petersironwood

Listen You can hear the ripples

Roar Ocean Roar

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.

Ah Wilderness

Your Cage is Unlocked

12 Thursday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, psychology

≈ 11 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!”

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

Life is a 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

“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!”

Absolute is not just a vodka

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

The Ballad of the Ballot

04 Wednesday Jan 2023

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA

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 Con-Con’s Man Special Friend

Dick-Taters

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

≈ 1 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!

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

They Have no Word for War

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

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

≈ 8 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?

———

Listen you can hear the echoes

Somehow

Absolute is not just a vodka

You must remember this

The jewels of November

Castles Made of Sand

Such a Teeny, Tiny, Loser Man

20 Sunday Nov 2022

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, politics

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, poetry, politics, truth, USA

He’s such a teeny, tiny, loser man.

A baby in a man-sized orange suit.

When faced with how to place a travel ban

He always took the childish racist route.

A fortune bragged, inherited, then lost.

But not to worry, he’ll feign charity.

And when he loses, he lies at any cost.

The party dies but he just swallows pity.

His sportsmanship is mere insistent screams.

He cares for naught save lies he spews each day.

He is the champ of winning in his dreams.

Knows naught of friendship, love, or learn or play.

One day, the naked king will lie alone.

And live alone in tweet-space on his phone.

(I’m King! I’m King! Of Everything!)

Stoned Soup

Dick-Taters

RIP, GOP

Where does your loyalty lie?

What about the butter dish?

The stopping rule

The update problem

Essays on America: Wednesday

My Cousin Bobby

Donnie & Veterans Day Parade

Donnie’s Last Gift

Imagine all the People

The echoes of your actions

Ah wilderness

You must remember this

The forest

The Walkabout Diaries: How Beautiful and Green

03 Thursday Nov 2022

Posted by petersironwood in nature, poetry, Uncategorized, Walkabout Diaries

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

poem, poetry

You must remember

How beautiful

How precious

Once the world was

If it all goes rotten

It still must not be forgotten

How beautiful and green

How precious and clean

Once the world was

Write it down

Photograph it

Paint it

Tell your children

And your children’s children

Sing a song

A catchy tune

Memorize and sing it often

All may go and all too soon

But you

You must recall the sky of blue

The clean and crystal air

You must dare

Build it into every brick

Remind your cats and dogs

Sing it with the birds

Buzz it with the bees

You must remember

How precious

How beautiful

Once the world was

Once the world was

Teeming with the Great Tree of Life

Reaching its long branches into

Rivers, Lakes, and Oceans

Even into caves and deserts

Even into arctic snow

And even though

I know the Tree is greatly damaged

In the daze of neon

In the days of useless plastic

And truth denied, elastic

Even so, you must teach the others

Nieces, nephews, sisters, brothers

How once the world was

Precious and beautiful

You must be sure to remember

And to sing of it

Often and in many ways

Through the din of days

Paint it always

Pictures in the sky of thought

Music in the bread of naught

Some day

Long after you and I

And all you know are dead and unburied

Tree by leaf and leaf by rose

Someone needs to know

How beautiful

How precious

How utterly alive

Once the world was

In all the precious places

And in all the secret spaces

Tell at least two

What you knew

How beautiful

How precious

Once the world was

The Walkabout Diaries: Sunsets

The Walkabout Diaries: The Life of the Party

The Walkabout Diaries: Life will find a way

The Walkabout Diaries: Friends

The Walkabout Diaries: Mind Walk

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

Ah Wilderness