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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: poetry

Who is Tending the Garden?

29 Sunday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, psychology

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Tags

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. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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?

Photo by Jakob Jin on Pexels.com

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?

—————-

Wall

After All

Crows and Me

The Word for War

Guernica

Siren Song

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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Tags

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 cat’s a cat

To Relish the Steps

The Puppy’s Jaws

Sadie is a Thief

A Suddenly Springing Something

Hai-Cat-Ku

The Turtleets

Be Careful What You Wish For

21 Saturday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, irony, Kevin, poem, poetry, politics, USA

The Kevin said he’d lead the band!

Be strongest man in all the land! 

But when the traitors came to slay,

The Kevin hid then ran away.

The Kevin blamed the Trump that day! 

But soon, it seemed, he flew the coop! 

To Florida to eat a scoop. 

And there he pledged to be a wimp. 

For coups and couscous be a simp.

For nuts & guns, he’d play the pimp. 

And now he sits atop his throne.

He reaps as sown; his cover’s blown.

Photo by Ben Phillips on Pexels.com

He brags that now he leads the band!

When really he just pounds the sand.

The saddest man in all the land. 

Pretends to power; total slave. 

Photo by Clown Caramello on Pexels.com

And here’s the really foul deprave:

By wanting all the power for him.

The Kevin’s just a shadow limn.

There’s nothing left of what was him.

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com

A rootless rot upon the land,

He opens gate for treason’s band.

So bent upon his bid for power.

He lost it all in shameful hour.

The joyous tune has turned note sour. 

Photo by Julius Silver on Pexels.com

Bereft of honor, truth and heart,

Robotic role – a walk-on part. 

The words upon his lips are dust.

As Putrid speaks, so Kevin must.

His mettle now just rotted rust. 

Photo by Wendelin Jacober on Pexels.com

Essays on America: The Game

My Cousin Bobby

Absolute is not just a Vodka

Poker Chip

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

Come back to the light

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

The Crows and Me

After All

Peace

Life is a Dance

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

BREAK IT!

Satire Slain

Freaky Friday Fibbing Fest

A Drop at a Time

20 Friday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in nature, poetry, psychology

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Tags

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. 

The soldiers march. 

Photo by Nafis Abman on Pexels.com

Drip. A peasant shares her bread.

Photo by Geraud pfeiffer on Pexels.com

The lash is long.

The money tempts. 

Cruelty rules.

Lewd one drools. 

Photo by Regina Pivetta on Pexels.com

Drop. Drip. Someone truly cares.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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.

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

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.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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). 

Photo by Midory Pho on Pexels.com

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. 

Dance of Billions

Paradise Lost

After All

Have no word for

The Crows and Me

Guernica

The Fungus Fools

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

≈ 1 Comment

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

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

The Fungus Fools the Foolish Forest Tree

07 Saturday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Democracy, poem, poetry, politics, psychology, seduction, truth, USA

The Fungus Fools the Foolish Forest Tree 

Photo by Martin Schneider on Pexels.com

“It is a kind of loyal test.

I need a place to briefly rest. 

Upon your lovely shiny bark 

Just until the sky turns dark.”

The fungus begged the trusting tree.

“And I will keep you oh so free!”

“Thanks so much, you will be glad.

Now, if I fell it would be bad

So I will hold against the breeze.

Don’t you fret. I think I’ll please.”

The fungus promised to the tree:

“And I will keep you oh so free!”

The night was done; the sun was hot.

“Oh, tree, my roots are deeply caught.

It wouldn’t do to rend apart

Our friendship from propitious start.”

The fungus held the hapless tree.

“My bonds will keep you oh so free!” 

Each day, the orange fungus spread.

Upon its sap the fungus fed. 

“Now indeed, our friendship’s fast. 

I feel it’s going to last and last.”


The fungus fingers filled the tree.

“All this sap’s too much for thee!”

The tree felt tired when springtime came. 

Its leaves were few; its flowers lame.

“No matter,” tree, “it’s not so bad. 

“For fungus is the newest fad!”

“Don’t you worry, dearest tree!

I guarantee that you’ll stay free!”

At last the tree lost all its leaves.

The promise though it still believes,

Although it toppled to the ground. 

With such a rotten, hollow sound. 

“I’ve felled another silly tree!

So silly to believe in me!”


Dick-taters

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

Donnie’s Last Gift

Absolute is not just a vodka

The Ailing King of Agitate

Where does your loyalty lie?

My Cousin Bobby

After All

Essays on America: The Game

Guernica

They Lost the Word for War

The Crows and Me

Siren Song

Dance of Billions

The Ballad of the Ballot

04 Wednesday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Democracy, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA

Photo by Regina Pivetta on Pexels.com

When Crazy and Lazy control your Party

It may be time to govern a bit instead.

It may be time to hire a smarty.

It might be time to get people fed, instead.

It might be time to fix a street or two.

You might address pollution, guns, or schools. 

It might be time to think a solution or two.  

But voters are seen as fools and tools.

And told it’s fine to break the rules. 

And hate everyone odd or oddly bent.

And send all your money which should have paid rent

Instead to the folks who will work for the rich 

You won’t find out till you’re made their kitsch. 

Nothing matters but clicks and likes and being

Dicks and lying lies.

No matter the cost. 

No matter what of value’s  lost. 

When Looney and Tooney are playing for power

Your courage could lead to your finest hour, 

But chances are

Chances are…

Chances

Nothing more. 

It’s always been known that hate could be stoked. 

That its keen incision into the national mind. 

Would soon incur a wound of division.

Our nation seen with deserved derision,

A nation enraged and cruel instead of kind.

Putrid loves it. But the rest of us are truly forked.

 

Time at last is more than past when Rule of Law

Is understood by all to be a gift and not a flaw. 

———————-

RIP, GOP

The Ailing King of Agitate

The Con-Con’s Man Special Friend

Dick-Taters

D4

Essay on America: The Game

Absolute is not just a vodka

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

Donnie’s Last Gift

Where does your loyalty lie?

My Cousin Bobby

First Things First

01 Sunday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

peace, poem, poetry, sonnet

The year is new! It’s newly new! For you!

So will you don the iron glove? Or love? 

Seek peace on earth? Pursue revenge? Eschew

The beauty all around, beneath, above?

Go listen to the siren song of hate? 

Or sing and dance with birds and bees and cease? 

The endless tired march of war’s sad fate? 

Gain wounds & burns; mouth words that lie or peace? 

The winds that swirl around this world bring rain

Refreshing water to the thirsty crowd.

And will the winds dispel the angry brain

Made mad by beating drums, exploding loud?

That choice is hers and his and mine and thine.

Let’s let life breathe and grow; let blossoms shine!


Dance of Billions

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

They Have no Word for War

The Crows and Me

Guernica

Fencing

Listen

Symphony

Siren Song

After All

Dick-Taters

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Fencing

03 Saturday Dec 2022

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, politics

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

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

Photo by Regina Pivetta on Pexels.com

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.

Photo by Daniel Abbatt on Pexels.com

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. 

Photo by Cleyton Ewerton on Pexels.com

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.

Photo by Jimmy Chan on Pexels.com

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.

Photo by Henning Roettger on Pexels.com

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. 

Photo by Julius Silver on Pexels.com

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

The Crows and Me

Hot Dog

The Word for War

Guernica

Three Blind Mice

Stoned Soup

The Orange Man

Absolute is not just a Vodka

Such a teeny tiny man

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