Freedom Isn't Free

Freedom Isn't Free bumper sticker caught my eye.

I thought, that's true, and even though

Military Funerals Are Free,

Death Is Costly to the soldier,

his wife and child, mom and dad, friends and family.

I know the debt we owe to those who brave cross blood red seas, 

leave their body parts in desert sands,

lose their minds from killing innocents

on the way to protect our enclaves, fresh cut lawns,

summer barbecues, big cars and little children.

Thank you is not enough.

But enough is enough.

Our sad little world needs to learn the lesson.

Killing to maintain freedom is never the answer.

It just leads to more killing and less freedom. 

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The Real Estate Of My Mind

My stories are contrived from concealed figments of

imaginary pieces of the real estate of my mind

that stalk the subconscious synapses of paradox,

unfold layers of evocative reflections of experience,

journey through poignant particles of brainwaves that

peddle through the thick atmosphere to empty space,

seeking time bomb snippets set to detonate at moment's notice.

Minutes ago, words did not appear on this paper,

now language is squeezed n' transformed

into poetic birth of another doggerel.

If I were a woman, I would breast feed this infant

so that he/she would manifest to completion.

But, I am a man whose innate ability to nurture

lay in the soil over which I toil each spring

as I till, seed, water, weed, reap, sow my paradise.

In stillness, my lucid mind wanders inward,

convolutes, then circumvents reality,

logic disappears, reason reflects observation,

a flicker of perception is ignited,

lyrics pour from philosophical vessel

onto slippery roads I travel, paths once forsaken,

given up for dead, only to rise in the sunshine.

The sky is a cloudless incandescent blue.

The 80-degree temperature is the perfect palatial pallet.

The sultry wind crawls 5mph from the warm gulf waters.

Swan families are floating in file beneath the boat dock.

Married eagles are nesting in needles atop the pine trees,

Playful squirrels are fidgeting up bark of the palm trees.

Poking, peaking, long-beak White Ibis' aerate the lawn.

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Walking My Dog During a Florida Thunderstorm

The rainclouds appear as a puffy silk shelf

from which gray garland cotton balls hang

from the saturated swollen sky

like ribbons of Christmas tree ornaments.

Cracks of thunder crackle with

flashes of lightning streaks that explode,

light up the darkness in flames

like oil and water sizzling in a frying pan.

A spectacle of blue spears

slice the sparkling heavens

illuminate the water-logged particles,

like dancing minstrels parading the engorged highway.

All this,

while my dog pissed and shit.

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pillaged wine

'scuse me for

outwardly processing but

I can't control myself

these days. There's too much

to masticate and castigate

not to. But I'm

low on patience

and need action. Abolition.

Absolution that this statecraft

between us, between the world

is more than funds and suppression.

More than archived warheads and

blanching at darker skin than cardboard.

I don't buy it.

It's not policy

it's theology.

And the faster we make

that distinction

the better. God can't lead us

all into battle

but each

will claim

his banner.

And you know the shit-storm

that shadows: tin cut messiahs

yell for blood

and everyone bleeds.

We all become bovine

and crave a good steak

w/our pillaged wine

and sterling spoons.

We feed their children ours

and that has got to stop.

'cos I won't spend

my golden years

mucking out

the shit of kings.

Bleaching their chambers

of virgin blood. Lighting their pyres

and burning my own.

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Jazzoetry: In & Out of Time - Music Set to Words

Quinn's  

330 Main Street  Beacon, NY

Monday,  February 27th    8-11pm    Suggested Donation

Calling All Poets & Quinn's presents JAZZOETRY – Music Set To Words.

This hotly anticipated inaugural event features many of the Hudson Valley's celebrated

actors, poets, and storytellers who know how to groove 'n flow with the incredibly gifted

musicians that make up the Jazzoetry Quartet.

The evening will move in and out of time with jazz instrumentals & jazz vocals, as poets

and storytellers perform spoken word and improvise with the ensemble.


Jazzoetry Quartet:

Kitt Potter - Vocals/Jazzoetry

Neil Nail Alexander – Piano

Robert Kopec - Upright Bass

Eric Pearson - Sax, Reeds, Flute


Jazzoetry Features:

Dutchess County Poet Laureate Poet Gold

Mike Jurkovic

Glenn Werner


Join us as CAPS pushes free speech forward when we need it most.
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Friday, May 5 8pm: An Evening with Eamon Grennan

Born in 1941, Eamon Grennan is a Dublin native and Irish citizen who has lived in the

United States for over thirty years. He was educated at University College in Dublin

and Harvard University.

His collections include: Matter of Fact (Graywolf Press, 2008); The Quick of It, (2005);

Renvyle, Winter (special limited edition, 2003); Still Life with Waterfall (2002),

winner of the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize; Selected & New Poems (2000);

Relations: New & Selected Poems (1998); So It Goes (1995), a finalist for the

Paterson Poetry Prize; As If It Matters (1992); What Light There Is and Other Poems

(1989), a finalist for a Los Angeles Times Book Prize; What Light There Is (1987);

and Wildly for Days (1983).

As well as a number of Pushcart Prizes, he has received awards from the National

Endowment for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and from the

John Simon Guggenheim Foundation.

He taught at Vassar College until his retirement. He lives in Poughkeepsie, and spends

as much time as he can in the West of Ireland.

Join us for a very special evening.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/eamon-grennan


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(Now I Am the) Time Bomb

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Nephrite Jade

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Featured

Three Poems - Karen Corinne Herceg

 A Thin Season

(For a young man beheaded for listening to Western pop tunes

in his father's grocery store)

It is a thin season

culling the air of blue breath

choked sudden as a sword

at the throat of a young infidel

the forbidden pop tune of his innocence

still playing in the annals

of his thoughts

kneeling, repetitive, insistent

as the accusations of the faithful

who behead him

on an afternoon like any other

clouds rising

in a decimation of distance

between the neck and heaven.

Isis goddess of love, the moon,

magic and fertility,

a healing sister of deities

daughter of earth and sky,

twists in a massacre

of celestial delusions

bearing the severed body

back to the arms that bore him,

the one who will hear music

no more. here ...


Autumn Waits

The day screams colder

presuming bare

desperate winter trees.

Leaves bleed out colors,

sap freezing in their veins,

skies running bleak.

I build fires

against a frigid

unforgiving horizon,

fabricating warmer hope,

when climate will not mirror

the measure of my soul,

dictate rhythms of desires,

the direction of spirit.

When melting or igniting

will not be issues

within the waiting.


Feline Intensity

She regards him

with a feline intensity

the pierce of question

disguised as bravado

fake it 'till you make it

says the swish of the tail

the come hither

bait and switch love trap

that knows you want it

so she gives it

hoarding triumph

like a flag

raised

while gazing in the moist aftermath

her sleek eyes following sky-framed rooftops

that keep reaching.

Cats never look hurt:

just indignant.

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Featured

Azaleas and Wild Onions



I’m in my Azalea bed digging out – again – wild onions that continue to
multiply there year after year.
When a hawk flew into the house and was killed
I buried her in this bed,
rested her on dried Sage,
planted an Azalea next to her,
placed a beautiful stone over her plot.
And the pungent wild onions grew.
When my brother died, Mom and I scattered his ashes
in a hidden clearing in the woods behind her house.
We planted Azaleas to adorn the earth
next to a beautiful stone I placed on his plot.
And the pungent wild onions grew.
Sometimes the sorrowful fragrance of this planet’s progeny is just too much.
Year after year I’ve uprooted the sad scented things.
I’ve covered them over with heavy mulch – leaves and bark-
so the sun can’t warm them, I believe,
so they can’t grow bigger, I think,
so they can’t multiply, I hope.
Still in the spring, wretchedness again grows up around the bushes of pink and purple joy.
Then I discovered I could eat them –
those tart, toothsome, allium canadense.
So now, I snack on them while weeding,
knowing that ants farm aphids, and flowers seduce bees
because they live in mutual symbiotic relationship.
And if I eat bitters, sweetness will by and by appear on my plate
from the soil of the One Earth
from the One Garden.
Where grow both wild onions and Azaleas.




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