Collected Poetry  Copyright © 1986-2008 by Gary Bachlund All international rights reserved These texts are in order of date authored, newest first He plunks his money down He plunks his money down
When boxers come to town.
He likes to see such battery
Abuse some other clown.
She likes to watch the fights,
Such bruised and bloody sights.
She likes to squeal when pain is real;
It takes her to the heights.
He cheers when blows connect,
And when some guy is decked.
He likes to leer and cheer and jeer,
When someone's face is wrecked.
She loves the battle's roar,
And all the blood and gore.
She loves to clap as some poor sap
Tumbles to the floor.
How many fans would brawl
When mayhem comes to call?
Hey, not at us, they'd fume and fuss
And towards some exit crawl.
Fans of sparring violence
Are seated on their fence.
The other guy's the one who dies;
The fans say they've more sense.
I will tinker as I please I will tinker as I please,
While tinkling on piano keys;
I will dream in shapes and forms,
Even conjure thunderstorms.
I'll pleasure up some melody,
That's plaintive or in reverie;
I'll hear things that are not there
And see them dance upon the air.
Sweet delusion, fantasy!
Beauty is such ecstasy;
An illusion? In a trance?
Ideation is the dance.
I'll scratch a dot upon a line,
Or different colors intertwine;
I'll listen for some unheard sounds,
For little seems quite out of bounds.
I will tinker as I please,
And dawdle on the organ's keys;
I will dream in forms and shapes,
And crush new wine out from such grapes.
We really love our notion We really love our notion
That we control the ocean;
It can't be God,
That false facade,
Who'd set things into motion.
We blather, fuss and cry
That we control the sky;
For this is right,
Our worldly fight
Demands that you comply.
We'd lord it over hot and cold
And trade it -- bought and sold;
It's worth the clash,
This balderdash,
That man might be controlled.
We loud proclaim the earth
Is what we think it's worth;
And to this end
We'd lash a friend
Or abort our child at birth.
With notions such as these
It's other men we'll squeeze;
They'll learn our laws
With fine prints' clause
Will bring them to their knees.
It's such a lovely snare
To say we rule the air;
For men must breathe,
Even as they seethe,
Within our lion's lair.
We are expropriators,
Political gladiators;
Dispense with God,
That false facade.
We're our brave new world's creators.
Tolerance Will you be quite angry
If with you I disagree?
That I see things differently
Is not cause for alarm.
Will you spew some fury
If I argue ardently?
Will you cry, "It's blasphemy?"
To justify some harm.
Can we not keep company
Though we disagree?
Tolerance is basic courtesy
Mixed with civil charm.
Tolerance most generally Means, putting it quite clearly, Extending kind civility, To keep us both from harm.
The straw that breaks the camel's back The straw that breaks the camel's back,
The tiny hole in the granary sack,
The fingerprint on the drying shellac,
Annoy the best of us.
The necessity of all that we lack,
The mirror with a lengthening crack,
The lamp which dies when night's most black,
Can make one fume and fuss.
The ace that trumps the one-eyed jack,
The salmon killed by the Kodiak,
The tightrope which goes far too slack,
Ah, life is ever thus.
An ant hill knows An ant hill knows
What the single ant
Cannot comprehend.
The flight of crows --
It simply can't
Know its flight path's trend.
And when I doze
I lightly grant
My heartbeat will not end.
Through poetry and prose,
Through bias tinged with slant,
Sweet lies are often penned.
Yet what life shows,
In beast and plant,
Is life comes to its end.
Critics Van Gogh daubed on canvas,
Though few thought it was fine;
Papa Bach played much too loud,
Some churchmen did opine.
Marc Chagall was "kitsch,"
So said some little man,
Because he was not a Marc Chagall
And not that painter's fan.
Criticism lasts a day,
Or maybe lasts but two;
Critics aim their meager words
At others -- me and you.
Who cares tomorrow for the noise
That critics make today?
Instead, let's ponder on the boys
Living through their art today.
Van Gogh daubed on canvas,
And, alas, he sold but a few;
I'd be rich if I owed but one,
But then again, so would you.
The big bad wolf of nations The big bad wolf of nations
Whined and pissed and moaned.
When someone dared speak ill of it,
It lashed out as it moaned.
"It is not right and is not fair,"
The big bad wolf did wail,
"To notice death within my lair
Or in each brutal jail."
"I am therefore a victim
Of deep, dark defamations;
I am not so much a big bad wolf
As sheep among the nations."
Libel and revilement
Are horrid things, you see;
Slander, stigma, smear and slight
Are worse than tyranny.
Seek Peace and Pay Its Cost If you say we're not so nice,
You're in for bitter strife.
If you speak of our evil side,
Then out will come the knife.
If you say we're fascists,
We'll seek to take you life.
Seek peace and pay its cost;
It's price? A holocaust.
If you as much as criticize,
This you will come to rue.
If you say we're violent,
We'll come to murder you.
Nothing is what we want to hear,
The best that you can say or do.
Seek peace and pay its cost;
It's price? A holocaust.
If you stay quite silent,
Then we shan't complain.
If you look the other way,
There'll seem no bitter pain.
If you submit and acquiesce
You'll forge your bondsman chain.
Seek peace and pay its cost;
It's price? A holocaust.
This is quite fine advice
Which wins the worldly prize.
If you'll but live with tyranny
We call it compromise.
Peace comes to blunt plain truth,
Replacing it with lies.
Seek peace and pay its cost;
It's price? A holocaust.
Things I Like I laugh quite easily at jokes;
I don't get angry when one smokes,
But rise up when one prods and pokes. I like lazing under oaks;
I like the thoughts that this evokes.
I like what thought provokes,
Yes, I like to cajole and coax,
But I can tell the hefty hoax.
I like the gals and like the blokes;
I really like a lot of folks.
Questions In Answer to a Silly Question You ask, "Why do they hate us?"
I'll answer plain and true.
It's not for what you say or do,
But because you're you.
Would you trade your "you-ness"
If then you were assured
That peace could be procured?
Or would that seem absurd?
When next you question gravely,
Think on this simple fact.
What would you do when attacked?
My question's not abstract?
Would you stand for freedom?
Or would you just make do
By hiding then from view?
Or by feeding them a Jew?
The question came in WWII,
And now it comes again.
What shall you do then when
Such evil's done by men?
Won't you stand for freedom,
And not by making do?
Consider standing plain in view
And not turning your back on you.
I'll use my freedom "Because democracy is noble, it is always endangered. Nobility, indeed, is always in danger. Democracy is perishable. I think the natural government for most people, given the uglier depths of human nature, is fascism. Fascism is more of a natural state than democracy." Norman Mailer, 2003 I do not like what you say
And so must silence you today;
I do not like your freedom
And in my twisted way
I'll use my freedom and its sway
To batter yours away.
What you believe is not okay,
So it must change this day;
I'll not allow your freedom
To come now into play,
But use my freedom as I may
To crush you straight away.
I do not like what you do
And so I must end it too;
I'll not admit your freedom,
And so we'll bid adieu
To all the freedom you once knew
Which now I happily subdue.
I do not like it, but shan't admit
That whatever I shall now commit
Will kill your own small freedom;
It's true you will submit
To my own freedom's holy writ
Which deems yours to be quite unfit.
I do not like you anyway;
It is no secret to betray.
I'll not abide your freedom
Which is but a cliché;
And so I shout hurray,
Enslaving you today.
If life is worth the living If life is worth the living, then put away despair;
Such negativity's giving in without a prayer.
If you should find your thoughts wander downward still,
You may be well assured those thoughts will make you ill.
Laughter is an antidote, for so it has been said;
It is far more than anecdote, as this fond truth has spread
Both far and wide; it tells a truth of greater worth
That darkness by it dispels with joy and peace and mirth.
As life is worth its living, then cast off your despair
And with a fresh thanksgiving live life as full and fair.
Farmers and Alarmers In these efficient, modern times
As farmers become rare,
Those who once eschewed high crimes Sow their alarmers' scare. For when's less the need of labor
And far less the need for picking,
One looks upon one's neighbor
As ripe for harvest's tricking.
Peaches and pears have their prices,
When not too hard or ripe.
But middlemen with their devices
Inflate with their fear monger's tripe.
There will be some future death!
Yes, there will come a time,
When there'll be no more air to breath
And nowhere higher to climb!
There'll be no peaches, no more pears,
And there'll no more low prices!
There'll be just panic, horrid cares,
And normalcy will be vices!
Once there were many farmers,
Yet food was costly rare,
Now efficient new alarmers
Raise prices with each scare.
And yet it seems there's plenty
Enough to go around.
When one hears by listening
Above the alarm bells' sound.
If things are truly, truly rotten,
Why then do these alarmers
Not move back to pick cotton
And work among the farmers?
Can it be, oh yes it can,
That these new fields of riches
Are part the modern flim-flam plan
To work not in farmers' ditches?
So many labor in these new fields
Which grow concerns and cares,
And increase their cash-crop yields
With efficient, modern snares.
In olden, less efficient times
When farmers were not rare,
T'was snake oil sold in common crimes
To farmers unaware. The modern, stealth alarmers Reap harvests in their fields; They profit well, as do the farmers, As stories then revealed. Now "peaches and pears" are worries These fertilizers feed; Each alarmer scuttles and scurries To plant yet more of their seed. Alarmers and farmers are quite alike, And sow and reap their bounty; And when perceptions dim, they strike Each city, town and county.
Why Why make it easy when it can be hard?
Why cook with butter when you can use lard?
Why seek the simple when complex confuses?
Why try to win when it costs you bruises?
Why speak quite clearly when muddle works well?
Why be so honest when cheating will sell?
Why hold with values when corruption is rife?
Why seek to heal when others seek strife?
Why laugh and smile, when pessimists rule?
Why be so honest and earn ridicule?
Why write in rhyme, when prose blathers on?
Why be engaged, when some are withdrawn?
Why fight for freedom, when others submit?
Why plan survival for those who're unfit?
Why not cut corners, and follow the crowd?
Why take a stand, for crying out loud?
Musicology Musicology
Speaks right well to me;
But it speaks words
Of chords and thirds,
And sings no melody.
Musicology
Cuts apart the scores;
It tells of forms
And of some norms,
But neither hums nor roars.
Musicology
Is silence, as we hear;
It chatters prose
And theory grows,
But it is mute, I fear.
Music, ah, for me
Is noisy, boisterous, proud;
It lifts its song
And sings along,
In roars and thunders loud. Musicology Is for some girls and boys; But as for me, With childish glee, I much prefer the noise. Musicologists, Those I know quite well, Sing quite like me With worthy honesty; The others wish I'd go the hell.
A Hearty Menu If your thoughts diverge from me,
Then is that not a panoply
of flavors for our kitchen?
If you see the world as something
Other than what I see,
that should our lives then richen.
Difference makes up all the spice,
And recipes are finely nice
when there's something new.
But when there's but one single way
And only one thing we can say,
then life is but a boring stew.
Let's all enjoy the fat and lean,
And the every other in-between
from cookbooks everywhere.
Tarts and sweets and fish and meats,
Vegetables and sugar treats,
from cuisines, as we dare.
But let's not impede the cooking cooks
Nor tear out pages from their books
nor recipes impede.
Who could manage but one dish
And who would not then further wish
for something else indeed?
Serving but a single spice
Is not long interesting or nice,
but boredom on which one shall chew.
With sameness served upon the plate,
One might well rush headlong and straight
to the finer, wider menu.
I love the differences and flavors
That which one lifelong savors,
that come from such varieties.
I'll leave their table, leave their gruel
And rush away from those who'd rule
such flavorless societies.
I shall not join the party I shall not join the party,
Nor march in lock step rank.
I'll live quite free and hearty,
And speak quite clear and frank.
Each group defines its member,
And does not always heed,
But seems to long remember
Those who reject its creed.
I'll not be a rubber stamp
When parties say I must;
A party line? It might well cramp
A life that would be just.
Justice is illusive,
And sometimes may be found
To stand quite proudly on that
Which is not party ground.
I'll not serve some status quo,
Nor kneel before its shrine,
When party planners follow
The lock-step party line.
I shall not vote a party,
Nor trudge in lock step rank.
I'll think my own thoughts, hearty,
And shun the platform plank. From this there comes their cry, When I am then found out, The party types will pressure, "Why?" While seeking their devout. I'll not be theirs, nor loyal To party lines, per se, But serve to seek and spoil And party lines betray. To think of independence Is to live quite free; To bide within some party's fence Seems not quite liberty.
How much is that politician's favor? (To the melody, "That Doggie in the Window?," composed in 1952 by Bob Merrill) How much is that politician's favor?
The one eyeing glittering coin?
How much costs a legislator's waiver?
How much might one through it purloin?
How easily is access so purchased?
How much must one then pay for that?
Each senator fills some fattened war-chest,
Distributing prime pork-fed fat.
How much for the quid pro quo that is not?
The ones where quid slides past being seen?
Come gather the contributions we've brought;
It is laundered and truly quite clean.
Ah, money buys politicians' largesse;
That's just how the system works.
This continuing gamble's our best guess,
For gathering profits and perks.
The reforming of such campaign finance
Is chattered about through the years.
Such chatter serves to simply advance
Us back to the same old veneers.
How much is that politician's favor?
The one eyeing succulent cash?
"How much?" is the singular question,
If asking it seems not too brash.
Grace Before Meals The state is great,
The state is good:
We should thank it
For our food.
By its fist we All are led.
Grant us then Our meager bread.
Income inequality Income inequality?
The politics seems odd.
Those trumpeting the term
Seek to cajole and prod.
Yet all the politicians
And those who study this
Get paid quite handsomely,
So something seems amiss.
Income inequality?
Then let the fat cat paid
Take less, far less than they
Earn in their fine charade.
Income inequality?
That's for the politician,
The activist and more
To work towards, not to shun.
Income inequality?
As cudgel it works well
When one does not observe
What their actions spell --
Income inequality;
Find politics' wage
And learn that all's amiss
And all the world's its stage.
Albert Gore (From a Gore web site: "Minimize Your Own Impact") Albert Gore,
He's millions more
And worked to be quite rich.
Nobel Prize
And lies comprise
His global warming pitch.
Time is short;
You must abort
Your carbon footprint's fault.
Live quite green --
Not in between,
Your poverty exalt.
No debate;
It's getting late.
Man must not want for more.
Want for less
Not to excess,
Unless you're Albert Gore.
The Hockey-Stick Man "The world is coming to an end:
I swear to you this today;
If you'd but money send,
I'd make it go away.
Just pay the right indulgence,
And hell will be forestalled;
But send no money? You will burn!"
The prophet cried and bawled.
"There are two pathways forward,
The one which leads through me,
And then that other byway,
Alas, called liberty."
"I will see it dulled and dimmed,
And soon be brought to heel;
If you'd leave off your thinking And simply learn to feel."
"I will preach you terror
That you might follow me;
Give up that silly thing,
That burning liberty."
"The world is coming to end:
I tell this truth aloud;
I'll teach it from the rooftops
And to the waiting crowd."
"And as you follow I will lead,
And then I'll truly be
Celebrated and so very rich,
Like royalty indeed."
"The world is coming to an end:
I swear to you this day.
If you'd but send more money,
And pay and pay and pay."
Conjugating Hitler "Als nationale Sozialisten sehen wir in unserer Flagge unser Programm." Adolf Hitler, in Mein Kampf, chapter 7, section 557, "Deutung des nationalsozialistischen Symbols." Adolf was a socialist -- That was his Party's name; "To hit" is to conjugate This socialist's great fame. He hit his stride, then hit parade,
Then hit a queer charade;
He hit with lightning speed so fast,
And hit those damnéd Jews at last.
Hit him and her, hit them,
Hit you, and then hit me;
That is how one lives
Through Adolf's Hitler-ly.
Foolish men were ruling ...and so the story goes. Foolish men were ruling
When Debt had come to call,
And once more a foolish Peter
Had tried to rob a Paul.
But Paul, it seemed, had withered
Or wandered far away;
The fools were therefore angry.
What is there more to say?
But Debt was not fully paid,
While fools were in the mood
To blame someone else, and
Thereby their own elude.
"So where has Paul then gone,"
They said, "He is so very shrewd."
The fools were still more angry.
What is there more to say?
"It is that most elusive Paul
Who us is truly fooling;
He hides away his wherewithal
After which we'd all been drooling.
We need therefore to make him pay,
To drain his turnip's blood;
We need to take it all away
To stem this debtors' flood.
But Debt was not so patient,
Though willing then to wait;
For Debt knew fools were foolish,
And hid its hook with bait.
"Perhaps you'll pay tomorrow,
And then again pay more?
Your children might be able,
For that's what Debt is for."
Foolish men were ruling
When Debt had come to call,
And once more, a foolish Peter
Had tried to rob a Paul.
But Paul, it seemed, had withered
Or wandered far away;
The fools were angry.
What is there more to say?
Children of fools will rule
When Debt again will call; What then will fools' own children say?
"How foolish and what gall!"
Children of fools will owe
What fools spent yesterday;
For Debt knows of the foolish
Who spend next year today. Foolish men were ruling
When Debt had come to call.
Darwin's God (Darwin's response to Dawkins) Of "the Creator" Darwin wrote,
Most clearly in his book;
Of "grandeur in this view of life,"
If only we would look.
That origins might come from God
Is raged at much today;
And yet I find it rather odd
How Darwinists betray
What Darwin wrote by his own hand,
And in his theory book
Of "the Creator" and of "life,"
If only we would look.
The Darwinists seem dearly fond
Of saying life is blind;
Not only blind, but deaf and dumb,
And in this view they find
Some other truth than Darwin wrote;
That's what they sell; absurd
Their words in Darwin's mouth
while crushing Darwin's word.
"The Creator" shows himself
In Darwin's wordy book;
We would know this only if
We all would take a look.
No matter No matter what you say,
It soon will seem passé;
No matter what you do,
It will not long stay new.
No matter what you feel,
In time it won't seem real;
No matter what you think,
Someone will say you stink.
No matter who you are,
You're never long the star;
No matter the applause,
You know of all your flaws.
No matter where you stand,
It's not quite what you planned;
No matter all your wants,
'Upon a time' was once.
No matter where you run,
Your race is not yet done;
No matter how you lie,
The truth comes by-and-by.
When life seems such a curse,
Think it could be worse;
No matter what it seems,
Life's but the stuff of dreams.
O shitty, little cities in the dell O shitty, little cities in the dell,
Corruption and crime make you unwell.
But, shining are the cities on a hill
Where freedom happy lovers drink their fill.
And who's the victim of one city's crime,
And who lives quite peaceably sublime?
The one path proves descent, the other, rise;
Yet to both paths the same rule applies.
Following the trails tells each tale;
Some are quite unhealthy, others hale.
Shining freedom's cities gleam with light;
Shitty, little cities stink of fright.
I'd prefer to live where love and health
Contribute to a shining city's wealth.
I shall then right well avoid the smell
Of shitty, little cities in the dell.
Government Speaks I want you to want me;
Then you'll be less free,
Caught up in my apathy,
Diminishing your liberty.
I want you to pay more;
Then we can explore
What from me you must implore
And what your future has in store.
I need you to need me,
Bent upon your knee;
Grovel, beg, beseech and plea
And quite without your dignity.
I'll see you compliant,
Meek, and not defiant;
You'll come to heel as client,
Thus in my borders be reliant.
What a fine achievement,
What I do's well spent;
I will be your government.
And you've no choice but to consent. I'll be lord over you, For that is my due; Many under precious few Is government, quite through and through.
It Is Not Fair Judge not lest ye be judged. It is not fair to judge me
according to my deeds;
I wish that you would follow
some other's twisted leads.
It is not right to judge me
according to my word;
I wish that you spy on
something that's more absurd.
It is not just to judge me
for what I have not done,
Nor for those honors due me
which I've not fairly won.
It is not good to judge me
according to my stance,
Or see beyond my sly pretense
with such a simple glance.
No one may judge me rightly,
No one at all, save me;
For I'm my judge and jury;
It's high time I forgave me.
Bright Boys If 'fair is fair' for one,
Then 'fair is fair for all;'
It is this truth which bright boys shun,
A truth which earns their gall.
'Do as I say, not as I do,'
Is rather how they think;
'What's right for me is not for you;'
It's from this lie we shrink.
Were 'fair is fair for all'
In all our hearts and minds,
Then modern life would not appall
In all its strains and kinds.
But as, it's true, life is unfair,
The unfairest of it all
Is that the bright boys so despair
When fairness comes to call.
Full Circle In order to succeed,
It's best to plead
That you've been victimized.
There's a special class
For those who pass
Being wholly victimized.
And when well done,
Then comes the fun,
Your agonies itemized.
You'll be in charge
And feel quite large
And wholly maximized.
There'll come applause,
And others to your cause,
Your enemies quite minimized.
It's others by you
Will feel the thumbscrew
As they'll be victimized
By you.
Friend Or Foe “I’ll gladly pay tomorrow for a hamburger today!” Elzie Crisler Segar, in Popeye the Sailor, in the daily King Features comic strip, 1929. "A friend in need
is a friend indeed;"
so the adage tells.
To be a friend
then one must tend
to friendship that excels.
When that word, "friend,"
is freshly penned,
and seeks some cash to spend,
And when "friends" come by
and plead and cry,
one needs to query "why?"
Not every "friend"
is in in the end
proven by the word,
But by so many yesterdays
which one appraises
what one has seen and heard.
Ah, one should spend
and one should lend
when true friends ask that right,
But one should guard
and not be jarred
when "friends" then turn to fight.
That "friend" in need
then shows his greed,
which is no real plight.
It is to live
and debt forgive
as true "friends" truly might.
One's list of friends
to which one lends
is not that long or wide.
One has more "friends;"
the definition bends,
as "friends" seek another ride.
"A friend in need
is a friend indeed;"
so the adage speaks.
To be a friend
then one might lend
when real friendship seeks.
But have a care
and be beware
of "friends" who are not friends;
They'll seek your aid
and you'll be preyed
upon by "friendly" ends.
A true friend rarely
looks for squarely
help that goes one way;
The true friend sparely
asks and barely
then knows what to say.
But "friends" know well
to weave their spell,
and win from you their goal.
Such "friends" are not
friends who plot
their friends to buttonhole.
Such a "friend" is in the end not friend, but truly foe.
For Your Common Good "We're going to take things away from you on behalf of the common good." Hillary Rodham Clinton, 2004 We'll give you what you gave;
We'll give you what you got,
And you'll be plenty lucky,
'Cause that will be a lot.
Your crumbs fall from our table,
And drop to you below,
And you'll be plenty lucky
That governments bestow.
All bounty from us, highest,
Comes from the tax you pay;
But do not think
You've anything to say.
And if you are unhappy,
Or if it's not enough,
You'll still be plenty lucky
That we will not play rough.
For rough house play is childish
And irritating too;
And you'll be plenty lucky
We make no end of you.
You need us take, to give you
A part of what you earn;
And you'll be plenty lucky
If only this you learn.
For what we do for little you
We must be paid quite well,
And what you'll pay is plenty,
That we can well foretell. The common good demands this, we need our lion's share; It costs us much to keep you Within our lion's lair.
Now give us what you gave us;
Now give us what you got.
And you'll be plenty lucky
That you will not be shot.
Orwell's Pigs Orwell's pigs sew discontent,
yet feed themselves quite well.
Orwell's pigs broach no dissent;
dissent can go to hell.
Orwell's pigs show simple greed,
to rake in what they please.
Orwell wrote that we should know
of pigs' absurdities.
Pigs do wallow in their sties
with Chicken Little's cries;
Being pigs, they theorize
high Marx in pig disguise.
Orwell's pigs? Were they fiction?
Or is there nagging fact?
Orwell's pigs' predilection
in activists react.
And from each tiny molehill
pigs build their temple mount,
Against each piggy windmill
they piggily surmount.
Those who have to pigs who need
is how pigs gain their feed.
Others bleed, such pigs concede,
for so this must precede
Some future years of plenty
when pigs have had their fill.
But more than ten or twenty
long years are past, and still
Orwell's pigs sew discontent
while feeding very well,
Those who dare pronounce dissent
are answered with a yell.
Orwell's pigs do not allow
an argument, or facts;
Pigs' ad hominem to cow
is how the pig distracts.
Orwell's work might well be burned,
if piggies had their way.
Orwell's truth, to be discerned,
might well be learned today.
Orwell's pigs sew discontent,
yet feed themselves quite well.
Orwell's pigs broach no dissent;
dissent can go to hell.
Up on the little guy We can afford it; we're rich!
So the taxes go up on the little guy.
Let them complain; let them bitch!
But the taxes go up for the little guy.
There must be some drastic action!
Let the taxes go high for the little guy.
We are the righteous faction!
So burdens must rise for the little guy.
The world will end in a minute!
Raise the taxes upon the little guy.
It all depends how they spin it,
Such that taxes go up on the little guy.
Aristocrats work for their glory,
As more taxes are raised on the little guy.
Bureaucrats make mandatory
All the taxes that rise for the little guy.
Those living atop the heap
While underneath is taxed the little guy
Are easy to spot as they reap
Out of that which is taxed from the little guy.
What comes of this evolution
When more taxes are heaped on the little guy?
One sort of revolution;
Not the one that was planned for the little guy.
Heads will roll, as they have,
When such taxes wash over the little guy.
That is the old, well-worn salve,
When taxes are piled on the little guy.
The End Game of Conformity If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. "Conclusion," in Walden by Henry David Thoreau This is how I see it,
And this way you should too --
Not seeing it some other way,
That's not the thing to do.
Don't you see what I see?
Don't you think it true?
If you don't agree with me,
That's when I'll censure you.
You should never disagree;
It's neither right nor fair.
You should only absently
Vote for my welfare.
For yours, I truly care not,
Where e'er you disagree;
Disputation is a plot
Against my harmony.
I send some force against you,
And ask you to comply;
And if you dare not harmonize
Why then I hope you die.
A Sing-Song Song to Sing
Boom, boom, boom from the bomb, bomb, bomb;
Whom did it kill in its maelstrom?
Boom, bomb, boom, in a ghastly blast;
Whom did it kill for the telecast?
Blast, boom, blast makes a deathly calm.
Shoppers, kids, or daddy or a mom.
All the gore, and all the bloody parts
Make heart sore other caring hearts.
Cheer, cheer, cheer as the hatreds burn;
Opinions soar and the children learn.
Primetime news does it best to enthuse
A propaganda war with its interviews.
Should we fight or should we run away?
If we hide, then who is it wins the day?
Wring those hands and cry aloud;
Run the direction of any crowd.
Boom, boom, boom will come to you;
Whom will it kill on your avenue?
Boom, bomb, boom, in a ghastly blast;
When it comes to you, you'll be aghast.
Blast, boom, blast makes a deathly calm.
Where'll you go, or run there from?
All the gore, and all the bloody parts
Will be you at home or in your shopping marts.
Cheer, cheer, cheer as the hatreds burn;
It was only you who was taciturn.
Primetime news will not readily excuse
When boom, blast, boom pays them its dues.
Should you fight or should you run away?
After you're gone, who is it wins the day?
Wring those hands and cry aloud;
If bombers win as clearly they've vowed.
Boom, boom, boom from the bomb, bomb, bomb;
Whom will it kill in the next maelstrom?
Poetry Sandburg says poetry
is like the synthesis
of hyacinths and biscuits;
Frost says poetry
is what gets lost
in translation;
Cocteau says poetry
is indispensable; and
Jiménez says poetry
is a state of grace;
I say poetry
is like words,
only better.
Politics (To Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians, Independents, Socialists and other Jackasses) Politics, the servant says,
is how I serve the nation.
Just how it ticks, this politics,
in my interpretation,
Is best unsaid and best unseen,
for all is in relation
To how the nation best serves me,
its servant-politician.
The Truth We've found the truth,
the pious spit;
we've got it in our writings.
We've built a booth
to cover it,
and organize its sightings.
To our devout,
we offer it,
to firm and true believers,
To praise and shout,
to be alit
with wild heady fevers.
Away we'll go,
sequestering,
away to contemplations.
Away! Allow no
pestering
from other truths' temptations.
Our truth's defense,
these pious vow,
our truth is worth the fighting.
Our quest is hence:
all knees shall bow,
bow low before our writing.
The peace of God
is won by force,
the might of rightful thinking.
The cudgel, rod
and fist, of course,
uphold the truth from sinking.
So, come along,
the pious chant,
abide in truth's true fate;
Come, sing our song,
dear supplicant,
through love, learn love, then hate.
The pious hum
some simple truth,
all knowing at the start.
And they come,
with sharpened tooth,
to gnaw your truth apart.
Pig (for Lisa Cutler Gomberg) If, to know the pig, we undertook,
In a wordy book, then, we would look.
Thence, we find it necessary
To study Webster's pig-tionary.
Pig, pronounced, 'pig,' is a noun, of course;
Pig, we learn, is not a horse.
Middle English brought us 'pigge.'
Now, Saxon speech is not so 'bigge.'
One: a swine, not sexually mature,
Or so it says in the pig brochure.
But let us not inform the pig
About its immature thing-a-ma-jig.
Broadly, a wild or domestic swine,
Yet, spineless, like a naked porcupine.
Two, a: some say a pig is pork,
Like fat on the government's greasy fork.
Two, b: (or not to be) the carcass of a youthful swine,
Central to the luau's extravagant design.
Two, c: pigskin, or a football, tightly stitched,
Or a gentleman's saddle, oft unhitched.
Three, a: one who resembles a pig;
This, a most effective dig.
Three, b: an animal related to,
Or quite alike one, through and through.
Four: a casting, crude, of smelted metal,
Like iron that makes the ferrous kettle.
Five: that's slang for an immoral woman,
Not quite tref, and all too human.
The pig has quite a well known snout;
Its trunk is both corpulent and stout;
The pig ends in a corkscrew tail;
In fact, it's piggy in every detail.
A pigboat is a submarine,
A swimming, splashing, diving machine.
The pigfish are salt water grunts,
And some of the ocean's smaller runts.
The piggery is where our swine are kept;
It is unclean, unwashed, unswept.
Then, there's piggyback, as we ride
Upon some other's broad backside.
Pig's feet are generally pickled in brine,
And not a favorite food of mine.
Whene'er we deal with a pig-headed fool,
Beware of the pig-headed ridicule.
Pig Latin is not what people say,
But, rather, ig-Pay atin-Lay.
A pig pen is the same as
Whatever the piggery or pig sty has.
Pigtails descend from the Tartars' braid,
And are of lengthy woven hair made.
Pigs in a blanket are recreational;
At a picnic, children find them masticational.
Never buy a pig in a poke;
It is the flim-flam's masterstroke.
Pigs once were sacred to each ancient Cretan,
And not available for general eatin'.
Mythological Jupiter was suckled by a sow;
He wouldn't sip from the lowly cow.
Pigs were immolated in Eleusian mystery;
Barbecues seem their regular history.
Alas, poor pigs were sacrificed
And sent to pigdom's paradise.
Yet, in a card game, a pig is placed;
The "pig's eye" is the Diamond's ace.
Shakespeare's Shylock acts the prig;
"Some men there are love not the gaping pig."
In childhood, nonsense is often told:
"Here a pig, there a pig, everywhere a pig! Old...."
And when the Big Bad Wolf had blown, Still stood a pig's house made of stone.
Now, to market, went one little pig;
Compared to the others, he is quite big.
The second, we're told, stayed at home;
Perhaps, for him, t'was nowhere to roam.
The next one had his roast beef,
For bacon would have caused him too great a grief.
And another had nothing to eat;
A vegetarian, he would not eat meat.
The last little piggy was no gastronome,
And was sent wee-wee-wee, all the way home.
When children hear the coin-made clank,
It’s savings in their piggy bank.
Enough to know, enough to learn,
Unless to be a pig we yearn.
I, for one, did not renege
Herein to contemplate the pig.
History Lesson
The Pharaohs were entombed;
As gods they had presumed
To rule, but they were doomed
To be discovered, death consumed,
And to be then exhumed.
Such Pharaohs on display
Are in museums today.
Their deity is cast away,
As human they then did decay,
For godship too can rot away.
Great Rome is now no more;
For what it had in store
Was to rule as conqueror
And then to wane as those before
In such lost days of yore.
Once divine right was the thing
For sultan, emperor and king;
The passing years all seem to bring,
As autumn follows after spring,
An end to such a regal fling.
The caliphate did once expand,
And take its neighbors' land;
Religiously did it demand
That others not withstand
Its reign, which time did then disband.
The tsars are of the past,
Swept clean by foes amassed;
In revolution's icy blast
Their royal houses could not last,
And gone are glories now surpassed.
The Nazis came and went,
The Soviets, too, are spent.
A government can soon be bent,
Then broken, and away is sent
As lackeys all do oft lament.
Some dictators, we see,
Hold power long and skillfully;
While hellish others awfully
Will starve and murder as do we
Our silence keep, far too patiently.
The writing on the wall
Should now be read to gall;
We need no prophet's obtuse scrawl
To teach us that there is a call
To freedom for not one, but all.
Too Far too hard or far too easy? Far too anything makes me queasy.
One's too rich and one's too poor;
Who hasn't heard that one before?
One's too tall and one's too fat;
Mere statistics to the bureaucrat.
Too uptight, or far too free?
Far too much absurdity? Far too smart? Too little sense? Too unfeeling? Too intense? Far too loving; far too numb. Truly far too bothersome.
One's a warlock, one's a witch;
One's a bastard; one's a bitch.
One's too far left; one's too far right.
Both far too ready for a fight.
Too far right or too far left;
Politics soon turns to theft.
Too uncaring; too upset;
Too much cash, too much in debt.
Too little time, too many fears;
Too much isn't as it appears.
Far too young or far too old;
Far too swiftly buttonholed.
Far too sexy, far too bland,
Far too nosy, cozy and...
...one's too much fun; one's far too stern.
Or maybe it's just not our concern.
Why not bid a fond adieu
To the nasty, horrid little "too?"
Prayer for the Common Good Some one else should pay
for what I want today;
What others earn I do so yearn
to take away today.
It's others then should work
in order that I shirk;
From all that is too hard this day,
I run with greedy smirk.
I'll take what is not mine,
yet real work decline,
For "easy come and easy go"
To profit me combine. Ah, those in real need And those I've parodied, I'll hide behind such humankind In order to mislead.
Let others see my need,
But not my greedy screed;
May they all feel some deep, dark guilt
Upon which I may feed.
And so the Common Good Dictates that you all should Give me this day my daily bread, Unearned, for brotherhood.
For all of you I pray,
To feed me through this day;
What you shall earn I do so yearn
to take away today.
Light the Lamps Light the lamps, and wonders tell.
Light the lamps that hearts may swell,
and dark days dispel.
Light the lamps of well-won peace.
Light the lamps, as battles cease.
May this light increase.
Let the wicked ones beware;
let their wicked hearts despair.
God did heed our prayer.
Light these lamps, for victory
turns away the harsh decree,
done that all might see.
Freedom won is worth such price,
With God's help which did suffice --
worth each sacrifice.
Light these lamps that, as they burn,
we may once again yet learn
for liberty to yearn.
Light the lamps to mark these days.
Light these lamps to give God praise.
Tell his wondrous ways.
Light these lamps in every place.
Light these lamps to tell the grace
and the light embrace.
Light the lamps for we were freed.
Light the lamps to mark the deed.
God did intercede.
[ A free interpretation of the scansion and theme of the Yiddish poem, " O ihr kleyne Lichtelech" Arranged for chorus by Larry Moore, YR3131 at Yelton Rhodes Music.]
Modern Times and Charity "I need your cash for charity," The upper crust said to me. "The more you'll give," they really mean, "'s the less they'll want from me."
"We urge you to dig deeply down, To pay the freight for love. It's how you'll stay just where you are, And how we'll stay high above." Movie stars and moguls And politicians crowd Around the public forums To wail and cry aloud. "It's not too much for you to do, (Though far too much for us). Dig deep from your percentage (While making little fuss)." The rich pay fancy wages To charities they employ To tell the middle class They've more than one should enjoy. The upper crust is charitable With other people's cash; They'll do quite well with yours, While peddling balderdash. When upper crust is middle class, Their riches will have gone To feed the poor and needy Which most they prey upon. When rich folks give a little, And counsel you to give, Consider for a moment Just how it is they live. Millions, billions seems a lot, For those in the middle class; Such numbers in one's bank accounts Defines the upper class. With so much ardor, so much class, Why aren't they less than rich? And why the press relations and why the bait-and-switch? The rich are rich because they give Far less than we should know. That's how the wealth is spread above And not spread down below.
Nonsense Most nonsense is right-on sense, Far more than people know. A con's sense is quite sans sense, As politicians show. The joy of being silly, Should spawn a lovely glow, Of drifting willy-nilly, Of musing to and fro. The earnest wage a silly war To take another's dough, By taxing them to make their score, Which governments bestow By making sense stand on its head With 'sans sense' which they crow. I'd druthers have nonsense in its stead, Truths tucked 'neath each bon mot.
To Reap Without Sewing On talking in the Düsseldorf train station to a young German punk-rocker with a button reading, "Fuck Work" I do not wish to work; I'd rather shirk.
I'd rather protest, rather smirk
And in the hearts of congress lurk
And seek what it bestows.
I want what you have earned, and have well learned:
There are those quite well concerned
To give me that for which I've yearned
Though some might dare oppose.
Who'll do goodly work in my neighborhood?
To give me all, as they could,
And take from others, as they should,
And charity impose.
For this I shall not labor, shall not toil
But of my neighbor's wealth despoil,
And harvest from the social soil
Wherein my harvest grows. From all I reap but did not have to sew
This one bright lesson I full know:
From some seeds planted to grow
One only need foreclose.
A lazy reaper reaps what others' sew,
And teaches me the way to go
Idly through and idly slow
Towards that debt each one owes
To me.
Throw Away the Mold The present king of some future France owns mountains made of gold and all his luscious lady popes are beautiful when old. They sleep quite sound on steel sheets with neither crease nor fold, and though they are so very shy, they are so very bold. The empire is so widely vast it seems quite hard to hold, and all its subjects, one by one, are bought and then resold. The knights are loyal by decree or so often are we told, Blinding in their bright éclat, a brilliant past foretold. We imagine all which cannot be, which is so hot while cold, and when we judge we made enough we throw away the mold.
Glory
Glory be for senses,
rare and ordinary,
for colors, tastes and touch,
for music’s speech and such
as all that I can know.
Glory be for moments,
broad or momentary,
fleet and swift the day
and all that I survey,
across this life’s plateau.
Glory be for questions,
from friend and adversary,
of brute or subtle thought,
with answers or for naught,
in all this to-and-fro.
Glory be for flesh,
though it be temporary,
flamed spirit in its frame,
and known by every name,
to come and then to go.
Glory be to all in all,
great acts and deeds or simplest things,
in green leaved days that springtime brings,
in harvests’ day and winters’ snow.
Glory for senses,
moments, questions,
years and seasons,
everything hurling and whirling the way
towards glory in each gloried day.
Glory in the beginning.
Glory, now and ever shall be.
Glory in the end.
Take Me Back to the Ball Game
April the eighth in seventy-four,
decades after the Babe had done it before,
there came to the plate just one batter ablaze.
It had been but a matter of days,
and, with no time to wait,
a prize fixed in his gaze,
his ash bat did its best to amaze.
Seven hundred and fifteen from this lone competitor,
the tie-breaker coming April eighth in seventy-four.
Thank Aaron,
Hank Aaron,
that’s Henry “Hank” Aaron; and...
Take me back to the old ball game,
when sport was merely a passion aflame,
when millions meant fans who would cheer and acclaim,
not the millions in salaries and the strikes it became.
Take me back to that old ball game,
like on April eighth back in seventy-four,
decades after Babe Ruth had done it before.
Sticks and Stones Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words should never hurt me,
Unless they're read out by the court,
Subpoena, suit and and bad report.
Then I'd take sticks and I'd take stones,
Rather than attorneys' clever groans.
One's wallet empties rather fast,
When words are used by the legal caste.
Soldiers
Soldiers are but targets,
and war is not their friend;
so children into soldiers go
to meet some tragic end.
They're taught: uphold the honor
and sovereignty defend;
the battles come, then off they go
as soldiers must, to end.
Commanders know their targets
in war, and freely spend
in costs of life; but on they go,
replacements never end.
For country, flag and honor
with war and bloodshed blend;
as soldiers come and soldiers go,
just targets in the end.
On a Candidate's Platform Politics is taxing,
and many find it hard
to understand that inner game
of devilish canard.
When politicians, holding forth,
regale us with their wit,
we find that all to often
their wisdom is just shit.
Little Man
Little man
in his short life
professes the immortal,
and little man
with man's short sight
envisions heaven's portal.
Little man's
most little mind
pretends towards all the knowing,
and little man,
apart, alone,
dreams life continues growing.
Little man's
enormous words
point him towards the one,
but little man,
alas, is me,
and I will soon be gone.
Past and gone,
a little man,
and nowhere near perfection;
yet, while I live,
this little one
drinks deep from One reflection.
Waltz of the Promiscuous Dying from free love, He love, and she love, That's not unheard of, we say. Dying from fee love, Never care free love, That is it, whereof I pray. Dying from me love, Or Esteedee love, That's not well-thought-of today. Sometimes off-key love, Hardly scot-free love, Killing us, thereof we pay. No guarantee, love, What were we thinking of? That is the dance of love, and the cliché. By kid glove and turtledove, Dying from all the above. Dying's the game for this day.
Advice to the Pessimist If you feel that life's a bore,
Why then do you wait for more?
If you feel that life's a dream,
Why then argue how things seem?
If you harbor deepest fear,
Why then celebrate and cheer?
If you feel that you are right,
Why be surprised when others fight?
If you can't confess a wrong,
You can't expect to get along.
If you find fault too quickly,
Then others will get prickly.
If you're known to bleat and carp,
Be not amazed, response comes sharp.
If grouch and groan is what you do,
Others will fast flee from you.
Pessimism's harvest fails,
And its bounty often pales.
Life is far much more than this;
Seek then joy and love and bliss.
The One God, Praise One God speaks.
One God speaks in the leaving falls
and in the budding springs.
One God speaks in immensities,
and in the little things.
One God speaks in the still, small voice,
and in our every daily choice.
We celebrate this One;
the one God, praise.
Stand before the
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