CERTAINTY
river
sea
enough water there
to slowly
slowly wash
away
hatred
one drop at
a time
while still praying
for the Holy chaos
of a love
tidal wave, a
peace tsunami
who can tell us
what is impossible, when
barriers, boundaries
washed away
all set in atithesus
to this
great poem
of being
forget itself,
cease to remember
as thing so fiercely sure
of its own identity
take
leap of faith
no longer demand
its own certainty
between
the river and the sea
OUTSIDE YOUR TEMPLE
that line from Robbie Williams
about talking to God
floating
through my brain
woke up
and suddenly found I had
strayed into your
encampment
masquerading as sort-of
poet, philosopher,
lover of Zen
and all bladed weapons
watching you agog
amazed: every
action small
and large, every word
both long
and short
a telling truth to power
something about
the semiotics here, though,
a red, red flag
to tormented souls
skewered by the fatal ironies
of such massive, cosmic,
toxic contradictions
their Empire
a prison
from which they
cannot, dare not,
refuse to
don’t know
haven’t the faintest idea
how to escape
this dream world best
world
worst of
all possible worlds
****
and here
is a figure too, West Coast
Italian in
robe soiled and tattered
barefoot, perhaps
those feet
not having seen water since
the Pope kissed those toes
crosses in
front of me, of
pure
holy squalor our
most iconic figure
a figure
so joyous
hard not
to hazard a guess as
to who he
just has to be
****
the police are here
in riot gear
they
have their
orders
they
beg
to differ
what happens from hereon
in
is scripted
like a victim selection
bombing program
it was authored by machine
SUPER BOWL POEM
woke up
in time to hold off
on the SuperBowl result
worst fears confirmed when
I summoned up courage
to check
yep Brock loves God
but Brock loves
Patrick Mahomes
(does not seem
to care much about
Head Coach Kyle Shanahan)
and at this
juncture, out of the blue,
an unruly host of
archetypes made their move
wanted to stick
around a bit, get
the lie
of the land in the process
of passing through me
a mad mosaic it was
for a while
many shapes and
sizes, manners and
demeanours
jostling up against each other
(Brownian motion)
excanging, debating,
doing their
dialectic dance, analysis
synthesis
no homogenizing
and there I was in a carnivalesque dream
chatting to the players in
St Francis’ kingdom
of those elevated
high above
the realms
of material wealth
peering into the abyss that
a philosopher cum psychologist
had laid
before me
a tablet broken with the
entire script jagged
and there on the road
a burnt out humvee
and there in the docks
a rusting destroyer
archetypes at home within
settling
for a game of solitaire
and me
thinking, wondering,
who does have a
prophetic bone in this
my body
is winning everything?
and if it is not
will there ever
indeed
be an end to war?
WEAVER BIRD
always on the farm:
flash of bright yellow
across my
line of sight
furiously at work
building their nests
chirpy
masters of
twig engineering
brandishing their
golden purpose
meanwhile, since we
are on the subject of
nest-building
and things
with wings
let us observe old Nick
leaving his helo
having just be ferried
from quite distant shore
to Mediterranean ship
pausing a moment to
stroke brash steel,
sculpted aluminum
of the true
spirituality of the war machine
lover
extraordinaire
paramour to the extreme
blowing kisses to his image
where
reflected in such surfaces
every drop of bloodlust
contained in booklet form
in jacket
inner pocket
there
blueprint
of a world gone skew
slavery redeemed
refreshed anew
Sun
itself
blind to the glaring ironies
so much
to fix with
all this weaving
.
KING OF SWORDS
War is
not part
of my nature.
Said
many prayers
had it
excommunicated.
Hiroshima
is not
my business, neither
is it in my chemistry
my molecules do not
resonate with that
Einstein equation, are
left stone cold by
Oppenheimer’s
Gita paraphrasing
should you, when you
slip curved Katana blade into
my hand
I become aware
of the gravity
way
beyond my capacity
very thought
of shearing, slicing flesh
turning
my fingers to sushi
for a moment
but then the power
and the craft
such beauty in steel
steeling my spirit to point
I can do anything
kill or
be killed let those
ancient dice roll
for here
the rush comes
goes
and maybe wounds, maybe
death, perhaps
slaughter and havoc
maybe
not a scratch, blood
to expatiate
peace in my heart: who knows,
can hazard
a guess how true
and longlasting
sigh of regret even
in victory with the sheathing
of such
a blade.
KING OF SWORDS
War is
not part
of my nature.
Said
many prayers
had it
excommunicated.
Hiroshima
is not
my business, neither
is it in my chemistry
my molecules do not
resonate with that
Einstein equation, are
left stone cold by
Oppenheimer’s
Gita paraphrasing
should you, when you
slip curved Katana blade into
my hand
I become aware
of the gravity
way
beyond my capacity
very thought
of shearing, slicing flesh
turning
my fingers to sushi
for a moment
but then the power
and the craft
such beauty in steel
steeling my spirit to point
I can do anything
kill or
be killed let those
ancient dice roll
for here
the rush comes
goes
and maybe wounds, maybe
death, perhaps
slaughter and havoc
maybe
not a scratch, blood
to expatiate
peace in my heart: who knows,
can hazard
a guess how true
and longlasting
sigh of regret even
in victory with the sheathing
of such
a blade.
poems 2 die for