Four Buck Gas

This morning
I stood in the pre-dawn chill
and pumped 4-buck gas
into my pick up.

Suddenly consumed
with unspeakable anger,
I shook my free fist
at the Shell sign—
standing there tall
and sullen
and silent,
arrogantly golden
flashing
its $4.15
for regular gas
message.

I thought about
The Bush War
and what it is costing
us/me,
and about the fat cat
oil barons
who hang out with Junior
swilling Lone Star
and counting their tax-free
trillions.

The New Millennium Crusades
suddenly swam belligerently
into my cortical net,
witnessing Bush stir up
the Muslim wasp nest,
sending our youth
into harm’s way
to face the barbs and stingers,
RPG’s, roadside explosions,
and suicide bombers
who themselves
are barely old enough
to enjoy
the promised 100 virgins
in Jihad Paradise.

A few yesterdays ago
there we were
post 9-11 in 2003,
wanting to strike back,
wanting revenge
for the terrible toppling of our towers,
and the callous crushing
of the innocent thousands,
as death was brought to us
on our own silver wings,
diving and plunging
straight down,
laden with high-pitched screams
from jet engines pushed to full throttle
and passengers hoarse from fear.

Something had to be done.
Who could we punish?
Who could we kill
to satiate our blood lust?
George W. Bush, Jr.
and all his father’s posse
smiled like hyenas
in a silent pack,
and their greedy index fingers
pointed back,
straight at Iraq;
telling us repeatedly
that right there was the heart
of darkness,
the den of murderers,
the scourge of the earth;
plotters, terrorists, and enemies—
that Bush was ready
to lead us
into a holy war
that would finish the job
left undone by his daddy
in 1991—
that as righteous patriots
we should take on
the rag tag Republican Army
and run that ruthless fox,
Saddam Hussein,
to ground;
for he was a madman,
an abuser of human rights,
a killer,
a dictator,
a womanizer,
a sodomizer;
and not only
did he absolutely possess
weapons of mass destruction,
but he fully intended
to send unmanned squadrons
of drones
to our eastern shores,
that were fully laden
with biological germ warfare payloads.

75 senators were duped, cajoled,
and convinced,
thus launching
Operation Iraqi Liberation;
soon to morph into
Operation Iraqi Freedom.

During the one month assault,
we overran Hussein’s finest troops
like shooting coyotes
from horseback,
and it only cost us
139 American lives.
“Outstanding!”
was on the commander’s lips,
followed by,
“Let’s stick around a while now,
and assist the Iraqis into forging
a Democracy.”

We all recall
the smirking grin
and lying eyes
of warmonger
Donald Rumsfeld;
and that late afternoon
five years ago this May
on the USS Abraham Lincoln,
when Commander in Chief,
President Bush
emerged from a fighter
wearing a flight suit,
stood spread-legged on the naked steel deck,
waving his thunder bolt helmet
and declaring,
“Mission Accomplished!”

And presently
here we are,
knee deep in Year 5,
fighting “asymmetric warfare”,
without front lines,
against a faceless enemy
that hides in
and melts into
the civilian population;
just like before
in 1964—
except now we are immersed in
and surrounded by
civil war and insurgency,
as we are being branded
the Occupying Force,
once again;
spilling blood for greed
and democracy—
being taught hard lessons;
like we cannot curtail
the flow of Jihad insurgents
by cutting the head off the Hydra,
or its whelps,
or its lieutenants—
for new warriors
spring like cockroaches from the shadows,
craving to join the resistance
to the Infidels and Capitalists,
arriving in dark clumps daily,
like monsters rising out of the blood-soaked
waters of the Tigris and Euphrates—
making us pay
every day
for patrolling
the Sunni Triangle.

Oh God,
when will the madness end?
How much black gold
has to be pumped
into profit
from the Iraqi
fat oil reserves?
How many more
retired Special Forces
will have to be recruited
by Blackwater
to protect Bush’s
real agenda?

The numbers for Y5
are staggering!
U.S. dead: 4,079.
U.S. wounded: 30,000.
Contractors dead: 1,028.
Contractors wounded: 10,569.
Iraqi death toll: 1,000,000.
Iraqi combatants dead: 10,800.
Insurgents dead: 22,807.
Detainees: 43,000.

Like in the 60’s
when the carnage
in Viet Nam
was broadcast to us daily,
splashing red and futile
on our living room television screens—
today
our forced occupancy
of Iraq
is beamed immediately by satellite
to every home,
for all of us to see
and cringe
as the pride of our loins
are kicking down doors
and pumping hot lead
from their Mossberg shotguns
into the Islamic populous—
are being ambushed
around every corner,
green zone or not;
witnessing the riddling
of those poorly armored Humvees,
those High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles,
with bullets bought in black markets,
originally manufactured by us
and sent to Saddam
when it was his job
to fight the Iranians
for us.

Our young men
and women,
do their duty,
without hesitation,
becoming hard-hearted
and stone-jawed—
even though many of them
may be stop-lossed
or extended
by their loving government
to stay
in the fray;
professional targets,
standing atop
an M1 Abrams battle tank,
or racing down some dangerous narrow alley
in their M2 Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle,
or screetching through those
mean Moslem streets in Strykers—
the dead brown skies above
choked
with Apaches, Kiowa Warriors, Black Hawks, and Chinooks—
the dirty twilight punctuated
by the deep throb
of dozens
of .50 caliber lethal heavy machine guns—
patrols partially protected
by howling M249 SAWS.

Yes, Lord,
we see it all;
and feel overwhelmed
with intense grief and anguish
as this cavalcade of cavalry and contractors
are at this very moment
toiling in the acrid white dust
of the Middle East,
providing the opportunity
for the petroleum bullies
to force me
to have to pump their goddamn
4 buck gas,
and shake my inept fist
at a stupid sea shell,
and snarl terribly
at those barons unseen,
but most certainly
felt.

Glenn Buttkus June 2008

Photo Source:  Szbluewater 

Jimmy 'Mac' Mc Aleer finds time to memorize more new poems and write his own.  He's never been published - he doesn't do much advertising for his gigs either -  yet, he keeps busy with gigs at churchs, parties, retirements, reunions - all done by word of mouth. 

The wonderful thing about this man is that he'd love to start a non-profit organization with like-minded people who want to share rhyme-and-rhythm poetry with seniors and lead workshops on memorization, even writing poems,  all to benefit local seniors.   He states that "memorization is a great way to combat memory loss in older adults."  

Debbie Humphrey, activities coordinator at Sun Tower, says, "Practicing memory skills like that really works your brain; you're going to remember things much better."  It's just amazing what he can do, and I think that's what people find fascinating about him. There's not a lot of people that do that type of thing. You don't see a lot of that around."  

"Memorization is great for the mind."  -- Jimmy Mac Mc Aleer   

For more information or to schedule a presentation, call Jim Mc Aleer at 249-0485.
Source: Yakima Herald-Republic Online

Jo Hemmant's editorial essay, Beginnings, featured in Asphalt Sky, is as fresh as a newborn babe's first slap and hits you as strong as that first slap's wail.  Please read it.  Here's just a snippet of the essay, followed by Jo's poem written for Rick Mobb's painting gracing the top of this post.  Enjoy!

Beginnings 

"Language surrounds us, defines us, is how we express our selves, how we try to decode the universe.  When I visualize it, it is as water flowing, meaning always and endlessly deferred, passing through the connections, the spaces between words and moving on, understanding contextual.  And this deferral means that there can be no endings as such.  Yet still the records are made, and they come out of two very different beginnings -- origin and starting point."

To which Jo goes on to describe these two very different beginnings.

Hallowed ground

he has exposed history for us,
fortified walls arc over earth
as deceptive as love, territory

cross-sectioned, the blade finding
the soft beginning of the belly that
mounds then slitting the fundaments
from pubis to throat.

Note the foreground, a woman’s head
resting on an arm as if sleeping,
a child close, tender shorn,
these two recognisable in a scree of
faceless figures, a continuum,

a latitude, the others vulnerable curvature,
ribcages scored like the knife’s
sliding through skin, muscle,
bone to marrow’s...

Please follow the linked last line to read the remainder of this poem at Jo Hemmant's blog florescence.

I've been wanting to share Rick Mobbs talent with my dear readers for quite some time now. Rick Mobbs  is a phenomenal figurative painter of the highest caliber as you can see for yourself by visiting his beautifully appointed website and his blog, Mine Enemy Grows Older.   Also my little chickadees, you get a two-fer when you visit Rick.  Not only does Rick paint the most original, dreamy, and otherworldly subjects, scenes and sensibilities *wink* but he writes, too!   Be prepared to spend lots of time reading, oooooo-ing and ahhhh-ing  when you first visit Rick's blog because its absolutely packed with plenty of interesting paintings and personalia.    Oh, and did I mention Rick's blog encourages reader participation?  This is how it all plays out:  Rick puts up one of his ethereal paintings and his readers are invited to write a poem or short story to accompany the painting!  I was around for the beginning of this enterprise and I want to share with you what did unfold when Rick put up his painting under a post entitled, Standing in the Shadows, on March 29th.   Johemmant, author of floresence, wrote the wonderfully evocative story to accompany the painting which was an instant hit!  She captured the essence of the painting for me in a most poignant manner.   I'll share part of the story with a link to the original post.  I urge you to visit Johemmant's blog site because she writes with a deft hand neurally connected to one amazingly creative, insightful brain!   Now on with an excerpt of her story:

We were resting after a long day in the fields when the children came running, shouting excitedly of angels and unicorns. We would have thought it a game and sent them away but an elder pointed to the sky silver with cloud and told us to listen to the wind in its lament. We rose then and followed their raggletaggle to the edge of the village where the salt flats begin. And the children were right, these were not figments but the archetypes of our dreams.

I stand at the edge,
a myth sheltering under
my outstretched wings,

their eyes hostile
holding us here though

I have been amongst them
every day, a shifting

shadow, a soft breath
on a tired cheek.

But I see my mistake.
Men do not want proof,

they would rather
have faith.

 

Follow the rest of her story here. 

Neath the ashen sky
Her spirit strong and true
Some saw but a mare
But the wisest knew
The painted desert soul
Watching o’er this land
Known well as the wind
Known well as the sand
Presents herself this day
To run and to fly
In form seldom seen
Neath the ashen sky

 

Mary Draws From Silence

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mary draws and Mary writes from silence,

silence that uplifts and holds her. These strings,

she thinks, are more than finite. They wrap all things

and draw them to her. Every weight and every measure,

all things tossed or turned or treasured,

all things simple, green or rusted, doubted, doubled, drummed

or busted, all things filtered out and saved, or wasted,

all things stirring, dead, or passive

all the unknown multitude of things

enormous as a whole, and as a whole, so quiet.

Like Mary’s eyes, so quiet. Mary draws from silence.

 

Poem and Painting by Rick Mobbs

 Please give yourself a well-deserved break from day-to-day harsh realities and engulf yourself in a world of aesthetic sensibilities brought to you by Rick Mobbs.

When I started my poetry blog, one of the things I enjoyed was checking out other poet's work.  I soon came across , The Crimsonflaw Lived to Tell the Tale, Shakir Hasnain's blog of wonderful writings.  The first thing I read of his, On Your Way to the Wizard's Dwelling, put me under his spell, forever, quite frankly.   Hasnain lives on another plane, far removed from the mundane activities of worker bees, travels in the ethers, and is intimate with all-things-ethereal, as you will see as you read these enchanting snippets from his blog:

On Your Way to the Wizard's Dwelling...

I am a wizard. This world bores me and there is to my wizardry the
quiet place paths omit from their digression.

I could be the host. I could welcome you with all I have. The red
carpet I unfold can reach the very ends of the world and the
darkness I carry within this heart is sly, is perfect...How it merges
with the lantern, how it snakes up to the chandelier, and how it
nestles in the lamp's aura is a tale that would begin much later.

My palace is made with fragrance, with mirrors, with secrets,
with love...Look how it colours with its grandeur the book of spells
where I found you. The idle hour is page heavy. I read with a smile
as you stir with your passing the lakeside grove into a familiar
song.  I wait for you still...

The laws that govern a reading man's drowse keep the unsaid
safely entwined in a wish. Is it any wonder then that I know you
were on your way? The mist took you to its waterfall, the wind
brought you its wild flowers and the song traced its vines in your
breath till you were only a sigh away.

Why then did you accept the berries from the path that was no
path at all?  And why did you eat of them? Of wistful magic, they
will keep you asleep forever at the banks of those calm waters.  The
wind will laze in your hair for this long knowing in its scattered
heart that it does not have the power to lead you back to your
waking hours. It will caress your brow for me and drop a musical
glimpse of this reverie in your unlistening ears for all my sorrows.
And so my love, pillowed on a natural IF you will lie, forever
dreaming your dreams as I pass my fingers lovingly across these
pages...Only a wizard of a sublime melancholy.

copyright shakir hasnain

 

Pericardial Art 

midnight loves the shelf
comes to it sweetly
as would a haunted periphery
to the day dreamer's eye
the jar lives there with the vials
the bottles and the shards
and all these silent sentinels
to an otherwise eloquent emptiness
are faded of labels
it is in dust that they write
their odes to loneliness
the jar thoughtfully reflects
on its terms with still-life
its burden is a human heart
preserved in a muddled liquid
that often rages like the sea
and it is during such moments
that the jar becomes a lantern, naturally...

copyright shakir hasnain

A Beautiful Word

beautiful word
more beautiful than her eyes
beautiful word
beautiful then will be your destiny
there will be poems in your entourage
vocabularies will wait on you
and meaning...all of it
will be the pilgrim to your essence
you will be truly universal
the stars will shoot past
the tears will flow
this world will die its otherwordly death
just to catch a glimpse of you
magic spells will be phrased around you
prayers will shield you with their wings
there will be the sweetness of echoes in you
the reader's paradise will grow anonymous
in its unwritten love for you
beautiful word, there are devils burning in your depth
angels singing in your silence
I...

copyright shakir hasnain

 

On Hasnain's blog, he has this to say about himself: "I arrange ivy on walls, figments in imagination, full moons for the late night whims and missing words for the sudden urge to howl."   Well, I think Shakir does more than that.  He rearranges neurotransmitters  on the walls of my mind, takes me on flights of fancy, makes passes around the moon on his flying carpet, takes words and spins them into dreamscapes in word-worlds far beyond mere figments, where I feel I've been written into the script somehow as that mysterious woman, that haunting memory, that glorious yearning, that spiral staircase to the stars, to otherworldly spheres where mind finds everything impossible is possible.

I kid you not!  I've never been taken away so far from myself as when reading Shakir Hasnain.  Come, let's go there together...   where the Crimsonflaw lived to tell the tale. 

It's okay to think
happiness won't come to you,
because I want you to know
it was me that brought it,
I want you to remember
I heard what you said,
I was listening to every word,
but, you think you're alone,
I'm here with you,
when you look forward,
I look toward you,
but as you turn your head,
I look away,
though, my eyes don't pull you
out of view,
I may look bored,
but I'd rather be here
than anywhere,
I may pick on you,
but it's only because I care,
nobody else is worth my attention.

I chose this poem to share with you because I'm touched by it's sentiment .  It reminds me of my younger self watching someone who was watching someone else.  Poet, Noah the Great, may have a different idea behind this poem, but for me it speaks of unrequited love.   You know it reminds you of that, too, dontcha?  The first 4 lines tell you all you need to know about how it feels to have someone you're mightily attracted to tell you they'll never be happy, when in fact, there's much laughter and warmth between the two of you when you're together.   I know this has happened to you, too.  Sometimes your  love is hiding in plain sight.  You don't notice because you think someone else is bringing the Happiness pill to you.  

If you enjoyed this poem, you have the opportunity to visit Noah's awesome blog.  He's also running a start-up community blog you can check out.  Noah is a student who writes constantly and gets good grades.   He's a thoughtful, engaging young man who enjoys his solitude, would rather write and create engaging poetry than party-hardy.   Noah is also a member of the Blogsboro Poetry Club.  Oh!  And he plays guitar!   (I love guitar!)   So get yourself over to Noah the Great's awesome blog and leave him a comment about his poem. In other words - go Get Your Poetry On!

Wouldn't you like to know what's behind  Noah the Great's  most excellent poem?  Why not ask him? 

•  From Richard K. Weems' drive-by poetry to Dave Johnson's charity poetry-on-the-spot, and the original Douglas Goetsch's poetry stand, we have the newest spin-off poetry-on-demand presented by Bainbridge Island West Sound Academy high school's celebration of National Poetry Month.
• The People's Poetry Gathering stretches a clothesline of poems from around the world across the streets of Lower Manhattan.
• WordFest 2008, a poetry showcase created by pioneers of Asheville's poetry movement, in Asheville, NC, starts Thursday - April 27 all over town.  Featuring Pulitzer Prive-winning poet Galway Kinnell, four-time National Poetry Slam champion Patricia Smith, renowned translator of Sufi Poet Rumi, Coleman Barks, NC Poet Laureate Kathryn Stripling Byer, Jewish Arts Institute's Richard Chess, Cherokee poet MariJo Moore.  Read WordFest highlights here.
• Dont Miss Out on This!  LibraryThing, Favorite Poem Project, World Class Poetry, Poets Who Blog, or Blogsboro Poetry Club.
  
• New Hampshire poet Martha Carlson-Bradley reminds us to not overlook the wonders of nature - she uses them to tell us about ourselves - in her poetry book, Season We Can't Resist.  Read article by Rebecca Rule of the Concord Monitor here.
  

But wait - there's more - 13 year old Rokey Butler, who along with other children who take after-school classes in 'everything from poetry to violin' at the Art House, recited a poem at the celebration entitled "The Rapper as Light," a poem by Kate Rushin.   Rokey not only put the poem to memory, but did a little 2-step shuffle while he belted out verse, "When the sun sees me coming he hust steps aside. ..So listen to my rap, see the glint in my eye. You'll feel a glimmer of hope.  I electrify."   Rokey didn't think much of poetry before, but now in his own words, he says, "poetry is amazing.  Say you're mad or something.. you can just write it in a poem, and you can just get all your anger out in that poem."   (This is an astute youngster, by my estimation. :)   Poetry has become a way to let loose, say other students at the Art House.

Twelve year old Shane  McClelland, a student at Pfeiffer-Burleigh Elementary School, says, "It's fun. You get a chance to express yourself and move around and act funny.  You get to see what other people's ideas are, and their moves."   At last night's Celebration of Poetry, Shane performed the poem "Monday" by David L. Harrison.  It's a poem about how the beginning of the week starts out as a "bummer" but he also likes Langston Hughes' work the most.   Sharon Szymanski, a 6th grade reading teacher at Wattsburg Middle School, said poetry helps to deveop speaking skills, learn to fine-tune the English language, and most of all, for me anyhow, really boosts their self-esteem.   She told Cornell Green that her students went from being "literally petrified" at the thought of performing in public to being "cool and confident."  Sharon Szymanski further goes on to say that poetry provides the most effective way to teach metaphors, figure of speech and similes, all things that a student needs to know for their state achievement tests.   She goes on to encourage every teacher to have a poetry slam at their school.  Once the kids are "hooked on poetry," she can "throw anything at them, and they love it."

Rokey Butler and Shane McClelland get your poetry on!

Cooper says he felt a shared experience with Whitman when reading from Crossing Brooklyn Ferry: "Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh'd; Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was hurried."

"That's the beauty of his writing," Cooper says. "One hundred years later, he's talking to the person of the future."

                              Excerpt from USA Today, 4/14/08