The Truth Train

17 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 96 Comments

Tags

coronovirus, COVID-19, life, pandemic, poem, poetry, relationships

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The Truth, a fateful brakeless train,

Has run amok and kills

Both brain and brainless;

Spine and spineless;

Sifts and shifts and swills

The blood of many lies

Upon the tracks of time.

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Because there is no time

To cover up and paint our orange face.

It is — or was at least — a race.

And once that banging gun

Announced the start of all this fun

Instead of pushing off against the blocks,

With all our mighty might

And sprinting down the field in flight

Arms and heart together pumping

Like an Usain Bolt from the blue…

athletes running on track and field oval in grayscale photography

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Instead of sprinting to and through the tape

We waved our hands and shook our locks

And called this deadly fight:

“A friendly little spat —

Well, that’s that then, I guess.”

So now we face a hapless mess.

This baseless face; this faceless base

As frivolous as a rape;

As friendly as a shark

Who loves to leave his mark

By chopping off an arm or two

And leave you bleeding red in blue.

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And when all is said and done,

How did we ever think that this was all for fun?

How did we think a clown would do

When what we needed was a bolt of blue?

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An ocean of lies has made us all dimmer;

And each of us is now a lonely swimmer

In a murky sea of unseen sharks and death.

I may see you on the other side of breath.

Now, we must hold hands across the space

That binds us all; blinds us all; and all without a touch.

The mask is unmasked and beneath the face

We find there’s nothing’s there. It’s all devoid and bare.

We left so much on the gilded legless table

Pretending the genius really was quite stable.

One last chance, we have to care.

One last chance, we have to dare

To call a spade a spade; to say what’s true.

What happens next is up to me — and up to you.

Open the shutters and throw up the sash!

Sing to each other — for each is a brother!

Don’t sweat the cash & don’t sweat the crash.

Focus on love — and love one another!

——————————————

The Declaration of Interdependence

Who are you really?

Author Page on Amazon

What I am Doing to Stay Healthy & Prevent Spreading the Virus.

Sunless Sunday of Faith

15 Sunday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

America, animism, faith, life, pandemic, poem, poetry, Sunday, USA

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Sunless, damp, and drizzly day —

Today;

Grimy slush pockets in a lifeless woods;

Yesterday’s clear path

Overgrown with treacherous bramble bushes.

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Where is my faith? Where is my faith?

A whistling wraith. Where can I find my faith,

Today, on this sunless Sunday?

The Supremes are singing novel tunes today;

A completely different style with a sanctimonious smile.

Today’s Chevy at the levy is a thousand pounds too heavy,

Dripping blood and oil from the bubbling boil of its cranky crankcase.

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A hole in the ground, today: A Holy hole;

And, all around I hear the desperate screams;

See the people scrambling; feel the flames;

Taste the broken dreams awash in a salty sea.

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And, so off we go again, half-cocked

On yet another Crusade and once again

The children bear the brunt;

The children feel the flame;

The leaders claim the fame.

“The shot heard ‘round the world” has transmogrified:

“The shots heard all around the world.”

The New Centurions run roughshod

All around the world just because we can.

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All my eggs were not in one basket.

But, today, even the baskets are unravelled —

Shredded reeds scattered all about the floor

Eggs splattered against the open door.

Where is my faith? Where is my faith?

A whistling wraith. Where can I find my faith

On a sunless Sunday, a damp, and drizzly winter day —

Today?

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Cardinals, singing, robins, crows;

Scampering squirrels.

Onion grass, the red florets on maple twigs —

These are my counselors; these are my coaches –

Ministers to my soul, healers of my heart.

Not the famous, complicit in the illicit;

Distracting the base and baseless base

That has become our sad and hollow home.

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Life grows; life knows.

Summers always melt the snows.

And endless greed is yet a sterile seed

That sows its own demise,

While wisdom, ah, sweet wisdom

Will find and mind the wise.

I imagine, John. I imagine still.

I imagine, John. And I always will.

———————————————-

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration

Camelot is in your Heart

09 Monday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

America, Camelot, Democracy, legends, myths, peace, poem, poetry, revolution, story, USA, war

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The Knights are mostly scattered now;
And Arthur Pendragon long since dead;
A Kingdom ruled by shadows instead.

The castle lies in broken rubble.
The fields, fallow, untended and bare.
Our Flag doesn’t ripple in cold blue air.

The maimed, the stunned, stumble, grumble
Of what was once so full of grace,
And now is gone without a trace.

A grain of wheat is blown by wind,
I seize and touch, and then I see,
Those fields and fields wave goldenly.

Upon the ground, a hunk of brick —
Its one of hundreds, standing tall
And thickly building castle wall.

Beside the fallen orchard trunks —
A rotten apple laced with bees;
Inside that core are apple trees!

Not in warfare, not in plans,
Not in science, not in art,
Not in numbers, not in chart,

Camelot,

My friends,

Is in your heart.

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Peace

07 Saturday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 28 Comments

Tags

ecology, environment, green, life, love, peace, poem, poetry, truth, war

All the guns are silent now;
Landmines, all defused, exhumed.
Warships, mothballed; warplanes, scuttled;
Missiles, bombs, and tanks, entombed.

Across the world, hands are held
And faces face the clearing sky
In silent prayer, in wonderment.
No-one quite remembers why

It once seemed great to shoot to kill.
No-one gets that deadly thrill.
No-one cares to take that hill.
No-one wishes others ill.

Instead, the people turn their mind
Inside to see what they can find
Of ignorance within their skin
And mine their souls to conquer sin.

No-one throws the stones at others;
Hands are used to help instead;
Someone speaks and someone listens;
Around the world, each kid is fed.

Slowly now we heal the earth;
Slowly now we heal our soul;
Surely now we tend our hearth;
Finally now we have a goal

Worthy of humanity:
Not to overcome each other —
We work together to save our Mother,
And never wake those Dogs of War.

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration

Essay on Peace, War, and Greed.

The Impossible

05 Thursday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 30 Comments

Tags

courage, dog, flagpole, life, poem, poetry, story, wolf

That shiny steel flag-pole that spired skyward in our back yard:

It was too high; it was too slippery.

I was too weak; I was too young.

I was just a little boy, barely four years.

It was too thick; I couldn’t do it.

There was no way; it was utterly and finally impossible.

I’d tried a thousand times and never got a foot off the ground.

My dad had stayed behind in Portugal (why?).

My mom and I lived alone in Kent (why?).

And, I tried — tried to climb that pole, tried, and tried.

But some things, some things, you see, are never meant to be.

One day — I played in the yard alone (where was Mom?)

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I could smell, feel, before I saw It charging: –That dog of fangs,

That terrible wolf of the wilderness — god of tooth and claw

Barking its horrible happy knell of death —

Its ruff raised, its snarling snipe, its gurgling growl,

Black lips baring back those snipping, chattering, yellow teeth —

Close and closer. I clambered and climbed the impossible pole,

Shinnied to the very top and held on for a minute, for a lifetime.

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Thank God for challenge; thank God for Life in all its fierce forms;

Thank God for courage and — thank you God for vicious dogs.

Author Page on Amazon

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing!

The Loud Defense of Untenable Positions

Index for Best Practices in Collaboration & Teamwork

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Ambition!

04 Wednesday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

ambition, greed, irony, life, materiality, mindfulness, poem, poetry, SHRUGS, spiritual, truth, worship

I’ll be Number One!
They’ll say I’ve won!
Biggest man in all the land!
Forego the loving touch
Of a lovely lover’s hand.
A tracing finger
Long will linger —
But no so much
As a mountain carved,
A fountain named,
A people starved,
A nation flamed!

Some children caged!

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I hunger yet
To win the bet;
To march the march
Through desolate lands;
Light the torch
On tortured hands;
Found a city;
Show no pity;
Conquer all;
Steal the ball!

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I may not know
Of crystal snow
Or love in bed —
Silky hair wet
Falling full across my face;
Laughter; holy grace —
But instead
I get
No forced solitude.
I have the multitude
At beck and call
And in my thrall.
On flashbulb feasts
I will dine,
Roasted beasts,
And finest wine!

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And when the game
At last is won
And My Own Name
Heads everyone’s,
I’ll laugh and flash
From bed of death:
I held the lash!
No wasted clock
On balderdash
Or poppycock.
I rushed ahead
To this final bower
My ultimate power.
So I could lay
Beneath cold ground
Beneath the sound
Of crashing drum
— beat
And brashing horn
— blast
And marching man
— feet
And now at long
— last

With my last breath,
Content.

Perfectly content.
Serene.
Perfectly serene.
Yet —
Yet, I wonder —
Is it too late?
Have I missed … ?
Could I just have a chance to — ?

Oh.
I see.
It’s over.

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Author Page on Amazon.

The Game— What does one do, if one has so much wealth and power that you literally want for nothing?

America

03 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

America, Constitution, Democracy, equality, life, poem, poetry, USA, Vote

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America —
The country I love.
The dream that was my dream.

My father wounded

(Shrapnel black gash, ankle to knee)

In the war against the
Tyranny of Hitler,
That Great Liar,
That Ultimate Cynic,
Playing on the Fears of the Masses.

Who knew?
Who knew how easily a great Nation
Could be Lost?
We cannot see the forest.
We cannot see the trees.
We can only see the bushes
And the rushes, all around the slime.

Lost, as a leaf that waffles in the wind,
Lost, as a steep plunge into a swimming pool
Waterless, despite the golden promises.

Plummeting from World Leader
To World Bleeder.
Leech and Destroyer of God’s Green Earth.

Or….

Maybe,
Just maybe,
All is not quite lost.
Maybe,
Just maybe,
We can rekindle the real dream.
Maybe,
We can live up to
Jefferson and Franklin
Maybe,
We can live up to
Abraham Lincoln
And the patriots who died
To set us free,
To build a nation:
Of the people
(Not the special interests)
By the people
(Not by the dollar-soaked lies)
For the people
(Not the oil barons).

We might just make it,
You and I.
We might just make it
America
Once again.

Posterity,
Posterity will remember
Long after mere prosperity
Has faded into nothing.

It’s worth a try,
After a long cry,
To stitch together the broken pieces
Of the lost dream.

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Oh, America, wake up!
Oh, Americans.
After all, it is ours.
It is our country.
Let’s reclaim it.
Let’s name it
Once again:
America.

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Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration

Don’t they realize how much better off they are now?

02 Monday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

colonialism, environment, exploitation, Global South, life, poem, poetry, truth

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The people, true, they may have been in bliss,
Fishing, hunting, laughing all the while,
Greeting each the other with a smile.
But listen to my vision, listen to this:
I see customers! I see consumers! I see cash!
A way to keep our profit from a crash.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Let’s demonstrate our agribusiness joys,
Export industrial wastes and noise!
I see markets for cigarettes and cow’s milk!
You can hardly call it a rip-off, a bilk,
Because they will be so much better off
If they drink themselves to Korsakov.

And yet it sometimes happens in a craze,
These people — they don’t realize their days
Are so much better now than once they were.
They get to smell the smoke and hear the whirr;
Smoke camels; watch re-runs; drink Miller Lite;
And work in factories under cool florescent light!

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Author Page on Amazon

Series of posts on stories and storytelling.

A sample story from Turing’s Nightmares.

A sample story from Tales from an American Childhood.

When cultures collide: The Myths of the Veritas.

The Bubble People

01 Sunday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

awareness, being, bubbles, mindfulness, now, poem, poetry, summer

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And there are little blue bubbles
All around their heads.

At least,
That’s the way I see it.

He goes swizzing down the highway,
Weaving slightly,
Unaware,
Unaware,
That he is going 35 or 85 in a 65 zone.

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Inside the little blue bubble,
Stocks are being bought and sold.
His head leans thoughtfully to the left
His left hand bracing the Nokia
And blocking his view of passing cars
And of the lushly verdant scenery that is
No doubt one reason he chose to live
In such an expensive place as Westchester.

Inside the little blue bubble,
Business is being transacted —
Serious stuff —
Money changes hands.
And hopefully, more than his fair share
Rubs off on his palms like dried green mold.
If enough little scraplings of green powder
Are heaped together,
The man in the little blue bubble can buy —
What?
Perhaps a better beeper, phone, or larger car.

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In the park,
The children come and go,
Talking of Mike and Angelo;
Looking perhaps for the lame balloonman.
But the woman in the little blue bubble
Doesn’t see or hear them;
Turns her head and puts a finger in her ear,
The better to block the whiz of whirring skaters.
There’s a deal on the line.
There’s money to be made.
She doesn’t hear the bees whine,
Doesn’t feel the elm shade.

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And the spring mischief in me paints a sudden vision:
I could go and tap her on the shoulder,
Dance her off her feet and back to life
In this sunny day park of now.
My eyes dart to her face, searching,
But she is lost —
Lost behind the foggy blue bubble.

“Before I built a wall…” I mutter
And stroll back slowly the way I came.

The above poem was originally written two weeks before 9/11/2001. It seems even more apropos now.

———————————————-

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration

Race, Place, Space, Face

26 Wednesday Feb 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

love, peace, poem, poetry, race, racism, time

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Space

Allowed the growth of Race.

Race is all about crossing Space
In the shortest Time.

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To save Face,
Many of one Race
Insist they own Space;
Want their own Place.

To win Face,
Someone might fake the Time
It took to cross a Space
And claim a Place
On the winner’s stand and Time,
Their grand Smile
For awhile, so in Style.

Style is a sign of Race,
Of Place,
What kind of Face
Do you want to Grace
What comes into and on your Place?
Your Face?
Your Grace?

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Is there any kind of Reason or Rhyme
To the Time
That we spend trying to Smile —
Trying to use Style
To win Face over Face,
If it means that Life
Is Rife with Strife?

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If there were more Time
And we listened for the Rhyme
Would we finally See
Eternity?
Infinity?
The ultimate futility
Of Racing Race over Race,
Face over Face?

How Odd of God
To give us Life
And then program us to a Life of Strife.
Perhaps the Miller’s Wife
Was right all Along —
The Strong
And stupid “Might Makes Right”
Is just another way of saying: “Fight Fakes Sight.”
For if we could truly See
The Space
The Time
That separates you and Me —

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Is nothing but illusion and a sick Joke
Not worth the Choke
Of atomic Fire
Ruining Desire
Forever and forevermore
(It isn’t worth the bleeding sore).

We could reach our hands Out
Across the Space
And Shout:

“Race
Has gone! We’ve won, we all shall Live!
Place?
We do not care; we all shall Give:
Love to our common planet, our Space.
Love to our common people, our Race.
Love each moment of our common Time,
Echo, echo each to each our common rhyme.
Our common rhyme.”

I think, it’s about Time.
Let’s save this Place!
Let’s forget Race.
Face it, Face
Is a Race that can’t be won;
We’re already one.
We are already One.

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We can pull and we can Push;
We can blow ourselves to Mush —
But the fact remains that we are One
So whoever wins hasn’t truly Won.
They are only has-been nth Place.
We are all the Human Race,
And we all share this little Space.

Listen to the echo of our common Rhyme
Let’s use Love — Love to fill our common Time.

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