A poetic journey through my mind

slightly political

An Ostrich visits the Circus

“Look!” Cries the Head Clown. “I can be the Ringmaster! In his pretty suit, with the whip of Ultimate Authority…I can be the Ringmaster!”

“Look, look!” Cry Dick and Jane. “Look at the funny clown pretending to be the Ringmaster! Oh, look, his pants just fell down!”

“Look!” Cry the Audience. “Look, look, the Ringmasters pants just fell down!”


Pointless

Not wanted, dead or alive.

What do I do, now that I’ve lost the point?

So many heroes in the world, 

So many villains,

So many many many extras, 

background noise in the Big Picture 

that so few can afford to see.

And me. 

Sir Not Appearing In This Picture.  

The Nun of the Above.  

The Maiden China, breakable, do not fold,

swindle or mutilate.

Was there ever a point?  

If so, what was it pointing to?

And why?

Points are sharp.  

Ugly things that rip and tear.

Off the edge of the map, 

deep in Here There Be Dragons land.

How do we know that the Devil That We Know

is better?  

Who says? 

Maybe we should all get The Point.

Just dive off the Cliffs, 

and the Clints, 

and the cliches, 

and impale ourselves on 

someone else’s Points of Reference.

What is The Point of Order, anyway?  Who decides?

Never Mind.  

It’s a bad idea.  

It leads to thinking.

I think, therefore I thwim.

Keep your head above water.

Head and shoulders above the rest. 

Never rest.

It’s another bad idea.

Sleep is for the week.

And we are the weakened.

The ragged jagged remnants of 

the once discrete Points of View.

All poured and stirred in the Melting Pot.

Melted, melded, gelded, shorn.

Doesn’t it feel better, 

now that all that heavy thinking is gone?

Just rock away in the Cradle of Humanity, 

and babies, you can sleep while I drive.


Strange Fruit

(I have -no- idea where this one came from…I love the song, but I wasn’t thinking of it, wasn’t thinking of anything that would lead to this…just one that was sitting back there wherever poems come from, and decided to come out, I guess.  *shrugs*)

 

 

What strange fruit is this, back in the woods,
hung in the trees by ghosts in white hoods,
fruit raised in hate, in sorrow and fear,
but draw close, my children, and a story you’ll hear.

A story of love, of pride and of strength,
a historical tale of unmeasurable length,
of warriors and tricksters and those who would wait,
to tell the tale, in the midst of the hate.

We tell the tale, to big and to small,
to rekindle the fire in the hearts of them all,
to outshine the fires of hate, and of death,
a fire that burns from the first to last breath.

So hark to the tale, and hold it inside,
the answers you seek, the tale will provide,
dream of the day when all will be free,
and no more will strange fruit hang from the tree.


Ann, our key (poem)

I’m going cynically insane,
the more I try to use my brain,
the more I see the lies and pain,
my mind runs’round like a wagon train!

Cognitive diffidence, I really don’t care,
if my mind is here or there,
or hiding from the truths dark glare,
in a special sort of anywhere.

Lazy fair, the rides are free,
as long as you don’t mind the fee,
most will pay it happily,
to buy their couch and their t.v.

Free dumb, as the people glare,
at all the folks who take the dare,
to learn to live, and to take care,
not live in castles in the air.

Ann, our key, I turn the lock,
and stop the ever ticking clock,
that pushes businessman and jock,
and dare the laws of man to mock!

This one is dedicated to TRG, who has done more for my writing bug than I have, simply by being, as his name suggests, a helpful, amusing, appreciative and above all supporting…gentleman.  ;p  Thanks, Boss!