Sunday, March 31, 2013

On Easter Morning

	Easter Morning by Jim Harrison On Easter morning all over America the peasants are frying potatoes in bacon grease. We're not supposed to have "peasants" but there are tens of millions of them frying potatoes on Easter morning, cheap and delicious with catsup. If Jesus were here this morning he might be eating fried potatoes with my friend who has a '51 Dodge and a '72 Pontiac. When his kids ask why they don't have a new car he says, "these cars were new once and now they are experienced." He can fix anything and when rich folks call to get a toilet repaired he pauses extra hours so that they can further learn what we're made of. I told him that in Mexico the poor say that when there's lightning the rich think that God is taking their picture. He laughed. Like peasants everywhere in the history of the world ours can't figure out why they're getting poorer. Their sons join the army to get work being shot at. Your ideals are invisible clouds so try not to suffocate the poor, the peasants, with your sympathies. They know that you're staring at them.

Labels: On Easter Morning, poetry

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Sunday, September 09, 2012

Under the Sea

Dear Readers, I was reared to believe that God or Goodness is everywhere, but mostly, above, like, in the sky. I've never thought of God under the sea. I love authors, poets and experiences that nudge me to look at what I "know" differently. Keep thinking, Terri This morning no sound but the loud breathing of the sea. Suppose that under all that salt water lived the god that humans have spent ten thousand years trawling the heavens for. We caught the wrong metaphor. Real space is wet and underneath, the church of shark and whale and cod. The noise of those vast lungs exhaling: the plain chanting of monkfish choirs. Heaven's not up but down, and hell is to evaporate in air. Salvation, to drown and breathe forever with the sea. "New Religion" by Bill Holm, from The Chain Letter of the Soul: New & Selected Poems. © Milkweed Editions, 2009. Reprinted with permission.

Labels: ocean, poetry, religion, sea, Sea horse

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Friday, July 22, 2011

Read ONLY if you appreciate sarcasm & cynicism

We Who Are Your Closest Friends

by Phillip Lopate

we who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting
as a group
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift

your analyst is
in on it
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us

in announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves
but since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make
unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your
disastrous personality

then for the good of the collective

Labels: poetry, sarcasm

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Sunday, July 18, 2010

Wild Horse Poetry from a Reader

Memories of a Heartsore Mustang
by Abigail


I am running, my breath coming in jagged gasps
I can feel and smell all the fear around me
This big noisy predator chases us relentlessly
I want to be free from it, but I can not break away
My feet hurt and I want to stop to rest, but I cannot
I do not understand where this predator came from
But I hope it will leave us, let us be free.


I am separated from my family,
Pushed together with unknown horses
They are as scared and confused as I
I am thirsty but the water tastes stale
Where is the grass I am used to?
All we have is some kind of forage it is dry
And tasteless I long for my family and home
But I am not set free


We are pushed in a small space and examined
I try to resist but they are stronger
We are poked a prodded I hurt all over
I try to remember the safety of the herd
My true family but I cannot remember there scents
They are lost to me.

Labels: BLM roundup, heartsore mustang, poetry

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