Who is Tending the Garden?

29 Sunday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, psychology

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life, poem, poetry, story, truth

Garden or guard?

How does your garden grow?

How about your guard?

You see what I’m getting at here?

I hope not.

Not yet, anyway.

To put it another way,

How much for plowshares?

How much for swords?

How much for love?

Or for planes above?

Planes that have bombs.

Bombs that explode

Sending shards in every direction.

Killing anyone around.

It’s not just a loud sound.

So this is a killing for willing and unwilling alike.

Soldier in hiding or a boy on a bike.

And, yes, it is true.

A garden unguarded can be taken from you.

But do you ever wonder

How far down the killing path

We must go

To guard our garden?

Let it grow?

How does our garden grow?

How about our guard?

And, speaking of guards.

Are we really guarding what needs to be guarded?

Are we really sure of the guards who guard us?

Do we arm every school bus?

Avoid walks in the sun?

I once dreamed of a tall skinny man

Who built a nice garden with veggies and green

The nicest plots I’d ever seen

So he was happy for a good long span.

Until he began to insist on a wall,

The tallest wall but that’s not all.

Upon the walls, hired shooters sit

The garden’s gone to weeds and silt.

The alarm awoke me to a sunny day.

And I forgot the dream until today.

Thank goodness that nightmare’s done.

I’m so happy that type of error

Is never for the the daylight air.

Never for the real time fare.

Aren’t you?

—————-

Math Class: Who Are You?

Dick-Taters

Sunday Sonnet: Sadie the Sifter

24 Tuesday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, story

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cat, dog, dogs, life, pets, poem, poetry

My Sadie is a sniffer and a sifter after clues.

The rainy days I find so gray and nondescript,

To her, are better for odiferous wetter news

She finds in dew on every bush and blade she’s nipped.

She finds the flights of crows a mystery and a soar

She loves the lights that twinkle in the starry sky

Not only now and then but now and evermore.

She follows — Wait! — the scent of rabbit wanders by!

The dislocation of my shoulder’s no big deal!

We can’t let that become priority o’er prey!

How can a merely human soul resist her zeal?

She streaks through every scene of every act each day.

And then…she snoozes with her head upon my feet.

How oddly weird that dogs make humans feel complete.

A Suddenly Springing Something

Hai-Cat-Ku

The Turtleets

A Drop at a Time

20 Friday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in nature, poetry, psychology

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dream, goal, life, poem, poetry, politics, truth

The walls are steel.

The walls are high.

The walls are strong.

The walls are long.

Photo by Frans van Heerden on Pexels.com

Drip.

The soldiers train.

Sunshine or rain.

The soldiers march.

Drip. A peasant shares her bread.

The lash is long.

The money tempts.

Cruelty rules.

Lewd one drools.

Drop. Drip. Someone truly cares.

The king lacks love

Wears iron glove.

The lackeys obey

Every day.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Another chooses love instead.

Ozymandias too:

He strove to do

What can’t be done.

Not done by anyone.

Pitter patter. Pitter patter. Another someone dares.

Agent, spy, tank and gun.

They cannot keep you

From your golden grave

But weapons do deprave.

Splash, splash. The understanding reaches flash.

Afraid of brains,

The kings use chains.

With freedom gone,

Creativity drains.

Muddy waters roil.

Burble as they boil.

Photo by Avery Nielsen-Webb on Pexels.com

Lashes wound but waterfalls

Become a tide of epic fails.

All who live in stony jails

Hear the sirens; hear the calls.

Dripping drops become a tide.

A mile high, a hundred wide.

At last we learn the hidden cost

Summer simmer, frozen frost.

At last we see the trees.

They bend and twist

In twos and threes.

Forests die while hates persist.

Fires, floods and famines find

Fertile land for odious brand.

Brigand, brag, and burning branch.

The Golden Rings to powers bind.

And after all has burned to hell.

And nowhere left is fit to dwell.

Then at last will everyone see.

We didn’t have to play for greed.

We could instead have planted seed.

And let the water gently fall upon the land.

We’d Eden in our grasp it seems.

Instead we joined the bang-up band.

Drip. Drip. Another act of kindness turns the tide.

A tidal wave a mile high, a thousand miles wide.

(Or we could turn this ship of fate

And open every heart with gratitude

Alter every selfish attitude.

Live and love and dance and mate).

The answer lies with what we do.

Not just me. And not just you.

It’s what we all could choose to be.

We could save humanity.

We will save humanity.

Not just me. And not just you.

The answer lies with what we do.

It’s what we all could choose to be.

Your Cage is Unlocked

The Forest

Roar Ocean Roar

Listen You can hear the ripples

The Broken Times

Paradise Lost

18 Wednesday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, nature, poetry

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Tags

life, nature, poem, poetry, truth

Paradise Lost

(First appeared as part of The Poetry Exchange’s Featured Poet, Spring, 1997 under the title: “Deforested”)

Gray day wasted while the whippoorwill
Wishes that the slushy city sewers
Had not replaced the only lonely home he knew.
The groggy foggy unfocussed hurly-burly rushing
Of splashing autos on the gray macadam roadways
That gnarl through the neighborhoods
Is vaguely deja vu.
Silhouetted smokestacks shadowly seen,
Limned in gray on gray-green,
Remind the mind how poor people pass the day after day.
Where no home fire hearth lighted cabin
In the winter woods beckons, beacons, hearkens
Heartily a red sunset glow on white snow
For a day’s work done.

One hardly knows.

Here, where machine clouds of steam unsentiently sip, sap the soul,
You wonder as the rain water wanders,
Then rushes through the gurgling gutters,
What foul trick man played upon his own brave soul,
To have forsaken all the fiery emotion that makes life great
To sit at desks, to stand in lines, to wait.
Where are the country color and
The rich thick loves hidden
Beneath the inventions, interventions, and pretensions of society?

We wander in our own gray-glass cages
In a lurching kind of mock-precision,
Like the nightmare dream of a psychotic technician.
And the only color the commuter encounters
In his travels to and from,
Is the scarlet and the gold of a raccoon
Too stupid to stay off the highways of modern civilization.

————

Pet Sematary (A relevant book by Stephen King which was a partial inspiration for the poem)

Isn’t the extinction of species a “normal” thing? Yes…and no. https://www.un.org/sustainabledevelopment/blog/2019/05/nature-decline-unprecedented-report/

How many animals are killed by vehicles? https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/roadkill-literally-drives-some-species-to-extinction/

How much “labor” is actually “saved” by our “labor-saving devices”? https://www.reddit.com/r/antiwork/comments/qbgihm/for_95_percent_of_human_history_people_worked_15/

You must remember this.

The Forest

Ah Wilderness

Dance of Billions

Your Cage is Unlocked

12 Thursday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, psychology

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

courage, life, poem, poetry, truth

Some say:

“You mustn’t love the shining sun

For rainy days will come again.

That clear blue sky will turn to gray.

Rainbows grow

In arcs to show

That clouds will shadow everyone.”

Some say:

“You mustn’t try to love your cat

Nine lives or not, they cannot last.

Each cat goes, soon or late.

It’s certain fate

Is obdurate.

Death will win. And that is that.”

They say:

“You mustn’t love the morning rose.

Glowing in the sunrise rays.

Roses wither, petals fall.

Summer blooms

But winter glooms.

Seasons turn as every blossom shows.”

Some say:

“You mustn’t sprint with all your speed

Feel your heart a-hammering hard;

That shock of feet; that spring of leg.

Joints will fail

Old folks ail

Sprinters all will lose their lead.”

Some say:

“You mustn’t dance to lose your soul.

Instead a more sedately pace should do.

Without a trace of passion shown.

Let no-one see

Your mindless ecstasy.

Quiet decorum must be your goal.”

They say:

“And when your granite stone is cut

Let that one unbroken line

Connect the dates of come and go.

None can blame

Your unlit flame.

Every unfelt passion, in its fashion has a ‘But…’”

But…I say:

“Living life as though you’re dead

As though the fear of death is wise

As though to dance is too much chance

Is silly and absurd!

Relish each and every word.

Reach as far as you can reach instead.”

I say:

“Breathe the sunshine; taste the dew.

Stretch your body and your mind.

Feel and see and smell that rose.

Love the bubbles till they burst.

Make each moment its own first.

Dance you fool, the dance of you!”

I say:

“Dance yourself a riotous reel

Meld with music of Life’s Tree

Lavish love on all you may

Love is at life’s core.

Love is what it’s for!

Hold nothing back. Make life real.”

I say:

“Make life real by extending your care

To creatures large & small & in between.

To whales & eagles; roots unseen.

Love is what life’s for.

Life is love, at its core.

Dance for love if only you dare!”

I say:

“Life’s for love so show you care!

Don’t heed words of wishless woe.

You’re starring in your picture show!

Enjoy & dance on center stage

Whatever your imagined age.

Being you is exceedingly rare!”

Dance of Billions

Life is a Dance

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

John the Worrier

The Impossible

Piano

Math Class: Who are you?ove

Freaky Friday Fibbing Fest

06 Friday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, politics

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, life, politics, USA

Freaky Friday Fibbing Fest

What mainly distinguishes the two major American political parties has varies tremendously within the course of my own lifetime. And, while I’m not ancient, my life so far is about 31% of the time since The Declaration of Independence. That’s not most of the time, but it is all of the most recent 31%. Of course, if you did pay much attention in American History and weren’t just spending time surreptitiously carving your initials, passing notes, or throwing spitballs, you likely remember that the US began as rather disunited States under the “Articles of Confederation.” It wasn’t until June 21st, 1788 that it was ratified. Thus, my life so far is roughly 1/3 of the time we’ve lived under that Constitution.

The first time I became consciously aware of politics was when Eisenhower won in 1952. The principal of our school arranged to have the radio broadcast of Eisenhower. I don’t really know whether it was his acceptance speech or his inaugural speech, but I suspect the latter. Anyway, I was leading the class in cheering through much of the speech. At some point, my teacher said maybe the people I was getting to cheer didn’t really know what they were cheering for. That was probably true. It was definitely true that I had no idea why I was cheering except for two things:

1. Eisenhower had been a general partly responsible for our winning the war. My dad & all my mom’s brothers fought in WWII.

2. Eisenhower was a Republican and they were the “good guys.” I don’t recall having much of a discussion about it before hand. But I had certainly picked up that vibe.

After the teacher’s comment though, I got to wondering why everyone in my family liked the Republicans rather than the Democrats. As I recall, the basic reason given was that Republicans believed more in personal responsibility.

Later, there were entirely different reasons for disliking the Democrats; viz., the Vietnam War and beating up the protestors in Chicago.

But now? What has happened to the “Grand Old Party”?

Forget politics for a moment. In what area of life is perpetual lying a good way for people to cooperate? If the scientists & engineers lied like the Trumputinists, we would still be shivering in caves. How would you like farmers to send you poisonous bulbs and call them onions?

The fish rots from the head. That was bad enough. But that rotten fish head has been out of power for two years. But the putrefaction continues.

No platform. No policies. No allegiance to the Constitution. No sense of fair play. No limit to cruelty. No allegiance to the rule of law.

Who benefits from all that lack of governing?

Who benefits from a weaker, less effective US government?

————

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Satire Slain

The Ailing King of Agitate

Donald’s Last Gift

Essays on America: Wednesday

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

Essays on America: The Update Problem

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Myths of the Veritas: Recipe…

02 Monday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in fiction, Uncategorized, Veritas

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fiction, legend, life, MOTV, myth, story, Veritas

MOTV – Recipe, Ritual, and Recitation

Shadow Walker wondered whether the sense of foreboding he felt simply reflected the cool, damp weather. He took a deep breath. It felt good so he intentionally calmed himself with more deep breaths and rather than chase after an explanation, which, in his experience often scared explanations away, he determined to be more like a hunter waiting in a blind for the prey to come. He sat on a cold flat rock and let his thoughts drift. As he did so, his eyes chanced upon the Sixth Ring of Empathy — the one that only he and his love, Many Paths, had won. Touching it often seemed to give him comfort and he tried that, grinning as he did so. He immediately felt sunnier. Better, he knew exactly why he had felt morose. Many Paths had been worried for days about the upcoming meeting among the tribes. He had felt left out of her worry. She had not really sought his counsel, and he realized that, so far as he knew, she had not sought anyone’s counsel lately; not even that of her predecessor, She Who Saved Many Lives.

A smile came upon the face of Shadow Walker. A plan came to him and his smile broadened. Confidence returned to his step as he marched back to the Center Place of the Veritas. Immediately upon entering The Sacred Circle, he spied the younger brother of Many Paths, Tu-Swift. He and Cat Eyes spoke quietly and seriously. Beside them on an oaken table, a number of what he now knew to call “books” were spread out in front of them. They were concentrating so intently they failed to see him approach. While all of the Veritas were trained in the ability to walk silently, Shadow Walker had perfected the skill better than anyone else in the tribe. He felt no need to startle his friends, so he announced his presence intentionally. “I see you two are continuing your studies.”

Tu-Swift and Cat Eyes both smiled and moved so as to allow space and offer invitation to Shadow Walker. He smiled back, but rather than join them, he quickly explained his insight and suggestion. They both assented quickly. Cat Eyes nodded vigorously while Tu-Swift said aloud, “Wonderful idea! We’re leaving now. But — are you sure that’s where she is?”

“No, not completely sure. But reasonably sure. If you find her, can you bring her back here? Meanwhile, I’ll see whether She Who Saved Many Lives will join us presently.”

Cat Eyes glanced up at the grey clouds and decided to put the books into boxes and cover them with the rock-weighted rawhide cover. Then, the three dispersed. The youngsters strode off to find Many Paths while Shadow Walker walked over to the cabin of the Elder Shaman. Halfway there, he saw the slightly bent figure of She Who Saved Many Lives walking toward him. He chuckled. Many Paths had several times mentioned how often she had sought to find the Elder and gain her advice only to discover that She Who Saved Many Lives was already en route to her.

Shadow Walker approached and bowed his head slightly out of respect. “Well met, Mother of the Tribe, I had something I wanted to ask you about.”

“Yes, I also think it’s time to help She Who Finds Many Paths to Avoid Asking for Help.”

Shadow Walker was taken aback. “She Who…? Ah, yes. Exactly. But how…?”

“Oh, my, Shadow Walker. Books are not the only things which may be read.” She said this in such a kindly tone and with such a twinkle in her eye, that Shadow Walker could do nothing but shake his head and chuckle again. “Many Paths has cautioned me that you can read minds. Now, I see she is right.”

“Would that I could! I cannot read the mind of a tree, but if there has been no rain for days the leaves are all wilting, I know the tree wants water, and so too, do you, as signified by the Rings of Empathy you earned. I should think. It’s not much different with reading people than it is with trees. You and I both know Many Paths is rightly concerned that this upcoming meeting go smoothly. There is a time to keep one’s own counsel, surely, but now, I think, like you, it is time to stir the pot!”

Shadow Walker offered his elbow to the Elder and they slowly made their way back to the Center Place of the Veritas.

————————

Myths of the Veritas:

The Forgotten Field

The Orange Man

The First Ring of Empathy

Stoned Soup

The Tale of the Three Blind Mice

Poetry:

Dance of Billions

Story-Essay:

My Cousin Bobby

Story:

Hot Dog

Fencing

03 Saturday Dec 2022

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, politics

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, life, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA

The briars dripped with blood & gore

But briars did not hurt enough

The human skin had grown too tough

So wire fences barbed will score.

We just ignore the other side.

If still they claim a crust of bread

We’ll break or bomb or bullet dead

And throw them off our pretty ride.

Our pretty ride of glass and steal

Should not be fouled by poorer folk

The words can’t count when poor folk spoke

So we’ll just love our current deal.

There’s no appeal for fairer day

No one will blame for stopping here

Our reptile brain must think it queer

To let them in to work and play.

There’s nought to say but: “It’s complex.”

Lean back & watch some more TV

To practice rich hypocrisy

To face cruel facts would only vex.

A lexicon devised to cleave:

“Illegals” or a “lesser race”

Or seek a different path to grace

Not us? No need to care or grieve.

The weave we weave is just for us

Perhaps that “US” should be just me

And those who think & look like me

The rest can’t ride on my fine bus.

And when at last the broken bus

There’s no-one left to fix or care

The greed we taught is empty air

That love denied was meant for us.

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Siren Song

Dance of Billions

The Ailing King of Agitate

The Echoes of your Actions

Absolute is not just a Vodka

Such a teeny tiny man

What Line?

02 Friday Dec 2022

Posted by petersironwood in family, poetry

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

life, poem, poetry, story, truth

Where do you draw the line?

Between the group you’re in

And the group who’s sin?

I really want to know.

I am curious in that way.

But some are far less curious than I.

And that is a good thing I say.

Why?

Because if everyone were equally curious

We might all die of the same untested plant

Or seek to glide from cliffs like a hawk

It could be awk

Ward

Don’t you see? Perhaps I rant.

But I really want to know:

Where do you draw the line?

Who is in your clan?

And not okay for travel ban?

And who’s so far outside

You think it good they died?

Here’s a thought you might suppose

The larger your circle you care about

The larger the family you have.

So I am more than a little curious to know:

Where do you draw the line?

Imagine if every living thing on earth

Drew a circle as large as earth

Herself and we would all be

Family.

So I really want to know:

Where do you draw the line?

What does it do to the way they look at you

When you draw a line?

What does it do to you

When they draw a line?

What if time were not a straight unbending line?

What if, instead, we create the world that is yet to be?

What if, instead, we filled a future world with love

And beauty.

So again, I am curious:

Why do you draw a line?

———

Dance of Billions

Listen you can hear the echoes

Somehow

The Forest

You must remember this

The jewels of November

Castles Made of Sand

Hot Dog!

30 Wednesday Nov 2022

Posted by petersironwood in fiction, story

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

abuse, dog, life, revenge, story, USA

Hog Dog

“Stupid crappy mutt! She smells like butt! What the hell were you thinking? To get a dog so stinking!”

Steve undid the leash and threw it into his catch-all corner. “Do you know what she was trying to eat out there? Do you?! Poop! It’s goop! Who wanted a dog? You! And now I’m walking her to pee? Me! I don’t care how sick you supposedly are. You take her!”

While Steve towered and glowered, the dog cowered in the corner and emitted a quiet “woof, woof.”

Mary sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get sick. She’s a dog. Vet said she doesn’t yet know any better.”

Mary’s attempts to placate Steve touched a gentle part of him inside. A part he gated and hated. As always, it made him angrier. “I don’t need a damned dog! I have you!I work hard all day to put a roof over your head. Roof! Roof! Last month, she tried to eat that poison philanderer plant. She’ll put anything in her mangy mouth. If she doesn’t stop eating turds, mark my words! I’ll make you cook her for dinner!”

Mary waited for Steve’s rant to ebb. “I read on the web today about a dog who ate corn cobs. Surgeon had to cut him open. You’d think dogs would know what was good for them, but apparently, they don’t.”

“Naturally I’m right! I’m bright. She’s just one more bitch too stupid to know what’s good for her! Reminder: last week, I bought a meat grinder for her food.”

“Thank you, Steve. I’m sure I’ll be able to make really good use of that. And, it will save money on dog chow. And how!”

Steve sneered and growled and uttered something unintelligible.

The puppy chanced a growl of her own. Steve ignored it. Instead he snarled at Mary. “What in the Holy Name of Hell are you watching now?”

Mary replied, “A movie. Almost over. Do you … ?”

Steve barked, “Another damned True Crime Docudrama? Jesus, Mary. Turn on the real news!”

Mary bit her lip and then obeyed; flipped on White Nation. She shook her head. She couldn’t get over how ugly the man being interviewed was. She wondered again why so many seemed to adore him. She had long ago learned not to share her opinion. Steve was absolutely certain White Nation News was the one source to be believed. He’d thrown her entire inheritance into a “sure-fire” White Nation get rich quick scheme. Hadn’t panned out as planned. Steve’s addiction to “Tricks to Get Rich Quick” showed no signs of relief. Not satisfied with enough, he remained sure the next scheme would make him wealthy beyond belief.

Mary saw something dark and evil behind the interviewee’s dead eyes and painted orange face. But Steve was dead sure he was America’s salvation, or at least White America, the “Real” America, as Steve liked to say, not the “gay, black, liberal, smart-ass, immigrant, foreigners trying to take over the country.”

Steve leaned forward, face glowing blood red. Mary glanced over; saw it as lit by the TV. Steve, eyes ever glued to the tube, barked another order: “Beer Here!”

Mary gathered her strength. No matter how she explained it, Steve couldn’t conceive of “Long COVID.” He didn’t really believe in COVID; he thought it all a hoax invented by liberal folks. That’s what his favorite podcasts claimed. Yet he bought ivermectin, “just in case.”

Mary sat up; nearly fainted; rose and traipsed to the fridge. Steve didn’t notice the Oxy capsule she emptied into his beer. She quietly placed his Bud on the end table. She fell back again in her chair, too exhausted to continue her Agatha Christie. She couldn’t stand White Nation News. From beginning to end, she thought it in bad taste; noxious and possibly poisonous. She tried to think back to an earlier time when Steve was nice. She couldn’t think of such a time. She decided maybe that was a good thing, under the circumstances.

After a few doctored beers, Steve sprawled comatose. Although they had agreed to share dog duties, it was always Mary who fed her.

Photo by Polina Tankilevitch on Pexels.com

Until she had quit three days earlier.

Mary stopped the microwave before it beeped; shuffled over to the snoring Steve and poured the Pyrex beaker of hot bacon grease into his torn polka-dot boxer shorts. Hungry puppy didn’t even wait for it to cool before chowing down like a hungry hog.

“Good dog!” Choking back tears, Mary whispered, “Good dog!”

—————————

Coelacanth -1

Coelacanth – 2

Coelacanth – 3

The Declaration of Interdependence

The Bill of Obligations: Article One

The Bill of Obligations: Article Two

Dick-Taters

Absolute is not just a Vodka

The Pandemic Anti-Academic