MAY DAY MANIFESTO

MAY DAY MANIFESTO

I am not to be ignored
passed over, neglected, torn from community,
discarded, rent from the bonds which bind me to
all others.
I am.
So we are.
And by the dignity of being, I am to be respected.
I am a worker.
A laborer, a crafts-person, a field hand, a driver,
a carriage maker, a cab driver, a shoveler, a digger,
a plasterer, a midwife, a nurse, a caretaker,
a teacher, a driller, and nailer, and a builder.
Only where I am is there “civilization”.

But where I struggle, is everywhere.

I am not the owner of my labor, the beneficiary of my work
I receive paper and coin, forced to beg for more each year
and in the morning I will awaken and begin again until I die.
Today though, is my day,
Today is May Day.
I am not to be ignored.
I will not be oppressed, denied, abandoned or forgotten.
I will stand with others together, raise my fist up high
and welcome the day
when together we will take what is ours
and create a new world.
I am a worker.
Today is for all of us.

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SUN TODAY

SUN TODAY

“let the hair down, a little
yes, just like that…”

the belly trembles
her waist wanders
along with her attention
“is he real?”

in defense,
he whispers to the air between them
“now is elevation of concern
walk with me there”

nodding, she turns to the mountain
lifts her hands
cries for something solid
so that the ground will hold her up.

between the trees and the rocks
there will be sun today.

TERMINAL TERMA

TERMINAL TERMA

E Ma Ho!
How wondrous!
Another expensive cannon,
Another gun, another missile
To be fired
At another enemy yet unnamed
Surely decided upon beforehand,
Unborn, unmanifested until called forth,
The hopeless acceleration
Of the world´s foremost game
Planned by a Navy, an Army, a suit and a tie!
Will a brake be ever put on this drive?
Will a driver be found to steer away from the inevitable?
How wondrous!
We look and see nothing!
There is no change, no meaning,
Only a special Hell for the widow makers
And their repetitive tasks.
There is nothing more to be seen.
It is ever thus, and always to be.
How wondrous!

PAST DISCUSSION

PAST DISCUSSION

In deep waters run foul messages:
A dead powerlessness to move it all,
To alter the streaming waves of refuse
Absorbed, deposited, eaten and flushed back again
Into the blue vastness
Is confirmed. Dying, dying is our Source.

An admiralty of useful idiots
Plotting and designing, stealing from the ocean floor
Dumping on its surface, eating from its bloodied
Sacred heart, in the center depths filled with
BPA, PCB, mercury…

The naked ground of resistance must open,
The compassionate heart must wrench itself free
&, dancing to the light of revolution,
Overcome the pathologies of our time, becoming truly helpful,
Overturning crowds, listening for cries of anger, setting them free,
Pulling morality away from the staid confines of mute discussions.

MOAB & the End of the World

MOAB & THE END OF THE WORLD

they die just as easily on bright days
the sun pressing down on hard valleys,
the dirt of the bombed out cars
cooling the doors to the rare touch.

in cities, the old couches in old apartments
are filled with smelly stuffing,
on top, fading dreams are forgotten
as the corpse smells in the summer heat-
the air turned off years ago
the payments ended long before.

somwhere out in the country, trees laugh at the huts
they still occupy, papa´s rummy eyes rubbed by calloused hands
after a day of field work
the water he drinks is brown, like his children
whose sick eyes are flat, day after day.

elsewhere a biblical Moab flattens part of the horizon
making children scream 10 miles away,
their world ending
though they have forgotten
it has ended long before.

DAKINI

DAKINI

She rules naked space, riding clouds,
Dancing into my heart with fervor & sharp steps while
Crashing into my Ego´s walls-
Tearing down barriers that prevent
The arising of luminous Wisdom,
Grabbing me by the scruff of my neck
Kissing me madly with lips speaking the Dharma,
Reminding me of Death´s presence
Just beyond,
& then, holding my hand,
Carrying me to the palace of power,
The shining evanescent place
Where clarity is united with emptiness
&, seeing things truly for the first time
I cry with delight & tears of gratitude
Flying through the empty skies,
Riding on rainbows,
Dropping Blessings wherever I go.

WHAT MATTERS

WHAT MATTERS

Does it matter the dead stay quiet,
Refraining from commenting on the state of the world
Where behind black-rimmed glasses,
On shiny tables where soft, pink elbows rest &
Blank eyes tell themselves stories they don´t believe
& sign papers
Commanding another series of
Eyeless projectiles from
Buttons pushed in air-tight safe clean rooms
To destroy targets, always far over there,
& the dead eyes which blankly stare back into the skies
Remind us all that we too
Signed with our silence
Their death warrants?
Does it matter?

Does it matter the mother´s grief howls
Over empty nights
& sucks the life from the dry days
Among the hot sands
Where her children were scattered
Among ancient rocks
Along with bitter & broken fathers?

What matters when those thin-lipped suits & red ties
Stand before the cameras,
Staring at some horizon of history
Speak to the cameras & tell those stories
Designed in a room with paneled walls
& paintings of princes of commerce
Lamenting the carnages they grind with every meal
& the dissonance is heard only
On the cold floors of bloody morgues where
The children are stiff
& the families hearts emptied but for
The heat of vengeance?

Does it matter that when we watch
& when those cries are heard or
Those weeping mothers
Reach out to dead open space,
Their arms in twisted soul pain,
That we click to a new channel, nodding as
Praising statesmen & their suited minions
Reflect on camera, reflect on cue,
“This is for the better”?

If this doesn´t matter,
What matters now?

RESTING PLACE

RESTING PLACE

There are long strings of pain
which fall so heavy on the breast
the heart murmurs in sad discontent,
wavering between a sigh and a cry
of loss for us all.

There were lions of courage who faced the world
with no strings attached
leaving a remembrance
of Time when it shimmered and waved
to us with warmth.

Now, in the grass the plastic stays beyond imaginable Time
choking the land with reminders
of our presence,
never wanted, never really needed
anyway.

All around are the gutted remains of hope:
emaciated reeds, sickly threads
of fabric made from hearts and bodies
now torn and tender
losing their color and their capacity to
inspire.

When the lights turn off, the kitchens silent,
the computers and related tools die,
the rays of warmth from above
becoming deadly fires to take refuge below
the ground, where the damp is dried out and
the night harsh and sterile,
will the plastic bags we find
say “Recycle”?
And what will be done, then?
The strings connecting us in netted
graves, well below the regenerating Earth
will bind us just as tightly,
though with mummified horror.

GARDEN SURPRISE

GARDEN SURPRISE

She walked near the meadow alone, her pen tucked
Neatly behind her ear,
Her inner timer set to ‘soon’. Along the garden path,
Winding in circles she’d remembered as a child,
A stone centaur, half-sunken, glared at her
With scowling menace. In her reverie she’d forgotten to
Affirm her own wit on occasions like this and,
Pulling the pen out quickly, jotted notes to add to her collection
Of nature poesy. A far off whistle caught her attention.
In the midst of sloppily written verbiage she’d later forget to unlock,
Death awakened and, suddenly seeing the Centaur shift
To smile at her, she understood the day would be
A lot longer than planned.

DISTANCE

 

DISTANCE

What is distance
But living at the edge of
That great pause where
The circle gets tighter
And the dust covers
The panes we see through
In irritating burns of
Teary eyes?