Broken Hallelujahs

Shards of hallelujahs

litter the floor, shredded like

waste paper, forgotten, not made

I was here once before,

walking on broken hallelujahs,

the cuts leaving a blood path

Hymn-less, I sing a song

bordered in gray, etched

in black, pushing my words

into the chorus of night, hearing

the broken response, the fading

echo of broken hallelujahs

Over at dVerse Poets, the Poetics prompt today is all about Leonard Cohen. To see more poems submitted, please visit dVerse Poets.

Painting: December by Gerhard Richter (1990), St. Louis Art Museum.

Letting words take flight

He dreamed for years,

until the dream formed

words, and sentences formed

story, and story formed yet

another dream. The dream

became real, tearing the walls

of his mind, seeking escape

to become other dreams,

others’ dreams. He held it,

still, until it made

an unconditional demand.

He opened bloodied palms

and watched words take flight.

This poem is submitted to dVerse Poets, where the Poetics prompt today is “The Art of Letting Go.” To see more poems, please visit dVerse poets.

Photograph by Richard Spencer via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

September change

Standing in front

of the Metropolitan, next

to the street, he stares

as she disappears, enclosed

in yellow, surrounded

by the vaporous exhausts

of a hundred thousand sets

of moving parts, wheeling

forward, going somewhere,

leaving him standing, not

comprehending, daffodils

dropping singly from his hand

to his feet. He looks up

to the entrance

of the Metropolitan, back

from the street, and knows

he must sit in front

of one painting,

only one, the one called

September.

At dVerse Poets today, the poetics prompt is change. To see other poems submitted, please visit the site.

Painting: September, by Gerhard Richter (2005), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

A harvest of words

The acronyms pile up, leavened

by jargon, words that tumble

and choke from mouths if not

minds, words meant to impress

or intimidate or prevail because

it’s all a competition, isn’t it?

Isn’t it. The words shroud

the value of the work, hiding

what matters, the urgent always

overwhelming the important.

We flash them on screens,

generated from decks which

used to be what we called the floors

of boats or a collection of cards

for a game of chance and luck,

not a collection of slides designed

to explain or convince or illumine.

I imagine Lincoln saying it is

management of the talent,

by the talent, for the talent and

it sticks in the ear as more

than slightly ridiculous. We

reap our harvest of words,

the weeds and the tares mixed in,

unseparated and undigested.

Our bellies remain empty.

This poem is submitted to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. The see more poems, please visit dVerse Poets. The links will be live at 2 p.m. Central time today.

Photograph: Business Word by Anna Cervova via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Words, no conversation

RAGE against the man

bail out Main Street

not Wall Street help

the 99% not the 1%

                                                Communists Alinsky-trained

                                                or Bill Ayres inspired 1960s

                                                wannabes where’s the RAGE

                                                against Dodd and Frank

destroy capitalism, aka

corporate welfare

control by economic

elites – leeches

                                                politics of envy, spite

                                                it’s the election isn’t it

                                                divide and isolate

                                                shameful – vermin

gilded moguls

                                                spoiled children

                                                indoctrinated by the NEA

criminals in suits

crapping on society

destroying the

middle class

pay my college loans

                                                rapists, thieves, hoodlums

                                                defecating on sidewalks

                                                destroying parks

                                                defacing monuments

                                                co-opted by the unions

Occupy!

Take over!

                                                Remove!

                                                Eradicate!

dangerous plot

to control

all wealth

conspiracy!

                                                dangerous ploy

                                                to win reelection

                                                cabal!

                        screams forcing

                        to extremes

                        the curtain tearing

                        the fabric unraveling

                       

it will all end

                        like it always ends

                        badly

This poem is submitted to the Saturday Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets. Today’s prompt is to poetically write a conversation with at least two sources talking. Or perhaps not talking, as int his case. To see more poems, please visit dVerse Poets.

The old man hears the wind

The wind rustles outside this cave,

keening of what is done, what is past,

and of all the whispers it sings

into my ears, it is Salome’s voice,

the voice of our mother, whose words

we knew before we were, her voice,

the wife of Zebedee, pleading

we be placed on left and on the right,

seeking advantage over the others,

desiring position we did not deserve.

He said she knew not what she asked,

and I see two thieves on a hill, escorts

unto death, one on the left and one

on the right; I think of my brother

run through with the sword of the man

whose relation, the other Salome,

danced for the head of the other John.

I hear the wind on this wretched rock

and I know myself to be the one

he loved, loved even to the death.

This poem is submitted for the Poetics prompt at dVerse poets, imagining yourself to be “the other.” To see more poems submitted, please visit dVerse Poets.

Painting: Fresco of St. John on Patmos by Giotto (1320), Santa Croce, Florence.

Conspicuous

In the 50s and 60s

it was

the size of the car

the model of the car

the newness of the car;

it was

the size of the house

the furnishings of the house

(modern/contemporary/just

like the magazines/none

of that old-fashioned stuff);

it was

the clothes and style

like Hepburn (Audrey)

like Kennedy (Jackie)

and wanting everyone

to know

In the 00s and the 10s

it is

the voltage of the car,

hybridzed,

it is

the greenness of the house,

solarized and efficiency

energized

it is

clothes and style

like everyone

like no one

it is

the organic-ness of the food

the localness of the food

the rawness of the milk

and wanting everyone

to know.

Then it was

conspicuous consumption

now it is

conspicuous virtue

Over at dVerse Poets, the Poetics prompt is “taboo” – to write a poem about a subject that is taboo, politically incorrect, and/or more than likely to offend some significant part of the population. To see more “taboo” poems, please visit dVerse Poets.

Bumper crop

They tell me to be kind, warm and fuzzy

but someone please tell Al-Qaeda

They tell me to vote right

They tell me to vote left

They tell me to get totally confused

They tell me to support animal rights

They make fun of animal rightists (does that make you an animal leftist?)

Or get really nasty about animals.

I think all I want to do is stop and visualize.

The poetics prompt today at dVerse Poets is “bumper to bumper” – a poem based on a bumper sticker. I had so many to choose from I couldn’t make up my mind, so I used a bunch. To see more poems, please visit dVerse Poets.

Maxing Out

It was fab it was groovy

it was color swirling

across your Nehru jacket

your bell bottoms and

into your mind it was

freedom it was liberation

it was higher level

of consciousness Hair

Magical Mystery Tour went

one toke over the line

Dylan of course of course

he was the coolest Hendrix

Joplin Morrison how many

ways you could you kill

yourself Pop Art Pop! Guns

the 3 Ks Kennedy King Kennedy

acid pot speed kills free love

Peter Max psychedelic art

painting peace give it a chance

If you remember the 60s

baby

then you weren’t there

just not there

baby

just not

there baby

Today’s Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets is “pop art” – and served up just about any way you want it. I selected artist Peter Max, mainly because I can remember his art and popularity when I was a college student and young adult. To see more poems based on the prompt, please visit dVerse Poets.

Top painting: Liberty Head by Peter Max. Bottom painting: Split fountain (self-portrait) by Peter Max.

At work each day

I arrive at work each day,

parking my car each day,

thinking my way through

what it is I have to do,

when I arrive at work each day.

I turn the computer on each day,

opening the new email each day,

auto-deleting the spam

erasing flim-flam,

when I turn the computer on each day.

And then it’s crisis, issue, attack,

forward this, respond to that,

attend meetings that multiply

like rabbits, solve a problem,

solve a colleague’s problem,

grit my teeth with the colleague

who is the problem, dissuade

second-guessers, write, attend

another meeting, write more,

tweet three trade press links and

respond to follow requests, exchange

DMs with a reporter, sit

in a presentation, scarf down lunch

while posting to Facebook, take

two phone calls and let three go

to voice-mail (delaying the inevitable),

write more, post to the corporate blog,

discuss two issues with two people, get

a surprise visit from an old colleague,

write and draft plans and plan out

tomorrow and it’s 5 p.m.

I turn the computer off each day,

I walk to the parking lot each day,

I think how much of tomorrow

did today I borrow,

And I drive away from work each day.

This poem is submitted for the Poetics prompt of “Play It Again, Sam: Repetititon in Poetry” at dVerse Poets. To see more poems submitted, please visit the site.

Photograph: Architectural Background by Vera Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Opening the fourth box

It surprised me that it was colored,

colored blue, in fact, I had never

considered that it might even have

a color, or if did, it would be

a rainbow, but no, it was a

sky blue of different shades, rounded

and soft in places but with a jagged

edge, too, like a sharpened dagger

aimed at what, hearts? At its center,

for it had one of those, too, were

three interlocked boxes, three in one,

and a fourth box off to the side, like

but separate, the only box I was

allowed to open, to find a sky blue

mirror edged in a sky blue flame.

And a voice called it faith.

This poem is submitted to the Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets – what invisible (yet real) thing might you see with a third eye. To see more poems, please visit dVerse Poets.

Photograph: Abstract Blue by Michael Meilen via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.