Cherry Blossom Clinic Revisited

(it was one morning when I woke up, and then I found out that theyd signed some
Papers, and then I was gonna be kept in a bed owing to my state of mind.
And then I found out that the authorities had said, um, that Id gotta
Have special food fed to me for my thoughts, um, and I think its because,
Because I was going off my...)
Head
Sunbeam from flowered skies
Twenty thousand butterflies
Glorify my...
Turn from hot to very cool
Though it seems incredible
I could ride a bike around the room
Cherry blossom clinic
Is there any truth in what they say
Cherry blossom clinic
Lock me in and throw the key away
In this sad position where I lie
From the corner of my eye
Callous friends just pass me by
Doctor pays a visit

[...] Read more

song performed by Electric Light Orchestra
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Storm

A big storm is hitting the eastern seaboard of North America,
it has just hit Cuba and other little island; fifty people killed,
but we didn´t get an intensive coverage as we get now.
By all means it is an immense storm and no doubt America feels
it doesn´t deserve this and there is no one to drones to attack
for this onslaught on Americas’ soil. Yes, we can build walls we
can built fortresses in the hope of being safe from the world,
but in the eye of a storm by nature or a storm caused by lack of
justice and freedom, the storm will be equally furious those
storms will, if we are lucky, clean our corrupt social system,
we call democracy- a practice that gives the right of the rich to
exploit the poor and obscenely try to make the neediest enjoy
slavery of being consumers, where going to the mall is highlight
of the week… Meanwhile the storm blows and if two tramps would
be killed or two seamen drown, every TV channel in the world will
record their demise and there will be a charity in their name;
“we shall not forget their suffering.” But as water retreats and
hamburger joints opens- The past, in our world, has no memory,
it is about mustard or ketchup; and it is quite easy really,
the red little bag is tomato ketchup and the yellow bag is mustard.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The White Rose Tree

The red rose lay on the ground
Knocked from the tree by the small kids
It lay there, what becomes of it
Does it blow away and dissappear
Maybe a passing man will pick it up
No two things in life are the same
But I suppose there ending will always be alike

The small kids that climbed that tree
What becomes of them
Do they dissappear as well
Just like most people in this world
Do they just fade into the darkness
behind the curtains of life
Just another passing drone

Maybe there’s a bigger picture here
That I'm always missing
Maybe the rose has a purpose
The passing man who could of picked up the rose

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poem by Niall Boland
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Summit Mt Everest Death Zone Tested

ego skilled self-esteem
may summit Mt Everest
in heights rarified inflated...
feeling approach supremacy
climb into thin air past...

death zone 8000 metres
temperatures chill low level
frostbite extremities body parts...
exposed to contact ice air
snow shaded well-frozen...

deaths injury mistake slipping
falling stalks pounces high winds
threatens life diced changeable...
potential threat stalks climbers
baited breath altitude on Everest...

low atmospheric pressure
at summit alluring on Everest

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Broadford Bazaar

Dirty white caravans down our road, sailing.
Vivas, cortinas, weaving in their wake.
With hot, red-faced drivers, horns flattened, fists whaling,
Putting trust in blind corners as they overtake.
And its ''all come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car.
Theres home-dyed woolens, and wee plastic [cuillins]
[blessed? ] [cuchulains? ]
[cuchulain == mythical irish hero --- wee plastic cuchulains? ]
[jo-l@kcbbs.gen.nz (jo lobb) explains: broadford is a town on
Skye (where the road that passes dun ringill leaves the main
Road, incidentally) and skyes famous cuillin hills are nearby.
I suppose tourists could be expected to buy wee plastic models
Of spectacular hills .... also, the cuillin hills are ''also
Known as the coolins or cuchullins, possibly after an ossianic
Hero..., so maybe wee plastic model heroes do make sense, after
All.]
The day of the broadford bazaar.
Out of the north, no oil-rigs are drifting.

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song performed by Jethro Tull
Added by Lucian Velea
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So Many Years Ago

Cigarette smoke undulating from my aunt’s lips,
And her boyfriend is coming down
On a bus from Tennessee;
And I am working so close to the smoking beach,
But I haven’t seen her in so long,
And still I do not go:
I want to be in Colorado secreted in the higher basins,
The important key-holes where the tourists
Are too weak to go;
In fact, I want to summit mountains that have never
Been,
Or have no right to be- for her, or one of my great
Great aught great forgotten grandmothers;
And her name is- just this,
Just a song happening in the night far to the east and
Under her,
Like a French man going down on a airplane,
Like a frog making love to an inebriated princess who
Just doesn’t care;
But that is all I have to say or even think about;

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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Song

"Gesang ist Dasein"

A small thing done well, the steel bit paring
the cut end of the collar, lifting delicate
blue spirals of iron slowly out of lamplight

into darkness until they broke and fell
into a pool of oil and water below.
A small thing done well, my father said

so often that I tired of hearing it and lost
myself in the shop's north end, an underworld
of welders who wore black masks and stared

through smoked glass where all was midnight
except the purest spark, the blue-white arc
of the clamp and rod. Hammers made dull tunes

hacking slag, and acetylene flames cast shadows
of men against the tin roof like great birds

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poem by B.H. Fairchild
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Paper Cuts

Endless duplication of lives and objects....
-Theodore Roethke

I have known the imperial power of secretaries,
the awesome indifference of receptionists,
I have been intimidated by desk & typewriter,
by the silver jaws of the stapler
& the lecherous kiss of the mucilage,
& the unctuousness of rubber cement
before it dries.

I have been afraid of telephones,
have put my mouth to their stale tobacco breath,
have been jarred to terror
by their jangling midnight music,
& their sudden blackness
even when they are white.

I have been afraid in elevators
amid the satin hiss of cables

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poem by Erica Jong
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A Love of My Own

My love is stronger than a hurricane
Sweeter than the best champagne
You make me fly higher than any airplane
No words can ever explain

My love is wider than the widest sea
For your love I’d pay any bounty
I would repel any advancing army
You are the love of my life, my true beauty

My love is higher than the highest mountain
It’s for you I have truly fallen
My lonely days you have so brighten
You have taken my soul to heaven

My love is deeper than the deepest ocean
Henceforth I promise you love and devotion
My inner most being you have shaken
You shall never be forsaken

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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The Bee with Honey Combs her Hair

The Bee with honey combs her hair
with yellow pollen pads,
in honour of the sun’s gold glare,
the golden pollen adds.

This she applies with special care –
‘tis one of her few fads –
to head and thorax, everywhere,
which her detractors mads.

Nectarine nectar necklace fair,
demanded by ‘light winged dryads’,
and furred abdomen cincture rare
masks caudad sting with which she’s clad.

Antennae waving in the air
send signals by the chiliad,
she has ‘no time to sit and stare’
copes, mopes not in jeremiads

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Human “pop Tarts”?

Military unsatisfied with guns n’ drones
Soon may beam microwaves on Afghans’
Their skin will burn, while victims groan
Until they yield ‘selves to harsh demands

ROTMS

US may ‘microwave’ Afghan targets
Published on 06-19-2010

Source: Press TV

The US military may be testing a controversial weapon that focuses microwave energy with a so-called “goodbye effect” on targets in Afghanistan, a report says.

The new system, called the “Active Denial System, ” is designed to shoot an invisible beam of high-energy waves at people, creating an intense burning sensation, AOL News initially reported on June 17.

According to some sources, the new system is still undergoing tests at military laboratories.

The focused waves quickly become intolerable and burn the skin layers, forcing the targets to disperse.

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poem by Ray Lucero
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Frank the Jester

There's joy in legislative halls
When Frank's in opposition;
But gloom upon the Chamber falls
When Frank holds high position.
His merry japes no longer flit
About the House to mellow it,
For cares of office dull his wit
And mar his life's great mission.

Frank's mission - and a high one, too,
Amongst the chiefest rating
Is to infuse come joy anew
Into the dull debating.
When speakers drone and lose their grip,
And every member has the pip,
Up rises Frank with merry quip
And humor scintillating.

But as a Minister, alack,
His ready wit grows clouded.

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Hawk Revisited II

But there it was again-
glimpsed over the shoulder
today while shuffling the new mail
airborne this time, wings outspread
plain against the blue
by all who cared to see,
lazily burrining the air in
wide, invisible circles
deftly counter-pointing a
jet-plane out of La Guardia,
then suddenly seen to bank and climb-
a hawk, glistening.
You might note the skillful way it held to keel
veered into the brilliant sun, slip-slid this or that way
neatly balancing fore and aft, the toy of every draft.

Did it enjoy its light calligraphy? No one can ascertain.
Nor that you saw the wind ruffle the feathers of its head
or its burnished shins drag on the guazy air
with...

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Another Christmas Song

Hope everybodys ringing on their own bell, this fine morning.
Hope everyones connected to that long distance phone.
Old man, hes a mountain.
Old man, hes an island.
Old man, hes a-walking says
''Im going to call, call all my children home.
Hope everybodys dancing to their own drum this fine morning ---
The beat of distant africa or a polish factory town.
Old man, hes calling for his supper.
Calling for his whisky.
Calling for his sons and daughters, yeah ---
Calling all his children round.
Sharp ears are tuned in to the drones and chanters warming.
Mist blowing round some headland, somewhere in your memory.
Everyone is from somewhere ---
Even if youve never been there.
So take a minute to remember the part of you
That might be the old man calling me.
How many wars youre fighting out there, this winters morning?
Maybe its always time for another christmas song.

[...] Read more

song performed by Jethro Tull
Added by Lucian Velea
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Under The Sun

there is so much to do
to talk about
to learn and judge and
tell
to forget and forgive
to decide to move on

like the grass and the
grasshopper
the ants and the butterfly
the hill and the
river
like the clouds up the
tips of the hills
like the atom and
the molecule
like your lips and your
teeth
your eyes and
your heart

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ego Philosophers Cannot Believe In God

'why because flawed philosophers
cannot live outside inflated ego bubbles?
demand ego tribute worshippers'
philosophers create world ideologies
temples dedicated to own goal expectations?
ideology is a science of ideas thoughts

political ideologies
enacted dominant class society
are sets of received consciousness
product of state socializations
all members of a country society
are law bound expected to abide in

analysis of differing political opinions
analysis of differing views of social groups
analysis manipulated wins state elections

Karl Marx substituted ideology
for his coined term within

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Lament of Toby, The Learned Pig

Oh, heavy day! oh, day of woe!
To misery a poster,
Why was I ever farrowed, why
Not spitted for a roaster?

In this world, pigs, as well as men,
Must dance to fortune's fiddlings,
But must I give the classics up,
For barley-meal and middlings?

Of what avail that I could spell
And read, just like my betters,
If I must come to this at last,
To litters, not to letters?

Oh, why are pigs made scholars of?
It baffles my discerning,
What griskins, fry, and chitterlings
Can have to do with learning.

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
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Touched In Their Private and Sacred Places

There has to be something somewhere pleasant,
Besides the deluge today of unpleasant news.
Someone somewhere with a smile shown bright,
Has to find life more than existing just to gripe.

Too much emphasis is placed on acknowledging fear.
Folks are hired today to grope in demeaning ways,
Those who travel and aboard airplanes...
Who may conceal unrevealed weapons,
In areas that are not normally displayed.

Upset are the people who have asked to feel safe.
And when measures are taken to fulfill their wishes,
People feel intruded upon and victimized,
When touched in their private and sacred places.

Paranoia is becoming as fashionable as accusations thrown,
As to 'who' and 'whom' depicts characteristics of a terrorist.
When no one bothered to search the pockets,
Of the many thieves and crooks who deceive...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Supersonic

I need to be myself
I can't be no one else
I'm feeling supersonic
Give me gin and tonic
You can have it all but how much do you want it?
You make me laugh
Give me your autograph
Can I ride with you in your B.M.W ?
You can sail with me in my yellow submarine

You need to find out
'Cos no one's gonna tell you what I'm on about
You need to find a way for what you want to say
But before tomorrow

'Cos my friend said he'd take you home
He sits in a corner all alone
He lives under a waterfall
No body can see him
No body can ever hear him call

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song performed by Oasis from Definitely Maybe
Added by Lucian Velea
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Solar Eclipse

Observe these blue solemnities of sky
Offering for the academes of after-ages
A mythologic welkin freaked with white!

Listen : one tiny tinkling rivulet
Accentuates the super-sultry stillness
That drones on ripening landscapes which imply
Serene Parnassus plagued with amorous goats.
* * * *
Far down the vale Apollo has pursued
The noon-bedazzled nymph whose hunted heart
Holds but the trampling panic whence it fled,
And now the heavens are piled with darkening trouble
And counter-march of clouds that troop intent
Fire-crested into conflict.
Daphne turns
At the wood's edge in bronze and olive gloom:
Sickness assails the sun whose blazing disc
Dwindles : the Eden of those auburn slopes
Lours in the tarnished copper of eclipse.

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poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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