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Do not despair, they’ll always talk
about the will to win,
but I ask you—
Long, at last, The Vostok had pierced the darkness
and thrust Yuri into the firmament;
We leapt from spherical craft to the vault
of heaven, and waded ourselves in a bit
with legs new formed like a tadpole in morph.
She is the source:
the matriarch, and the material,
the mad spring, and it’s ever renewal,
the pregnant valley that blooms en masse
If it were that Churchill had saved the world
and we had been delivered from the purge
of those most foul and infected fingers
would the Doomsday Clock still near its strike?
There’s an old lie, that saysthat it’s sweet and fitting to die.That we should fall so a nation can risehas always been the soldier’s plight–but tell me again of the glory of warand what we should lay down lives for. Were we ruled by men like Cyrus the Great,perhaps there would be glory in theContinue reading “The Old Lie ~ A Poem by JP”
I have met them, as the sun set,
Coming along down the highway
From Memphis to Las Angeles;
Ordinary well-meaning people,
If I believed in such a hand or eye
I’d think the tiger’s symmetry is weak;
what would such stealthy paws or stripes hold now
when held as candle to all our fine arts?
Today the sun is outAnd the world’s no darker,It’s just the veil has liftedAnd the shelter once takenNo longer prevents youFrom knowing the darknessIs always at the endOf the warmth of the day.
If all I had were words,
and we were naked in the woods,
I’d give to you the fruit
Words will say nothing of the world–
words only wish to speak in tongues
and tie themselves in knots to hearts,
Today I feel like a rebel,
who has done some small act
to save himself from the dull thud
of monotonous life,
I’d like to think the natives had it right,
that perhaps we’re really all diseased
and infected with the Wetiko virus.
If wine is mouth and love is eye
and William Yeat’s was made to sigh,
than I have loved your sight till blind
and drank myself out of my mind,
but I find no ease, love, or drink
Sometimes love is not enough,
sometimes all the rainbow doesn’t lift
the heart from the basement of us,
If ever there was an era
to inspire a revival in poetry
and scare us out of our anxiety
then this horrid decade’s
sense of impending doom should do,
I’d paint the page with sunflowers and marigolds,
But Wordsworth’s nature is long in its grave.
We have forgotten the cold mountain stream,
The little birds in the blueberry bush,
The worms wiggling beneath their hungry beaks,
And the sound of the forest is deafening for us
As the chainsaw’s roar over heavy machinery.
For us nature is a conversation,
A metaphor for human care and change,
and a political questioning of the trees
in search for meaning when we bludgeon a rose
and all the beauty that it has stood for.
lend me your ears
I doubt that you would hear,
So lend me your wallet
And watch as the toilet
Go now and build your grave
against your life’s pitiful cries,
and when the end is drawing near
Unlike all the beasts we have known,
murders, thieves, and miscreants
there now arises a wickedness
that cannot be measured in neat units
or fit into convenient little molds.