Keats

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

We cannot resist the tone:

we demand harmony,

that we all sing at once atune,

musically marching across the field,

a field dressed in blood,

Draped in the splendor

of its gutted victims –

now at last aligned.

Alignment, now there’s a word:

a single axis of despair.

There can be no hiding

when we sing.

Any voice akilter,

strange, or new,

be it tremulous or tight,

low or high,

or simply wide or wispy

is silenced

less from Harmony

some disharmony is made.

Silence, now there’s a word:

from silence

no thought appears.

Once a Field

Stepping foot
on a field that has gone to grass
untilled, unseeded
given back to it's past

It will be only a year or two
till the field can no longer be a field
till the grass lays down roots too dense
and the seeds of Quaking Aspen
take hold and throw up a sapling
too thick for the tiller's blades

If the farmer cared
he could fix the fence
and let his cattle pasture there
it's not quite too late
for grazing to cut back the grass
and a hatchet or ax
to take the sapling down

But the farmer does not care
there will be no fence
no ax, no rumbling tractor
there will be no care
for this place that once was a field
and now is something different

but even now there are some that care
that walk this field in padded feet
that find sustenance not
in planted seed
but in the unplanted

soon the field will
no longer be
but theirs

Bear Away

bear away

past the steel hard edge

of discontent and Muses lost.

bear away

past the itching and slicing poison

of unearned hope and geodesy drawn

to a sculpted land beneath a divine hand.

See there — the holy and high

who walk in feet amucked,

soaked in the tears and dander

of pierced eyes and tight stretched skins:

lampshades they are amaking

of gutted infidels or they that disagree.

bear a way

past that land of sure and certain hope

resurrected from the broken bones

and torn sinews of the innocent

that is to say “silent,” partners

in the discourse of Tweedledee

and Tweedledee dumb that defines

those fit for the divine hotplate

or not.

Look alive, my innocent

unborn to controversy

full of vigor and heart,

who sees not two, but one

one dance that is all in all

one moment that is neither history nor hope

but one, one.

But, my innocent

be deaf and be blind

mark not your chart or heart

with the land of the dying and dead

or difference dragons

of dimpled dicks and pussy wounds

that would, obdurate and mean,

encoil and grasp with broken scales.

bear a way, far away

I will not be there.

I have taken to that path

onto that map, a course from which

I cannot turn,

even turn to be not two

but one with you

my love, who is away.

Be away my love

away from this I see

gristled refuse of what could be

of mercy and one that in bleeding

did a new cup make

to drink with strangers and walk in hope

not of the sure, uncertain of certain

but with the dead

that they might alive be

and like me they might be

not angry nor forlorn

but full of songs,

unsung and new

And they might sing for you.

But my love

do bear away

away from conceits and defeats

from thoise ancient difference dragons

that still hold in three pronged claws

the hearts of those who see

a cup, now a lie

but that once did

free and tear away

those things done and undone

but that us do now lead

to an ordinary decay.

But, bear a way

away from this

away from here

away from any measurement

that makes two of one,

and not just one

bear a way

to something new

that I and we

cannot see.

Odd number,

this mark of three

that would chain

me and many

and you,

you my love.

So my love

do bear away

from those ranks,

rank upon rank

of Saints and soldiers

of martyrs and virgins held

conscripted and confined

to arms unarmed and yet still

an Army of ghosts

that marches

to an odd beat of threes.

Please my love, flee

stay clear of the land

of twos and threes

of the flowered graves

of diversity and

grave monstrances

where one is confined

and glass walls contain

bread so thin as to near

disappear.

So my love

as yet unafeared and unafraid

in all fear please do,

not stay but bear away,

away.

4th

its July the 4th,
and here in this town
where there are no fireworks,
still the sky goes gray
and the air stinks of gunpowder
as fireworks take aim

People are hurting this year
houses go unsold
jobs are lost or pay is cut
so people are hurting and scared
they drive harder, brakes and accelerator
register their anger

I think there are more this year than last
people are taking aim at the sky
blue and green and red tracers
fired high at Washington or God
machine guns of discontent
lit off by children and childlike men

But, these childlike men shoot blanks
and they will be misunderstood
rancor will be confused with patriotism
and the rich will be content and safe
telling the world that the rockets glare
is again an affirmation

These, the rich will stay
away from this town
where there are no fireworks
but still the skies go gray
and they will not see the houses unsold
the new cars returned to their dealers

They will not see the jobless youth
of a hard-working class
of fisted men with loud voices
not working and unhappy
and not appeased by knowing
that the market is climbing higher

I don't think the walls can fall
that the blue and green and red
can ever be more than an impotent threat
from marginal literacy
comes an unread and unmet threat
that comes from women and men
too much agrieved forlorn in loss
to be incensed or burning
more than the sky now grey

It will not happen
the walls will not fall
when the last job has been sold
and the dollar becomes
like blood from stone
unreal and no longer meant
then perhaps the rich will notice
that their things go unbuilt too

the rockets red glare
and here in this town
where there are no fireworks,
still the sky goes gray

My Hand

THIS IS NOT MY HAND. 

My hand is sinewed and strong

My hand is calloused

It knows wrench and hammer

It knows torch burnt steel

This is not my hand.  

My hand can reach for my beloved 

My hand knows the joyous weight of a book. 

It can write through the night without tiring

This is not my hand.  

My hand can protect me 

and build me 

Express me

It can caress or threaten

This  hand is weak

This hand curls in on itself

It is soft and smooth

It trembles and shakes 

It can bear no weight

It is not mine

These legs are not my legs.  

My legs are strong and muscled

They hold me upright through days long and short

These are not my legs

My legs can dance (OH SO BADLY)

and climb two steps at a time

These are not my legs

My legs do not tremble and fail

My legs do not curl

Swollen and useless beneath me

These are not my legs

This is not my soul.

My soul does not weep or cry out in pain. 

It does not live in fear

My soul does not curse those who love me 

My soul is not muddied by drugs

My soul is strong and filled with life

My soul is afire with love
This cold and empty thing is not my soul

THIS IS NOT MY SOUL.