal pins
their faces masks of pain
their bodies Agent Orange suckled…
all over they are there watching us,
haunting consciences, such as there are left…
we walk on fire now…

They´ll battle it here
they´ll battle it there
barrels and bomblets on
bakeries and babies,
the wedding crashers of the West
flatten with their lackies
girls in their frilly dresses and
little boys on the beach
a hand, a finger, a fist
there is no justification for
any of this
we walk on fire now…

Purity drowns near Lesvos´ beaches
washes up with sneakers and jacket still on
and cameras carry the cries into homes
far away, tuning in
for a mini-series or politician´s lies
before tuning out
and turning away.
Turning away…
Always, turning away…
We walk on fire now…

A long way away from hope,
where the stars
are dimmer,
the oceans warmer, now Beijing produces
bricks from dirty air.
A plastic fork is taken from a tortoises ´nose,
a dead bird has plastic toys and paper clips
in its ripped belly,
alligators swim near golf clubs,
(Ojala! they would eat well there!)

Along Amazonian waters yellowed debris
and black poison feed the living
while the dead atop mountains are displayed,
glaciers revealing their dwindling goods.

Fire now.
We walk on fire now…

A world ablaze and spirits dying
We walk with bare feet on bare lands
while fire burns the hearts
and the soles of our feet
never touching the ground
never touching
the ground
in love…
never touching the ground
as we walk,
never touching,
never touching…
we walk on fire now
to the never receding horizon
lit by different fires
coming near
burning us in the Fire
we will never walk on again.

PEACE RANT

PEACE RANT

Peace.
Peace is unbidden, unborn and unseen,
Peace: our Great Incoherent.
Unvoiced and unstressed,
so shy, and undressed
the lie to the Great game “they” play.
Peace. No one wants Peace.
Peace has no shoes on the field.
Peace has no players at the table
Peace sits in blank minds
on back benches and chairs
and sighs…
 
Peace is a whisper you´ve heard so much it´s a low-level noise
Peace is the word “they” use when they have no balls
Peace is the sad cry of the weak
Peace is the end of discussion
Peace is the pathetic excuse for action
Peace is never really discussed, because
Peace requires labor

and arms
and legs in the Game
and feet to walk,
and placards to carry
and hands held together
blocking war
stopping traffic
and stopping politicians!
and stopping madmen from avoiding our faces…
demanding
Peace!
 
´cause Peace is people
yes Peace is
people…  looking in each other´s eyes
and Peace is
a new way to talk
and a new way to build
houses
and communities
and cities
and homes for aged
and the refugee
who is seen as you – and me
and greeted with flowers
´cause they too only want
Peace
 
and Peace
is a different way to love, ´cause
Peace is a different way of doing business, because
Peace is not business as usual, for
Peace is the end of business

and Peace is the alternative to the usual, and
Peace must be built with the same hands
and the same monies
and the same enthusiasm
we now build
Wars…
´cause if Peace don´t get built
what the Hell are these hands for?
 
Peace can no longer be
a bunch of shadows
around the corner
hands above the fires, rubbing vainly for warmth
while
War is the business we all toil for.
 
Peace has got to get in the Game…
Peace has got to get built…and assembled…and planned and carried out
But
 
War is the usual,
the way that it is,
the only alternative we´ve got,
War is “our nature” and
War is “our way” but
War is the smell of charcoal fried flesh in deserts
and War is those deaths in
in dark taxis
in tall buildings
in poor countries
in overrun farmlands
on ancient rivers
and magical seas
and War
is the angry that lives and always
breathes…
because
War is the way we´ve always done it…
 
and when the war is over
we have no
Peace 
because we have not built
a canopy
for Peace to rest under
We have turned away women and children who want
Peace
and sent them drowning and back to
War, where they came from,
running away
because they were seeking
Peace.
But War is what we are always
headed for…
 
Peace needs its own lumber and nails
it needs communities to build it
it needs everybody´s input
it needs craftsmen and draughtsmen
movers and shakers
women with shoulders
and women with brains
babies are needed
and teens with their joy
Peace is the edifice to humanity
 
(if we have any left)
 
and Peace is the name
we spend no time naming
Peace is the pinnacle of reality
we dare not articulate…
 
because Peace
is the word that bores us all now
the word that
makes us swallow
and shift our feet
and wring our hands
´cause “we all want Peace”
but no one builds it…
 
Peace is the way
 it´s the destination too
it´s the garden we cultivate
the flowers we grew
Peace is our last chance
the only one we have
because otherwise
Peace is the final quiet we´ll get
when
Our homes are destroyed
and our cities slashed
and out schools become
training grounds for War
and Death the god we worship
always feeding
the next War that
grants us our deaths until we find there
there in that box
our final and only
Peace
at last…

 

 

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