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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: poetry

They’re eating our dogs–NOT!

24 Tuesday Sep 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Democracy, life, poem, poetry, politics, USA

And, they’re eating our dogs!

And they’re eating our cats!

And they’re marrying hogs!

And they’re wearing their fleece!

And they’re eating our geese!

And they’re eating our rats!

My, oh, my, such a terrible shame!

They shouldn’t be able to cast their vote!

If their ancestors arrived by using a boat! 

If their ancestors came from some other place!

Not if they’re folks of some darker race! 

Or if they’re called by some novel new name! 

Only the people who look just like me!

Only the people who think just like me!

Only the people who eat what I eat!

Only the people who cheat as I cheat! 

Only the people who like what I like!

Only those folks who never will strike! 

Only the people who do what I do!

Only the people who dress as I do!

Only the people who love as I love!

Only the people who like a big shove! 

Only the people who throw and bat righty! 

Only the folks afraid of God Almighty! 

A country of one is all that I ask.

If we all hate together it’s a doable task. 

If we hide our eyes and derail our brain.

We won’t feel the witches terrible pain.

The world I want is so simple indeed. 

Described by the felon’s hate-filled screed. 

Dance of Billions

Life is a Dance

Math Class: Who are you?

My Cousin Bobby

The Three Blind Mice

Tools of Thought

The Orange Man

Stoned Soup

The Ailing King of Agitate

Author Page on Amazon

The Ship of State

17 Tuesday Sep 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, fantasy, poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

creative-writing, Democracy, fiction, poem, poetry, politics, story, truth, writing

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

The weirdly bearded long-tongued frog 

The monstrous orange two-faced hog:

To sea they went in pee-gold boat

So heavy lead it could not float. 

Photo by Asad Photo Maldives on Pexels.com

“Who shall we hate today, my Frog?”

“Let’s see ‘bout artists, I say, Mr. Hog.

Or tallish folks from Wichita 

Or working poor from Saginaw!” 

Photo by Rebecca Zaal on Pexels.com

“Let’s tell some lies; they’re dime a dozen.

They eat their babies and do their cousin!”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Melon the Felon.

No matter how nutty, I’m sure we can sell on.”

Photo by Lum3n on Pexels.com

The bearded frog and the orange-faced hog.

They happily planned their hatred when fog

Unnoticed it crept; surrounded their ark.

Then thrashing around them—a sharp-toothed shark! 

Photo by Pedro Figueras on Pexels.com

“Don’t worry weird frog, a battery’s near!

Jump out and place it right by its ear!”

“Okay, Mine Fooler, surely, I’ll do it.”

“I thank you slave, if lethal, I’ll sue it!” 

Photo by Ben Phillips on Pexels.com

The weirdly bearded long-tongued frog

Became the morsel saving the hog.

The pee-gold boat was nothing but sticks.

Hog screamed and flailed and kicked his kicks. 

Photo by JACK REDGATE on Pexels.com

But not for long was shark beside. 

The hog became just chum in tide.

And soon the fog was silent, calm.

It seemed to be the ocean’s balm. 

Photo by Ray Bilcliff on Pexels.com

But ‘neath the waves the shark felt sick. 

Such poisonous fare killed him quick.

His teeth fell out; his stomach churned.

Intestines burst—his gills all burned. 

Photo by Tom Fisk on Pexels.com

The poison greed of hog and frog

Destroyed all like mustard fog.

America woke from hypno-hate.

And all were saved from Nazi fate.

———————-

My Cousin Bobby

Essays on America: The Game

The Ailing King of Agitate

The Stopping Rule

The Update Problem

The Three Blind Mice

The Orange Man

Stoned Soup

Essays on America: Labelism

Essays on America: Wednesday

Listen to my Siren Song

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Dance of Billions

Author Page on Amazon

Galactic Best

24 Wednesday Apr 2024

Posted by petersironwood in nature, poetry, science

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

earth, life, nature, photography, poem, poetry, science, space, truth

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Once upon a time I longed,

To be an astronaut in space.

Me: flying through the galaxy.

Exploring planets, moons, and stars. 

Photo by ZCH on Pexels.com

Was boosted by the Sputnik shock. 

I read of planets hot and cold.

And watched the tale of Spock unfold.

I never tired of voyaging bold.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Humanoids are everywhere.

Diverse: each world a universe

That some day might just come to be.

Out beyond infinity.

A lifetime’s travel in my mind

Has brought me back at last to find:

A planet ‘neath an azure dome. 

It’s blanketed with life—my home. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

And here’s the lovely crazy cast:

A million species interact.

In ways surprising, subtle, vast

This network all a single clan.

This perfect planet filled with beauty, 

Spirals through the milky way.

My spaceship’s filled with luxury

Kaleidoscopic every day!

It is, quite simply put, the best.

And though I’ve not seen all the rest,

Each flower I see: creation swirled

A wonder whirling living world.

————————

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Life is a Dance

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

The Dance of Billions

Corn on the Cob

Author Page on Amazon

A Civil War there Never Was

12 Friday Apr 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

life, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA

Photo by THIS IS ZUN on Pexels.com

She might have checked.

He might have sighed. 

They might have thought

Before they fought.

A civil war there never was. 

But you know how they are. 

They’re really all the same!

Or so it seems in dreams

On social media streams.

A civil war there never was.

A civil war there never was.

The first rules of society: 

Do not destroy what you cannot make;

Pretend to do; then, only fake.

And if in some bromance, 

You somehow came to think

That war will fix your life,

Strife begets more strife.

A civil war there never was. 

Guernica

Dick-Taters

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

Who Won the War

Author Page on Amazon

Who Won the War?

24 Sunday Mar 2024

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, history, life, news, poetry, society, USA, war

Photo by Avery Nielsen-Webb on Pexels.com

The war begins and we begin to count

The dead and wounded: such and such and much.

We scrutinize the numbers as they mount

We dare not feel the shattered dreams they touch.

We analyze and matricize results.

Declare a victory when none exists.

The thought that someone wins a war insults. 

This myth through every fog of war persists. 

The would-be poet, teacher, engineer.

The father, mother, uncle, nephew, son.

The old, the young, the crooked, straight & queer.

The war hurts you and me and everyone.

 

Division and subtraction do not build. 

No souls are filled with joy; no gardens tilled. 

In each armed conflict both sides lose. Such waste!

Humanity needs everyone! Make haste!

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

———————-

Turning to prose: 

One of the things that the “winning side” of a war loses is the opportunity to spend those resources spent on war instead spent on making life better for its citizens. Even if the “winners” have a very quick and lopsided victory, they will have contributed to world-wide pollution and global climate change that will negatively impact nearly everyone on the planet including most of the people on the “winning” side and their descendants. Many of the soldiers will have died, but in almost every single case, many more innocent people will have died. In some cases, those will be minimal for the “winning” side, but not always. Meanwhile, soldiers who returned to society, even if they are not physically impacted permanently are surely impacted psychologically. Among other things, if they were successful, they killed other human beings. Some of those human beings were almost certainly innocents, but even the other soldiers were mainly people forced into fighting.

In a way, they will be carrying seeds of some very bad experiences and some of those seeds will undoubtedly leak out into that person’s environment impacting, his friends and family, as well as random strangers. But the war mentality is not limited to serious effects on fighting soldiers. To some small extent, everyone is damaged. There is more stress for everyone. There is always the threat of reprisal or that someone you care deeply about will be maimed or killed. Not only are people’s sense of fear heightened; typically, so is their hatred and anger. For many, this will be directed far beyond those actually most responsible for starting a war. 

During a war, people will be asked, or ask themselves, to view the killing of a whole bunch of their fellow humans as the best course of action. Some will embrace that with relish and a side order of over-generalization. Others will embrace the killing with reluctance. Few will object outright. So, after your victory, you will be living in a society that rationalizes killing others more often and more easily than they did before. Of course, it’s generally even worse for the “losing” society. Both sides lose. The “losing side” loses more and that keeps the war fueled as long as possible. But make no mistake. Both sides lose. 

Democracies have often gone to war against each other. But far more often in modern times, war has been instigated by dictators. They rule by hate and fear. Having an enemy is an entry fee and a talking point. If there’s no-one else around, they’ll simply pick on the vulnerable within their own society. Through constant repetition about extremely rare cases or even just outright lies, people can actually be made to hate people who have, in reality, done them zero harm. 

Time to wake up. 

——————

Stoned Soup

The Orange Man

Three Blind Mice

The Ailing King of Agitate

Plans for us

Dick-taters

Absolute is not just a vodka

Cancer always loses in the end

Dance of Billions

All the Roads not Taken

20 Wednesday Mar 2024

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

faith, life, poem, poetry, spirituality, truth, USA

The day breaks sunny…

There’s still a dewy chill about…

I see the distant hill…

I fancy hiking the faraway path…

I imagine the panoramic scene…

But my ankles ache… 

Beneath my bone tired shins…

And I can do the math…

It is a lovely path indeed…

But not mine this day…

Perhaps never my path…

Photo by Cup of Couple on Pexels.com

Perhaps never my path…

To trod the jungles of a foreign land…

Like my dad and his shrapnel-shattered shin…

Or die in an angry hail of mindless bullets…

Or be collateral damage in a war that surrounds me…

On every side where every path is a Möbius band…

Coaxing me back to needless death…

Perhaps never my path…

Perhaps never my path…

But the paths of so many others…

Who thought they took the smart path…

The safe path; the only path they saw…

Drowning in the razor-wired river of fear…

Whistles of a distant hawk…

I hear and heed and whistle back…

Perhaps that is how a missile sounds afar…

Before the bomb explodes us all to body parts…

Perhaps never my path…

Photo by Ahmed akacha on Pexels.com

Perhaps never my path..

But the path of so many others is filled with fear…

Choked by the stench of death…

Smeared by the char of fire and wrath…

Who will see the panoramic view instead…

Who will see that bird and bee…

Dance with flower and tree most lovingly…

Who will take that path…

If it is never my path…

If it is ever my path…

To stumble up the rock-strewn way…

To look about and report back…

To those who could not make the trek…

Then however much I lack…

I must play the only play I have…

Recount the story as well as I am able…

Wrapped in song or poem or fable…

Unwrap the self-placed blinders…

That make it seem that all they’ve lost…

Can be replaced and sanctified by hate…

While I see chaos in the heart and soul…

The tale must be told in bold and sold…

The scroll of right and reason…

In daylight clear and present…

If it is ever my path…

Photo by Kris Mu00f8klebust on Pexels.com

If it is ever my path…

Even to tell a single seeming stranger…

About the ever smoking dangling danger…

I must dance that deadly dance…

I must chance that deadly chance…

Chance the wrath…

It is my path… 

Photo by Avery Nielsen-Webb on Pexels.com

It is my path… 

And I will whistle to the soaring hawk…

And I will hum to every buzzing bee…

And I will breathe it to the birds and trees…

And I will find and feel the love in every blade…

That strives to push aside the dirt and feel the light…

I cannot take each and every path…

But I can take one path…

And so may you take your path…

And we can together do the math…

Together, we can do the math.


How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

The Only Them that Counts is All of Us

Labelism

Life is a Dance

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

Three Blind Mice

Stoned Soup

The Orange Man

The Forgotten Field

Stoned Soup

Dance of Billions

We are a Mountain

Author Page on Amazon

Orange Margolade

06 Wednesday Mar 2024

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Democracy, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA

When down in the gutter,

There’s no time to stutter. 

He feigns a proud strutter.

His nonsense is utter.

“I’m strong!” He screams weak.

His pants show a leak. 

We don’t get a peek.

He struts like a sheik.

 

He plucks on the strings; 

Of hatred he sings.

He crushes the wings. 

Division he brings.

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com

He sucks on men’s souls. 

He states no good goals.

He’s as wobbly as foals. 

His “logic” has holes.

 

He dwells in folks’ necks.

Our nation he wrecks. 

All hands on the decks!

To stop Putin’s hex.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Or things won’t end well.

In slavery we’ll dwell. 

No Liberty Bell

Rings inside of hell.

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Author Page on Amazon

The Ailing King of Agitate

All We Stand to Lose

The Truth Train

Essays on America: Wednesday

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

What about the Butter Dish?

Finding the Mustard

Happy Talk Lies

Where does your Loyalty Lie?

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

The Orange Man

The Dance of Billions 

Author Page on Amazon

The Gods of Old

30 Tuesday Jan 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

art, Democracy, inspirational, life, love, poem, poetry, politics, USA

The gods of old had seemed to lurk and shirk.

The people bowed instead to cons who screamed:

“To solve your problems won’t take thought or work!

King ME and you’ll have all you ever dreamed!”

“For ME you kill and die! I never lie!”

So many played the stupid game of crime.

So many named the crime ‘a loving sigh.’

So many ate the fearful hate filled chyme.

Photo by Ben Phillips on Pexels.com

And when (as always) karma killed them dead,

They had a glimpse (but far too late) that hate

Can never plant a flower bed; instead,

It opens wide a hellish galling gate

It tears apart the bonds of love and life;

It teaches each that no-one dared or cared.

Like ravenous wolves in endless strife that’s rife

With treason, lies and dead-eyed stares; teeth bared. 

Photo by bigworldinalens on Pexels.com

Yet far in the distance a different song wafts on the wind.

The sigh of the evergreens sings from the souls of the dead:

“Oh, please don’t be fooled yet again by the lies that are ginned.

Don’t feed on the meat of the losers who lie and instead:

“Join up with the legions of peace and of love and of light.  

Regain your adulthood and hold with the healers of hearts;

With rainbows and those who are weaving a world of delight;

Just love those around you; surround you with builders and arts.”

And thus at long last, world peace came to pass on this earth;

The days routinely filled with joy and mirth. 

The people felt a planetary birth.

The water flowed in bubbling crystal streams.

The air smelled clean and fresh and filled with dreams.

The dancers danced; a million hugs it seems

Went round this green and loving earth that teems

With trout and robin, spruce and sparkling gleams.

Photo by Trace Hudson on Pexels.com

The Dance of Billions

All we Stand to Lose

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

The Only Them that Counts

Life Will Find a Way

After All

Math Class

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

The Forest

The Crows and Me

So Much More

Guernica

Who Can Tell The Dancer from the Dance

Author Page on Amazon

Tennis Upside Down

24 Wednesday Jan 2024

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, sports

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

AustralianOpen, chaos, nintendo, noise, pickleball, poem, poetry, sport, sports, Tennis

Preamble: We’ve been watching and enjoying the Australian Open. We both play tennis and enjoy watching good play. I might mention that I also enjoy rock concerts. In general, I have no philosophical problem with mixing genres. It was worth a try to mix rock concert with tennis coverage. For me, it utterly failed. The hype spoils the game for me. I want the loudest voice on the tennis coverage to be the Thwack of a well-hit shot. To contextualize the game of tennis (a game of centimeters) with giant dimensions does not serve it well. And, it certainly doesn’t serve me well. I want to skip over all that part and get to the tennis.

It’s a Hoopla, and Koopla, and WOWness and Feel!

A Laser of Rainbows and Medleys of Steel! 

Australian regalia and Wimbledon shouts

It’s jeering and cheering and drunken old louts! 

It’s Fireworks a Poppin’ and the Gonging of Gongs!

It’s screaming the dreaming and shouting of songs! 

It’s Christmas and New Year and Eastertime crosses!

We’ve Icons and Symbols and Cherrypicked Glosses! 

Each Shot is aMAZing and Dazing and Crazily Fine! 

Each Sigh is a Feast that’s complete with red Wine!

The voices grow louder and that’s how we know!

We’re watching the Best of the Best Picture Show! 

Though…

I do recall more measured ways to speak.

Announcers gave analyses and spoke

Like normal human beings; they did not shriek. 

They did not sound as though they’d surely choke.  

Or drown in all that hype and ooze and swill.

They got excited when a shot was great. 

As folks will do for plays that truly thrill. 

But not like furry apes about to mate.

Photo by Jo Kassis on Pexels.com

They say it’s all about the clicks and gate.

So everyone must bow to flash and bang.

When everything’s a jarring lure to bait,

I long for times without explosive clang. 

I find the athletes and their stellar play

Enjoyable enough without the hype. 

My dog cannot abide; will not stay.

I think perhaps, the time is finally ripe

For entertainment of a gentler sort.

The stats are fine; insightful words are wise.

My soul would see the beauty of the court.

My mind would find, define my own surprise. 


Author Page on Amazon

Sports Fans Only

Wimbeldon

US Open Closed

You make the call

Somewhere a Bird Cries

20 Saturday Jan 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Democracy, Dictatorship, general, life, love, peace, poem, poetry, USA, war, writing

Somewhere a bird cries. 

Perhaps it is a lonely crow. 

Though, in truth, a cawing crow most often brings more crows. 

To scare away a screeching hawk, 

Or share to feast on bits of broken life 

Scattered willy-nilly on the rocks of a crumpled building. 

Stone quarried and hauled and put in place and now in ruin.

Now in ruin.

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

Somewhere a baby cries. 

Trapped beneath the rubble. 

The baby does not know; cannot know

What happened to mommy and her warm milk. 

The She of all that warmth and smile and love 

Inexplicably gone forever. 

Gone forever.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Somewhere an old man dies, 

Perhaps of sepsis from the jutting bone 

No-one left to help him hobble to nowhere

For nowhere is exactly where the care he needs persists

Just as likely, he dies of a broken heart; he had hoped

Hoped for a better life for his children and his grandchildren

But he sees that is not to be. 

Not to be.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Somewhere a young woman sighs, 

The gray day’s rain runs in rivers through the ruins 

Of her village and her dreams in streams and she sees 

In the screen behind her eyes the soldiers laughing as they

Ravage her too young body her too raw love that now

Will never come again no more dreams 

Only nightmares.

Only nightmares.

Somewhere a so-called ‘Strong man’ does not cry;

Does not sigh. His fingers sport a manicure.

He merely issues orders; plans another massacure. 

He spouts his lies and promises and promises and lies

He terrifies the people and the people will believe

He enrages the people and the people scream their hate

He has them rushing headlong into yet another turn 

Of the Wheel of War and the people attack the people

And the game of checks and slays continues on and on and on and on.

On and on and on and on.

It is indeed a wondrous game, the Wheel of War.

It crushes old and young. 

It crushes hopes and dreams. 

It blackens every sky and even flowers die. 

It fouls the crystal water and the air that people breathe. 

It is indeed a wondrous game, the Wheel of War. 

The Wheel of War. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

For everyone loses and no-one wins. 

Except for the manicured man with plastered hair.

Except for the man with the painted face. 

Who crushed the dreams and spun the Wheel of War. 

His victory is gray and shallow and he knows he’s lost 

He’s harmed the very Tree of Life

Because he could not win the game of Love

Because he could not win the game of Life

He chose instead to spin the Wheel of War

That spills and kills; undermines; explodes; crushes. 

He destroys in minutes what took centuries to build. 

What took centuries to build. 

Long after the ‘strong man’ is dead:

Beneath the orchard burned to char,

In broken buildings near and far, 

The Tree of Life sends shoots of spring.

And birds again will take to wing. 

And hope and love will rule the day. 

And no-one, no-one wants to play

The dumbest game—the warring way. 

Photo by Lucas Pezeta on Pexels.com

The parasites who prey on fear

Who ruin the rainbow with a jeer

Inside their weakness gnaws and grows.

They cannot see the glow of rose. 

They cannot feel love’s warm embrace. 

They truly fear and hate it all. 

They’re too afraid to play fair ball. 

The only game for them is hate.  

They long ago locked every gate. 

They want to kindle fear in you.

And train you up to hate the few.

Somewhere a joyous chorus sings. 

All the bombs and guns are ground to dust. 

All the people finally feel the shame. 

All the people finally see the sham.

All the people finally know 

What is weak and what is truly strong. 

And the giant Wheel of War 

Falls to shards, never to be spun again.

Never to be spun again. 

Never to be spun again.


The Dance of Billions

All we stand to lose

The Only Them that counts

After all

Only the Crows

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Essays on America: The Game

Absolute is not just a vodka

Dick-Taters

Life is a Dance

Life Will Find a Way

Author Page on Amazon

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