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Manticore

There is a place, way yonder

Where devils and demons meet

It’s white and filled with gold but

Oil runs the river deep,

Swaying to the rhythm                                                                                  pictures-manticore

of mendacious Manticorean needs

 

The diamonds shine and sparkle

From the depths of flagrant greed but

The man who dwells in higher places

Has a chimera that he feeds

It will strike and bite and mumble

when the midnight hour tweets

His apocalyptic horsemen ride

with lies and travesty

and the unholy force of empty

faith

wrapped in the poseur’s penny creeds

 

You wanted this? Empty promises from

a naked emperor

and his sycophantic trumpeting heirs?

My people, oh my people

How humanity now weeps.

 

Image result for trump tower

 

“The Martikhora (Manticore) is an animal found in this country [India]. It has a face like a man’s, a skin red as cinnabar, and is as large as a lion. It has three rows of teeth, ears and light-blue eyes like those of a man; its tail is like that of a land scorpion, containing a sting more than a cubit long at the end. It has other stings on each side of its tail and one on the top of its head, like the scorpion, with which it inflicts a wound that is always fatal. If it is attacked from a distance, it sets up its tail in front and discharges its stings as if from a bow; if attacked from behind, it straightens it out and launches its stings in a direct line to the distance of a hundred feet. The wound inflicted is fatal to all animals except the elephant. The stings are about a foot long and about as thick as a small rush. The Martikhora [the Persian word for man-eater] is called in Greek Anthropophagos (Man-Eater), because, although it preys upon other animals, it kills and devours a greater number of human beings. It fights with both its claws and stings, which, according to Ktesias (Ctesias), grow again after they have been discharged. There is a great number of these animals in India, which are hunted and killed with spears or arrows by natives mounted on elephants.”

http://www.theoi.com/Thaumasios/Mantikhoras.html

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Posted by on June 2, 2017 in poetry, POTUS, Trump, Uncategorized

 

Guardian

Guardian

In the darkness of the deepest night

A star swallowed up her light

And flung it into the depths of time and space

Now the Earth rolls and spins beneath my feet

in a treacherous trajectory of might

It gathered up its power

and burst its orbit in its flight

Mother gathered up the shattered shards

And slowly it grew again to reunite

The fragments of our fragile selves

Now I emerge again, sword in hand

Ready for another fight

Image result for birth of a star

Image from : https://parkerslaundrybasket.wordpress.com/2012/05/07/birth-of-a-star/

 

 
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Posted by on March 14, 2017 in astronomy, feminism, poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Poets in Song

Poets in Song

Bob Dylan‘s recent nomination as winner of the Nobel Prize for literature came as a bit of a surprise for many, yet those who have listened to his music over the past 40-plus years, are all cheering on the sidelines. We know that this is not a tortured soul who struggled to write; his words and ideas flow from an unnamed, inchoate source, words like waterfalls feeding the barren landscapes of our minds, the imagery conjured up out of our perceptions and experience and coalescing into anthems that served us well in turbulent times. His many, many songs found a niche in our hearts as he wrote about the human experience: the common bond of love, hate, revenge and stories that make up our cultural psyche.

 

Image result for leonard cohen

Image: Forums.chorus.fm

 

My favorite poet songwriters are Leonard Cohen and Van Morrison who bring a depth to their writing; Dylan’s sometimes facile meanderings have not always resonated with me, but that is my preference since it mirrors my own inner search to find meaning in my life. The subtle references in their songs to a deeper inner struggle, and a profound connection to something greater than themselves makes them timeless. They are not mere story tellers like Dylan; they probe the intellect and and the choices we make in life, the struggles and joys, the love and angst that make being human worthwhile.   Image result for bob dylan

 

 

 

Other writers such as Gordon Lightfoot, Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins (and there are many more from the era of Folk Music) achieved the same kind of wordsmithing beauty that soothed the aching heart, and it was set to music that speaks to cross-generational lines.

 

 

Image result for bob dylan

Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, image from Rolling Stone

 

How fortunate was I to have grown up at that time, when music meant something, when it wasn’t just a beat and nonsensical rhymes filled with trivialities, innuendo and scatological references. The evanescent quality of today’s music does not appeal to me at all, it has become a background noise which I prefer to avoid.

To date there has been no word from Mr. Dylan about accepting his Nobel prize. This is his choice. He never tried to appeal to the mainstream and always followed the dictates of his own sensibilities. Whether he publicly accepts or rejects the honor makes no difference, his poetry is forever part of our culture.

 

Image result for bob dylan quotes

9 Bob Dylan Quotes With Photos (This Week)

 

Image of Bob Dylan and Van Morrison:http://www.telegraph.co.uk/music/artists/bob-dylans-20-musical-heroes/

 
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Posted by on October 26, 2016 in Folk music, Nobel Prize, poetry, Uncategorized

 

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The Poet

The Poet

Do I look like a poet?                                                        s5000256

He asked

 

No

I said

 

Words that flow from the soul

Leave a mark on

the face

I said.

 

 

 

 

Featured Image at top of page from http://womenshistory.about.com/od/aframerwriters/ss/African-American-Women-Writers.htm

 
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Posted by on October 25, 2016 in authors, poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Too Much!

Too Much!

My head is filled with nonsensical stuff, and I am not alone for our overstuffed brains,   like overstuffed potato skins bursting with dreck,                Overstuffed-Pizza-Potato-Skins           overheated rhetoric is a symptom of the malaise of a society bent on destroying itself through its own stupidity. Yep, me too, I include myself in this bubba.

On Twitter, there is a Science page that I follow, but I am appalled to read what passes as valid science: measuring farts ( yes, really!), people who love chocolate are more intelligent (than what, monkeys?), “Never go to sleep on an argument, the science behind the saying,” (really, you need SCIENCE to explain it?!

It’s come to this:  we have to all join the lowest common denominator in a world full of undereducated people who cannot think for themselves, pass opinions as facts and are a sad elegy to education systems which have become monstrous corporate feeding machines.

Glad I got that off my chest.

I am breathing, breathing, breathing, feeling calm descend on me. It’s just the heat folks. Post menopausal flashes of angst and fury, like a devil whipping up a hot meringue in a furnace of molten vinegar. That’s me, right now.

Then I remembered this beautiful poem by Wordsworth that I used to teach back in the 80’s when life meandered on downstream at a different pace:

The World is Too Much With Us                                                                               wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
To think this poem was written when…around 1802... (yes, I had to Google it, do you think I know everything?) Makes me feel better to know even then people were going stir crazy with mundane nonsense that would make your head spin.
Get back to nature, folks, breathe, nap, eat and enjoy some good wine. The world can take care of itself.
I will pass on my compulsive need to comment on everything to someone else…for the next ten minutes.
Now for some iced coffee, and perhaps, if I am lucky to shut off my brain, a much-needed nap.
renoir

Some brain cooling imagery, thanks, Renoir

 

Open Letter to Mr. Cohen

Open Letter to Mr. Cohen

Dear Mr Cohen,

When our Fragments of Light

burst into this life,

Onto this Earth

with the follies, love and hate

You so eloquently itemized in words

You spoke

To my life

My experiences and

Your words carried me

Through joy

And agony

And when my brother was shot

Murdered in cold blood

and I asked Why?

There was silence

I attuned to my music

First the ominous sounds

Of a low deep beat

Theme song, “The Sopranos”

Yeah that man

He got himself a gun

He was meant to kill

But then

Out of the random shuffled songs,

I heard

Next, the very next song:

“If it be your Will”

And tears came with understanding

And peace flowed

And surrender

For the human condition

Expressed in myriad ways

Through song, through verse, through love

Through hate

It is we,

Every single flickering Light-

Who live these experiences

For the Greater Good

So I thank Thee, Mister Cohen,

For being here

For Me.

In Gratitude,

Christine

 

 

 
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Posted by on June 16, 2016 in poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Road Works

Road Works

It’s Spring

It’s road work time

Potholes that mysteriously opened up

In secret

In the dark of winter

Stealthily, silently,

Hungry to devour the traffic

Then, come the sunshine

Warm days

The men

The manymanymany men

Their machines

and noise and shovels

and smell of hot tar

But you never see them

working

only talking

on their phones

to each other

peering at the road

pondering  the holes

Scratching their chins,

their asses

Thinking

Talking

Debating

The meaning of holes

How does the work ever get done?

Is it magic?

They toil away, unappreciated, unnoticed

And one day, hey, honey did you see?

And life is like that

You can figure this out

Life’s potholes

Somehow

they all mend

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on May 15, 2016 in poetry, Uncategorized

 

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