For what are you going
to do,
with your wild and precious
Life?
With eyes that turn the world
upside down,
With dreams,
that paint infinite colours across
greying skies,
Scars that turn heads,
That announce that a journey;
is never
without a cost,
You,
Ready to break free,
Free into,
your space,
This wild,
beautiful, Anarchistic
Place?
A place,
where love hangs out
with pain,
and light
dances long into the night,
And welcomes home the morning
shadows.
John Roberts
berkeley time travels
growing up in Berkeley
in the 70’s
one would be drawn
to Telegraph avenue
down the street from Cal
to a particular corner
Dwight way and Telegraph
catty corner to People’s park
a corner sacred to the hippie
vendors who were always there
down the street from Moe’s bookstore
I would often walk back
occasionally talk to the vendors
about the latest conspiracy theory
about the latest conspiracy theory
and the latest political gossip
as the vendors
loved to talk
as they sat on their seats
selling their t shirts
filled with anarchistic sayings
and political rage
against the machine of hate
they saw all around them
as the man tried to keep them down
that was Berkeley
my sacred homeland
stuck forever in 1969
When ignorance and mediocrity is on display,
fancy title and salaries become proof thereby.
The incompetence to deliver is the destruction,
implementation without visions is a foolish attraction.
What makes it very clear, when too many idiots pulling the plug,
the ship will sink, regardless the excuses by this pathetic flog.
Leadership has to proof itself by sincere integrity,
or democratic politics become anarchistic misery.
The chances are that everybody stops paying the electric bill,
and those self elected wasters running for the hill.
The parliament exchanges all day long so many honors like a sugar wand,
pushing responsibilities further and further to dumbfounded stand.
Legislated arrogance creates a memory tread,
when relativities bouncing of the empty head.
When politicians and its sheep’s hunt the savage dream,
prophecies of failure are the current in the stream.
La Barcaccia
A boy, of twelve, cups his hand and drink water from
the fountain near the Spanish steps, while watching
the traffic that seems anarchistic and cars park with
total disregard to fellow users of roads; he is twelve,
dreams of owning a Vespa scooter when fifteen,
but for now he has an old bike, not many boys, his
age, have got one.
It is seven thirty in the evening, a mild April day 1961,
the day is over, Bellini is still open and so is Vanity Fair,
selling expensive dresses and lingerie’s; but Roland’s
the Jeweler has shut shop, by the spring people sit and
are sociable, as most Romans are the hum and harmonies
of their voices make it good to be human
The fountain was designed by Pietro Bernini 1627 and
represent a sinking boat that sank here after a flooding.
And it was washed up at this spot. The boy doesn’t
know that, it doesn’t matter, it had been a fine day when
all was well in Rome and no one spoke of carbon foot
prints in the sky and other silly things
Author’s note: (This poem is true. Nothing in it is falsified or purposely omitted, even to
protect the guilty. Written one day that I had to take a z pak and some crazy cough
medicine (prescribed).)
Here I sit, sick in bed,
With Jimi Hendrix swirling in my head.
Such anarchistic style,
Topped off with a fetching smile.
Talent beyond the norm,
But his life turned into the Perfect Storm.
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