A poem of hope

 

IN SPITE OF THE EVIDENCE

The Buddhabeauty of the changing present moment could be its geometric 

geodesic dadadivinity. Witness as in no other era our species’ technological 

burglar's bag of expanding multiverses. The Haudenosaunee Confederacy 

on lookout. The Rainbow Family Healing Gathering cracking the safe. And 

the Left Hand of Darkness in the getaway car. Margaret Mead kneeling with 

the mothers in a Papua New Guinea birth hut. Bucky Fuller's balding dome 

leapfrogging with dolphins. Martin Luther King's dream come true. Ours the

chance to fashion harmonies based not only on observation & measurement

but tuned as well to magical natural blueprint galaxies wheeling beyond 

our ken. Imagine a century batting eyelashes of instant communication

Consider a continent of kin sitting down to the ripe papaya of enough for all

Envision an equator of mammals joined fin & arm ocean to ocean. Ignore 

astrology. Forget for a moment the rising sign of the old beast that lurks 

cunning in the future's atomic fist. Fear means paralysis from the tongue 

down. Rather speak out from under the flawed surface. The task is

to imagine. To call up from the chaos a future all beings can swim in

Published in the Colorado Times Recorder https://coloradotimesrecorder.com/2024/08/poem-in-spite-of-the-evidence/63472/

A Poem from Italian poet Serena Piccoli

 

It's Honey, Darling!

We’ve killed all the Bees.

Now – as we’re the smartest on earth

at the same time once a month

we all stand outside tongue out

to lick one drop of acid rain

​and imagine it’s honey

-Serena Piccoli

"Serena Piccoli is one of the greatest political authors in the world!" says David Romero, a Mexican-American spoken word artist.  

This poem is from her book "gulp/gasp"

• Publisher ‏ : ‎ Moria Books (September 9, 2022)
• Language ‏ : ‎ English
• Paperback ‏ : ‎ 81 pages
• ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 979-8986942100

 

A folklore poem

 Cinderella

Our primal Europathic pubescent girl myth

all dressed up in charming patriarchy

& yet carrier of the good witch

fairy godmother virus

which the Vatican almost eradicated

with its feudal bloodletting & auto-de-fé flames

but here survives infecting even valley girls

with some wild lost scent of the goddess.

The story Chinese originally

9th century Taoist tale

told with spice & Marco Polo'd

back to the Mediterranean.

How yin yang

with luck it goes

from rags to riches

gutters to golden slippers

& all too soon is gone

at the midnight hour

when we freeze in place

Delphic statuary wreathed

& lyred in our own polished fable

facing the forever eternal now.

Happily ever after

or not.

Karen Bellerose

 

Burn Barbie Burn

 

Karen Bellerose

Burn Hollywood Burn, I smell a riot

Goin’ on, first they’re guilty, now they’re gone

Yeah, I’ll check out a movie

But it’ll take a Black one to move me.

               -“Burn Hollywood Burn”                                      by Public Enemy

Walking out after The Barbie Movie I want to roll in the nearest patch of dirt 
sink my low heels in thick slurpy mud that will ooze through my toes 
and into the crevices under my too-long toenails
until the entire earth becomes my shoes and I am grounded.

I crave this feeling like a bad dream wants a pinch
so I can be sure 
that I have escaped the prison of
straight way-too-white teeth, 
perfectly fringed and highlighted bangs
neat clean nails painted pale peach
white shorts with a taut tank top in summer salmon and
the sweet-spicy scent of someone else’s fantasy.

Instead of finding dirt and mud, 
when I leave the theater 
I see a Barbie 
walking in stacked heels down one of only a few paved streets
that have parted the waters of wilderness
looking like she just came out of the box. 

Her shine, her swagger, her unnatural coloring
a reminder of a world that never was. 
A deep sigh escapes me because

I am so weary of glamor

of false beauty and forever 21
of clipped lawns and obedient flowers 
of stone that has been beaten to a perfect square
and made to line up for the benefit of slick shoes and high heels
of superior architecture rising from the graveyard of a fallen aspen family.

The new and improved, to me, is almost always less than
tangled hair that has had a conversation with a bursting breeze
or a scratched arm that bears the touch of an outstretched juniper branch.

Put my bunioned feet in a pair of stinky sneakers
worn flat from following the uneven trails made by deer and elk
and paths made messy by stray twigs and leaves that have fallen 
where no one will pick them up
or blocked by branches that lay where the wind placed them 
or overgrown with life that pushes through in its irregular way.

I love the before where there were only wild flowers and sweet grasses and 
every-shaped stones that have never met a hammer. 
much more than this after, 
this traveling sideshow of superficial spectacle
that I wish would follow that paved road right on out of town.

Karen's SPRUCE and SAGEBRUSH website

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Thinking About Clumps

 

Lately, Art says,  I've Been Thinking About Clumps

and for hours we drive through clumps of mountains called ranges, clumps of cars we call traffic, clumps of homes   we call towns. We speak in clumps called subjects as we laugh in clumps called laughter tokens. And sometimes   we’re silent in a flexible clump called silence. I think of clumps of grief and clumps of joy, clumps of celebration and clumps of time   when I forgot to wonder what comes next. How many clumps does it take to screw in a lightbulb? How many clumps make a day?   Something so satisfying about the clump. Humble as dirt on the roots of a tree. Natural as tufts of wheatgrass in the field.   Creative as a clump of atoms that, when infused with heat from the sun, become a petunia. Clumps of words make a sentence. Clumps   of notes create song. Clumps of time build a friendship. And what is peace but a clump of moments when we choose   not to fight? What is age but a clump of memories? What is love but a clump of surrenders? What is now but a chance   to be alive in this wondrous clump we call our life?   —Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, for Art Goodtimes

Steve Lewandowski

 

A philosopher-poet who sits on his back porch, shelling peas and asking what about the silent ones, the stones, “those who give themselves to feed us,” Stephen Lewandowski is a man of the soil, obsessed with gardens, lauding Munsell’s Book of Soil Color, sharing stories of tulip poplars, bees, racehorses, gilliflowers and purple cabbage heads. 

Stories that leave a “rich black smear on the mudroom floor.” 

Simple poems that make allusions to the Five Dynasties, to Li Po and To Fu, to farm life and family stories, to blooming pear trees and a hand touching an arm in a doorway “like a dream.” 

Lyric simples to heal the urban ills that surround us.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

For Eduardo

 

When Bruce Told Me He'd Brought You Your Hearing Aids
 

I thought, good, he can hear what the ICU nurses say.

Then I began to wish for another kind of hearing—

wished you could hear the faithful pumping

of your own loyal heart. Wished you could hear

the snow as it fell outside your window reminding you

of the silence beyond the beeps and alarms

of the hospital room. Wished you could hear

the hundreds of prayers being raised

and chanted for you. Wished you could hear my voice

as I whisper into the candle beside me

saying again and again your name, your name,

wished you could hear all the love rising for you

the way dawn rises, inevitable and beautiful,

the way sorrow gives rise to song.