Saturday, January 27, 2007
March for Life 2007
The March for Life passes the East Wing of the Smithsonian Art Gallery. Note the Jasper Johns poster to the left of the photo.
Nobius Black
Thanks for mentioning the Crunchkin music site! Perhaps I know who this is, the sound clip is a paraphrase of a quote from Nietzsche. Note: I haven't really linked this site to any other sites. Also remember, I love rabbits and go out of my way to do everything I can to protect them.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Jesus Wept
It is reported how Jesus to the centurion’s palsy struck daughter cried: “Little maiden, Arise!”
And learning of Lazarus’ swift demise---wept.
Tears of purity, Tears of forgetting,
Rivulets of tears
Waters of hope,
Waters of joy.
Today Jesus weeps tears like soft rain drifting on the Howling Andes Hills
On big skies of the endless Dakota plain rolling on forever,
Amidst the Color dipped butterflies, and sweet smelling bundles of alfalfa.
On the scorched land drier than dry healing rains begin to fall
But the earth cannot say why.
High upon a meadow
Thunder pounds his mighty drum
Four doors, a burial mound, pow-wow
sweat lodge’s searing,
Orange and red tigers of fire lashing straps upon my back.
Black night's tattered wing swoops low
The devil’s diamond claw screeches
Scraping up to the hills the stony burrow
Blood fills the furrow
Red and fiery pink beyond my window.
Puddles of mercury rain dazzle and dance
Lake Randall rocks gentle and slow like a shimmering jewel
Thunder roars, valleys shake their fiery fingers to heaven,
Mighty forests no longer give oaken sanctuary.
Silver clouds roll on forever into the smokey deeps
Wounded streams have lost their way.
This greedy, fractured nation cannot imagine why Jesus weeps.
Arise, arise!You Silver tarnished skies above the Andes hills
Roll over the endless Dakota plain.
Shower the morning rooftops of this world glistening the weeds and grass.
Tears like soft rain hissing.
Scorched Indian earth
Cradles roots snug deep into the dry of dry:
So many tears Jesus is weeping!
Lake Randall is a shimmering jewel in Dakota’s ochre crown:
hungry roots reach deeper into the mineral strata.
But even the drowning earth does not know why Jesus weeps.
This poem is a trail of broken treaties,
A fence---A net on the salty sea of Galilee.
I wander alone on the streets of men, the proud and mighty,
Statesmen who render the low high and the high low.
Pharasaic tarnished silver
And Judas' broken kiss.
Howling sirens race the streets where
Brown eyed children with laughing eyes dance
News breaks the chatter
Where cripples beg to learn the reasons for Jesus’ weeping.
And learning of Lazarus’ swift demise---wept.
Tears of purity, Tears of forgetting,
Rivulets of tears
Waters of hope,
Waters of joy.
Today Jesus weeps tears like soft rain drifting on the Howling Andes Hills
On big skies of the endless Dakota plain rolling on forever,
Amidst the Color dipped butterflies, and sweet smelling bundles of alfalfa.
On the scorched land drier than dry healing rains begin to fall
But the earth cannot say why.
High upon a meadow
Thunder pounds his mighty drum
Four doors, a burial mound, pow-wow
sweat lodge’s searing,
Orange and red tigers of fire lashing straps upon my back.
Black night's tattered wing swoops low
The devil’s diamond claw screeches
Scraping up to the hills the stony burrow
Blood fills the furrow
Red and fiery pink beyond my window.
Puddles of mercury rain dazzle and dance
Lake Randall rocks gentle and slow like a shimmering jewel
Thunder roars, valleys shake their fiery fingers to heaven,
Mighty forests no longer give oaken sanctuary.
Silver clouds roll on forever into the smokey deeps
Wounded streams have lost their way.
This greedy, fractured nation cannot imagine why Jesus weeps.
Arise, arise!You Silver tarnished skies above the Andes hills
Roll over the endless Dakota plain.
Shower the morning rooftops of this world glistening the weeds and grass.
Tears like soft rain hissing.
Scorched Indian earth
Cradles roots snug deep into the dry of dry:
So many tears Jesus is weeping!
Lake Randall is a shimmering jewel in Dakota’s ochre crown:
hungry roots reach deeper into the mineral strata.
But even the drowning earth does not know why Jesus weeps.
This poem is a trail of broken treaties,
A fence---A net on the salty sea of Galilee.
I wander alone on the streets of men, the proud and mighty,
Statesmen who render the low high and the high low.
Pharasaic tarnished silver
And Judas' broken kiss.
Howling sirens race the streets where
Brown eyed children with laughing eyes dance
News breaks the chatter
Where cripples beg to learn the reasons for Jesus’ weeping.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
crunchkin
Poet At Forty
To be a poet at sixteen is to be sixteen, to be a poet at forty is to be a poet.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti “Challenges to Young Poets”
Through an oaken door
Down a corridor
I marvel at the children’s play
So animated and cruel.
The poet too observes with his pale, innocent eye.
I come to a noisy hall and open the second door
To a spacious room
Full of Summer light
A pine desk in disarray
With lined pages
And crumpled sheets scratched with choppy verse
And notice the poet dejected and howling from the corner of my eye.
The third door arrives after strange halls and hidden mazes
With guides in vast archive of
Manuscripts of the living and dead,
The poet stands silently filing papers
Like a man who polishes stones
Editing these Collected works
Scarcely noticing my coming or going…
Banquets and dissolution follow
Forgetfulness, lust and bitter dejection;
At last I come to the fourth door
And crack open to find an accomplished poet of some reknown
And swell to hear his voice:
“I stand in wonder before little things---
Breezes in the late evening branches
Bouquets for the memory
From sundrenched vaults of yellow---
Dreams that Summer’s heavy arm plows under.
I toss these scraps of paper to the ditch
With breach of regulation, well considered answer,
With definition, and vow,”
His word trails along the luminous orchard
To filter Autumn’s cider
Into a glass of Wonder.
Wonder before little things---
Ash and burning paper
Dissolving minute traces of Spring
Coiling near the park bench
Pastel ribbons flitter and flow away
On November’s winding, muddy water.
Spilling,
the deep green liquid
Holds fast to the cool frosted soil
The sun paints the blue
With cloudy white brushes.
No longer swayed in storming majesties,
The poet at forty is captive
To ribbons, twigs,
to Triune clover sustaining
Inspiration’s pool echoes tales
Of valiant days into richer speech.
To be a poet at sixteen is to be sixteen, to be a poet at forty is to be a poet.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti “Challenges to Young Poets”
Through an oaken door
Down a corridor
I marvel at the children’s play
So animated and cruel.
The poet too observes with his pale, innocent eye.
I come to a noisy hall and open the second door
To a spacious room
Full of Summer light
A pine desk in disarray
With lined pages
And crumpled sheets scratched with choppy verse
And notice the poet dejected and howling from the corner of my eye.
The third door arrives after strange halls and hidden mazes
With guides in vast archive of
Manuscripts of the living and dead,
The poet stands silently filing papers
Like a man who polishes stones
Editing these Collected works
Scarcely noticing my coming or going…
Banquets and dissolution follow
Forgetfulness, lust and bitter dejection;
At last I come to the fourth door
And crack open to find an accomplished poet of some reknown
And swell to hear his voice:
“I stand in wonder before little things---
Breezes in the late evening branches
Bouquets for the memory
From sundrenched vaults of yellow---
Dreams that Summer’s heavy arm plows under.
I toss these scraps of paper to the ditch
With breach of regulation, well considered answer,
With definition, and vow,”
His word trails along the luminous orchard
To filter Autumn’s cider
Into a glass of Wonder.
Wonder before little things---
Ash and burning paper
Dissolving minute traces of Spring
Coiling near the park bench
Pastel ribbons flitter and flow away
On November’s winding, muddy water.
Spilling,
the deep green liquid
Holds fast to the cool frosted soil
The sun paints the blue
With cloudy white brushes.
No longer swayed in storming majesties,
The poet at forty is captive
To ribbons, twigs,
to Triune clover sustaining
Inspiration’s pool echoes tales
Of valiant days into richer speech.
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