disjointedunconnected

I don’t belong on this path
Walking through the parking lot
There is something not quite right
Looking down at the pavement

The grass, the trees, the cars
I’m not in the right place
Disjointed, unconnected
Eyes are telling me
Tell me I don’t belong

This isn’t the only time
It is often this way
Walking, sitting, being
Not, quite, right

Is this my place?
That lawn, those bushes
They are there when I pass
In their place

Because, even when
I know it’s right,
I feel at times out of place
The feeling hits like a wave
Unexpected, an intruder

A Professor Died in Poverty

A professor died in poverty
Today
You might wonder how
That can be
And I wonder with you

You see more than
Half of all professors
Get paid poverty wages
So, it is little wonder
That one dies in poverty

I wonder if god exists
Where a college president makes
Half a million per year
And half his employees
Scrape to pay for heat

All powerful, you say
The wonder of the heavens
How can that be
When not just professors
When so many die
In poverty?

Teacher’s Comment – A Poem

It would seem to me that
In your opinion the
Smart thing to do would
Be to take the easy road:

Write poetry and
Get rich!

To Turn Away (From Politics)

to turn away from politics
is not succumbing to apathy
as some would have you believe

there is more than politics

to turn away from politics
is turning away from
pointing at someone else

they are not your problem

to turn away from politics
is turning away from
the superficial arguments

the superficial blinds them

to turn away from politics
is turning away from
false differences

we are not so different, and

to turn away from politics
is to focus on
our lives, our culture

history is produced by us

to turn away from politics
is to focus on
family and friends, careers

the true work, our lives

This is My Fault

Standing in my PJs
Framed by the doorway
The memory unfolds

Her head hangs
Over the cellar stairs
Her face contorted

Over her stands
The wifebeater
One fist raised
The other clenching
Her shirt

Turns his head
To me

My arms convulse
My face contorts
The tears they course

This is my
Fault

The Tractor Trailer

So much happens
When

A tractor
Trailer

Covered with road
Grime

Pulls up beside
Us

-Based on The Red Wheelbarrow

Soldier

You have killed another man
You have taken the life of another human being
You have stopped the breath
Of a father
A brother
An uncle
A son

You were just following orders
You were just doing what they tell you to do
You just took out the enemy

How many did you kill?

That man’s only crime
The only thing that that man did wrong
He was evil because

He didn’t want you there
He didn’t want you on his country’s soil
He saw an invader

You would have seen the same thing
He was a soldier.

The Oligarchic Plutocracy has Won

The oligarchic plutocracy has won
They defeated the people
And they will continue to win
Until the proles revolt

There will be bloodshed
Regardless of nonviolent
Intentions

If they channel Lennon
Blam! They are dead.

If they Channel MLK
Blam! They are dead.

Shit. Even if they channel Jesus
Blam! They are dead.

The oligarchic plutocracy has won.
They can afford the patience
That the people cannot.
Even if the serfs revolt,
They will wait, and win again.

The Edge of the Vase

The brownish purple, white-edged flowers
Hung from the edge of the vase
Like mourners at a New Orleans funeral

Passing as a well-schooled scholar
He makes an earnest attempt to educate
The passer-byes in his wake

The flowers must be thrown out
The moldy water must be rinsed out
Killing the new flowers for beauty in the vase

Writer: A Block

Writer: A Block

The writer sits extending his wrists,
And feelings and thought do mix;
Or, the writer walks through wooded fair,
The wind whipping through hair:
The ideas tumble, reeking of trouble,
And furrows the brow from ear to ear;
Family and friends do hide from him,
To pass the writeless day.

The thoughts are there, yet in a fog,
The joyless task today,
Where others won’t tread, to me my home
All lost in mindless stare:
This place without work, it soothes my soul,
Comfort in a knowing loss;
The wordless pages my senses please,
This is where I’m at!

The antenna seems to miss the call
These words of mine fulfill,
The page, my liege, they must be best,
Because they flow from you!
Still all I want (please, oh Muse, grant
Just one complete poem, just one!)
And to write you just deny,
Assist me to desist.

[Based on Robert Burns’ Winter: A Dirge (1910)]


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