Return to the Wasteland

1.

Behind us

beyond the horizon

we left the wasteland.

Ahead

we steered

intuitively

to freedom instead

Of liberty

we often recited

an incantation

to strengthen resolve

Random decay

Tick

there’s a falling away

Tick

there’s an ending day

Tick

there’s a word to say

whose time has passed

Tick

there’s a looseness inside

Tick

there’s a pain alive

Tick

where soundness before

you could ignore

Rage no more

Sing no more

in old age

for the rage

of the day

has passed.

Play no more

the great sage

for the weary

of life

will laugh.

At the moment

you think

you've lifted

the veil

Poems are not Poetry, anymore Ms. Moore

Utterances perhaps sent forth

Looking for acclaim

in this world,

But no one I can find

writes a line of poetry

anymore, Ms. Moore.

I blame the war on rhyme,

Though not to rhyme

is not a crime, except

when it is.

Paragraphs

When poetry

looks like paragraph

I can't

pretend to read.

Instead

I let the cat out

or iron

my long sleeves,

Or tidy

another room

or wait

in the gloom,

Until paragraphs

become poetry

behind

closed eyes,

soon.

12/11/10

Only trees can make a God

 1.

Only trees

can make a God,

only mountains & lakes

& fields & streams

White clouds

and blue sky

define Him

Only creatures

that have dreams.

No one sees the sun

By reflection

we see a world

(More strictly by absorption and emission of quanta)

By inspection

we complete a proof

(More generally through induction or deduction of phenomena)

By detection

the invisible becomes

(The causal chain here is long and somewhat admits to faith)

By direct-ion

no one sees the sun

1/03/10

Ms. Moore, I must disagree

school-books and

business documents

aren't poetry

except in the

hands

of newly

minted MFA's

who write

the half-epics

no one reads.

Even poems are not

poetry

anymore

Ms. Moore.

Utterances

perhaps

sent forth

by those MFA's

Looking

for

the power &

respect

accorded

their brethren MBA's.

More Moore

I would say

though

I don’t like images

as much as word-play

Pen in hand

bright spot in brain

I begin

I’ll describe rain

Makers of poem

Are they gods

these makers of poem?

Who take lines

in measure

And bestow

upon some,

pleasure.?

Lover's oath

Honor among thieves

as honor among lovers

But no two, I know

have ever bothered

To swear an oath

to each other

that should one be

accused

so say the other.

12/23/10

Limited time

Some think

to plan

their path to take

Next week,

next month,

next year.

But do they stop

in evening

to think