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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2194935
by Waters
Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #2194935
Several poems on various themes.

Birth and Wealth

All children have a right
to enjoy the sustenance
of terrestrial inertia.
Ubiquitous nutritious meals
should be the measure
of civilization.

Behold contagious
cultures of waste:
too far gone for repose.
Generations of squanderers
besiege drive-thrus
smeared with roadkill.

Super-consumers
endorse glossy images,
their excess is rigid.
Most go along, a few resist;
if we don’t question inequities
then we cease to exist.

This is a realm where strangers
can show up to claim your fate.
Trapped near the crossroads,
captives of their personal crusades.
Can’t they deduce from the carnage
that war is horrid
and can only be fueled by rage?

The damage intended
may be briefly splendid.
Hostility won’t mend the wounds
or diffuse the rancor.
Pent up like a premature tomb,
packaged auspice
of better living standards.





Revisions

Why did you listen to me?
Nobody listens to me.
Was the nonsense I spoke convincing?
I probably made you laugh
when you were tense.
That’s not enough to correct
a wrong course of action.
You need therapists, legal counsel,
an educated circle of friends;
I’m just a square, a faulty peg.

What is it that I said again?
Was it pithy?
Was it witty?
like Dylan Thomas on the mend?

So you put it out there.
Feeling vulnerable is a nightmare,
a hard drive without software,
a household full of naysayers,
or settings that accentuate our weaknesses.

Who lent support
when you were speechless?
Even I was abroad
unaware that you needed
spoken word
to relate your cumulative flaws.

Suddenly you strutted in
like a big town beatnik.
You curse, and you howl,
your form is indecent.
Your most recent work
surpasses all that precedes it.

You never confused captivity with comfort,
knowing we are buyers
descended from hunters.
No acts of gods could steal your thunder.
You answer to air that devours iron,
the same air that escapes the dying.

Some traditions
are integral aspects of present day,
but you’re swinging multiple ways.
Unaffiliated with any binaries,
trailblazing alongside modernity.
Though audiences differ as fashions change
they’ll always be facing the stage.





Equal Opportunity

Paradise was a dilapidated pub
wedged between
a church and a factory.
One hired and fired;
the other took donations
for their thoughts.

The force’s priority:
that pints be poured

Spirits were high for several hours.
They ordered refills without fail.
The ferment elapsed,
the carb-load expired.

The most devoted stayed
till their gathering place closed.
Retired to their homes,
scattered like bones
after prey is devoured.

Next morning
back at the assembly line.
Fine and gross motors
managed by competent workers.
Overtaxed with singular tasks -
nerves wore down
muscles contorted.
Sporadic talk
was of prime time shows and sports.

Identities were crucial.
The categories were of limited size.
Not much room to be unusual;
closed fists pummeled open minds.
Occasionally, a few
tunneled to the other side of madness.

Holidays revolved, unbeknownst to them,
around equinoxes and solstices.
Instantaneous entertainment
relied on the photogenic and famous.
Excursions to places
where the natives were treated like vagrants.

Youth were clueless
about forms of enslavement.
Sprinters, climbers,
long distance swimmers, aviators, runners
languished in zoos, aquariums, and circuses.
Distractions were much more important
than subduing cruelty.

A day became a year
A year became a decade
Leisure was a crime
unless you owned the fate of others’ labor.





Portion Control

Mescalero sun.
A hunter gauged time
on his way to verdant mesa.
Traded with Pochteca
several gourds of his aged cactus mead
for obsidian and rare seeds.
Offered them to a farmer’s daughter.
He built a Hogan
where they could intimately speak,
embrace, and sleep.

Young Zapotec
trekked hundreds of miles
to Tenochtitlan -
city of splendor.
Exchanged corals and kelp
for chocolate and pelts.
Haggled with vendors;
some deep in debt
others displayed wealth.
Stopped by a food stand,
ate spirulina cakes
topped with fried insects.
The countless selection
of medicinal herbs
is what he most remembered.

Barbary Corsairs
cut off the hair of Icelandic girls.
Abducted from their isolated world
of snow and grasslands.
Shackled on a xebec’s deck.
Sold in a desert
to a prominent slave master.
Thereafter treated as property
never to be seen by their clans again.

Spanish monarch
inherited Hapsburg jaw.
His imperial wealth
couldn’t improve
his severely poor health.
Riches hauled from the West;
Aymaras, Quechuas, Bantu speakers
brutalized on plantations
buried alive in mines.
Myopic modes of production
deformed a hemisphere.
Europa erupted from ships
that claimed entire continents.

Mapuche outlaw
"Clever Condor",
chased by posses.
Pistols reloaded
for further volleys.
Rifles slung over his back.
Bandoliers, filled with bullets
and dynamite sticks,
fastened over a guanaco poncho.
Corralero horse ran on worn metal
toward the Andes’ upper levels.
Glacial streams to quench their thirst,
spacious caves to rest their bodies.

In the Gulf of California
a fishing boat floated
among violent winds.
A wooden chest emerged;
It held preserved statues
of highly reliable gods, including -
Opochtli, Hun Batz, and Huracan.
Prayers were said
for the protection
of the rapidly declining
bounty of the sea.

Turn of the century alienist
enlisted the help of clairvoyant
to track the mastermind
of a future dictatorship,
comprised of torturers and rapists.
The unsuspecting suspect
had yet to know
his first love’s rejection
would enrage him,
enough to wage campaigns
of carnage and pure hatred,
condoned by average citizens
who committed acts
of extraordinary violence.

Old Moor faces light rain
in central Krakow.
Historic city
built upon an outpost.
Invaded by Germans
devastated by Mongols.
His family perished
during the siege of Warsaw,
slaughtered by eugenecists
and their loyal hordes.
He pets a fellow pedestrian’s dog,
smiles then wanders towards thick fog.

Maya chicle collectors
tap Sopadilla trees.
Along with Melopina keepers
they rely on remaining
old growth forests
for job security.
Take mid-day breaks
to drink Nikte’ Ak (Palo Santo);
seasonal work
courtesy of lunar cycles.

Swan moves down polluted river.
Murky mirror carries effluents
past enclaves of skilled artisans.
Families attempt cleanups,
styrofoam containers
from lunches and dinners.
Plastics more prevalent than oxygen.
Professional schemers,
afraid of daydreamers,
indulge spectators
with advertisements
of charismatic redeemers.
Their supreme leader beckons
from a celluloid sarcophagus.

When asked his age
he says, "gun metal grey".
Two tours of duty
visible on his face.
Graphic images replay in his mind.
Shrapnel disrupts
axon-dendrite channels.
Torrents of flashbacks
stampede his spine.
Returns during a recession,
or is it a period of materialistic angst?
Thousands can’t get enough,
billions getting by without much,
can’t relate to millions
of citizens he’s defended.

A reciprocal couple.
She a burly bull dyke,
he a slender queen.
She likes to dress up,
he plays in a queer
hockey league.
Metamorphosis
of archetypes,
liberation for their psyche.
Armor against
sanctimonious propriety.

We all have fetishes.
Cold fish or Bears,
Cougars or Otters,
we’re all mostly water.
When major avenues are barricaded,
you have to learn
street values of goods
and the limits
of each neighborhood.





Animist’s Audition

I hadn’t accepted the gig,
but my classmate kept introducing me:
“I want you to meet the new bass player” --
“This our new bass player” --
“He’s gonna be our new bass player ......

The preacher’s voice was hoarse
from spouting spit drenched words,
hurling threats and insults
at heathens and non-believers.
He kept yelling, “Fire and Brimstone!”
Fire was a given, what the hell was brimstone?

Members of the congregation
shouted, murmured, or quietly nodded.
Children struggled to sit still.
I stared out a weather-beaten window,
the sermon muffled once I stopped listening.

Musical entertainment between rants
was the only pleasure I experienced
on that dry and cold evening.
The band was two parts Soul,
one part Rock, one part prayer.

The Drummer held the place together;
hi-hat, snare and bass drums
sounded enormous,
like a fast approaching Grizzly Bear.
The Pianist’s fingers tapped keys in
coordinated movements;
they let loose some down-home Blues.
The Guitarist far better
than anyone I’d ever jammed with.

People were clapping and singing,
some got up and danced.
The Bass Player’s last performance
was a rhythmic excursion.
We met briefly.
I shook his agile hand
and commended him on his skills.
Who took his place, I never asked.

Walked out into the brisk air,
pulled out my Walkman,
put on my headphones,
my mix-tape led me elsewhere.

© Copyright 2019 Waters (owaters at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2194935