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.
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.
'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
And the faster we make
the better. God can't lead us
all into battle
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
the shit of kings.
Bleaching their chambers
of virgin blood. Lighting their pyres
and burning my own.
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.
Kitt Potter - Vocals/Jazzoetry
Neil Nail Alexander – Piano
Robert Kopec - Upright Bass
Eric Pearson - Sax, Reeds, Flute
Dutchess County Poet Laureate Poet Gold
Join us as CAPS pushes free speech forward when we need it most.
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.
It's nice to feel an air conditioned day,
Nature's changing thermostat
set just where I like.
Leaves on the trees disagree:
some are red with anger
that Mother Nature turned off the heat,
some are yellow with fear
for the coming chill of winter,
and some have fainted dead away,
lying on the ground.
A petal on a flower practices her yoga.
in a body no longer strong and agile,
her favorite posture being dormancy.
Her light, imprisoned in rigid form,
craves a change of asana.
Maples awaken in the distance with swaying red buds,
birds and bugs fly and wiggle,
stream currents flow,
moving beings in their unique
flowing, growing, flying and wiggling asanas.
Rocks still and sturdy in unperturbed posture,
the sun in fiery, shining Warrior Stance
and the moon in golden Silent Savasana,
pose, gazing at us, dreaming that all the world
has moved into the asana of loving.
Poetry has the last word.