Perched on top the telephone
pole, a cavity carved out there,
a family of Woodpeckers lives
on Prosperity Lane, a lightly
traveled country road. Here
one is blessed to see
black and white patterns
against a blue sky as these
birds fly between poles and
tree limbs in the delight of
an April breeze.
Their call is something akin to
a chuckle, a childish delight,
for surely they own this lovely
green land, lawn stretching
far out, dotted with dandelions
and blackberry vines.
On any given day one who walks
this county lane can hear the
drumming of these clever birds,
living alongside the Mountain
Bluebird, Quail and Wild Turkey.
They drum to annonce their
territorial claim.
As in Gold Rush days these birds
have their golden reward of
acorns which they bury in pantries
of trees, poles and fallen logs.
Once again, the drilling is heard
as we walk through these Northern
California woods. Look closely
at the Ponderosa Pine. You will
find it studded with acorns. The
Acorn Woodpecker, ever industrious,
is satisfied that his is the best
of all worlds.
And when my body tires of me
I lie beneath a chestnut tree,
rolling among the broken burrs
where solid sleep rarely occurs
Waking up is the toughest part
when I've never slept to start.
I fear no place except the bed;
where pillows weigh upon my head
Memory foam gives no assistance;
insomnia thrives on resistance
It waits til eyes are almost closed,
never unconscious, then reloads
'Neath the tree is more appealing
than tracing welts upon my ceiling;
each one reflects a calloused lie,
the burrs tattooed on my naked eye
drilling dread into tomorrow night,
a future where there's no respite
This bed has worn me to the bone,
or have I worn its frame alone?
No dreams arrive; the lucid stays,
a consciousness that only strays
far from the tree l'm primed to be-
or not to be, ‘mid autumn debris.
# # #
I’m tired of the chestnut tree’s shade ~
being gentler than the bed I’ve made
in this funny house
smiles reflect by a clear pool
white gowns run the maze
extracting caries for cash
drilling down to build up crowns
Britishness was fairness
Not bothered about race
Jokes that didn’t careless
taken with good grace
We didn’t take it serious
religion got a drilling
there were no inferiors
when there was derision
everything was personal
no grouping in together
words were never worst of all
a bantering endeavour
people got all sensitive
they were not integrated
it would have prevented it
now all we hear is hatred
accusations and censorship
from humour and free will
well I say you should get a grip
we don’t care how you feel
Imported with these people
a way that is not ours
deport yourself it’s simple
if words are giving scars
we don’t need to make the great
let’s make Great Britain British
it takes care to discriminate
you’re the victim of your image
Distant cars produce their sounds
Distant people pave their way
Distant skies are full of clouds
Distant wind blows off today
Everything sets up a distance
What seems real is out of touch
A precarious existence
Makes a point with drilling crunch
But thank God it’s distant noise
And while I was writing this
It was muted by the voice
Your sweet voice from Chiltern hills.
There’s a ten-year-old in me still
hitting a home run to win the game
in the bottom of the ninth
He’s throwing a Hail Mary touchdown
to pull off the upset with no time left on the clock
And he’s drilling a three-pointer from midcourt
to force the contest into overtime…
There’s a twenty-year-old who refuses to forsake me
the one who’s going to write the Great American novel
as soon as he gets his collection of short stories published…
There’s a fifty-year-old in me somewhere who won’t let go
spending every moment of his spare time finishing that novel
and then tearing up the last three chapters as soon as he’s done…
And now there’s a wistful seventy-five-year-old looking back on it all
and wondering when all those versions of himself waved the white flag
and agreed to let him finish this poem with a sigh
My husband, Bill, snores with great might,
Like a jackhammer drilling all night.
Windows tremble and shake,
No sleep can I take.
Sleep in shed instead with my nightlight.
(Immediately after being found "guilty"
of denying that the earth was stationary
and the sun orbited around it, Galileo
said, "Eppur si muove!" [But it moves!])
It's hard to live in Lilliput, I find.
I have to cross my fingers, play their game.
Their billing, filling, drilling daily grind
sits ill with me. They all trot out the same
tired cliches. Passing a painting, never fail
to comment on the squareness of the frame.
Unprofitable, weary, flat and stale.
You can't earn prizes here. These fools prize earning.
No sweets to eat. It's one long dreary tale
of condemnation, disapproval, spurning.
The Sunday supplements determine taste,
all tearing down, forbidding, banning, burning.
They're sealed in heavy metal, concrete-cased
austerity. They put the "die" in "diet".
What will survive of them is nuclear waste.
Denounce, detract, dismiss it and deny it.
Don't look for clover - look for cloven hooves.
Excoriate it, flay it, vilify it.
They'd love to let life lurch along in grooves,
the gauche, perverse, unruly human mind
trapped tidily in aspic. But it moves.
Gates of lost souls shall open
As dates of guns and roses have ripen
Mates of puns and tosses have spoken
Playground of zombies flipping the casted token
Crates of dolls will be laid and paid
Burning in ashes while being watched by a wandering maid
One color will rise above all
Scattered like barrels of oil so tall
If roses are red and violets are blue
Spilling and drilling on the forbidden grounds ensue...
Well it's Summer again
Let's vacation my friend
Tell me, where should we go?
If you swear not to tell
I hear Greenland's for sale
But I really don't know
It came straight from the VEEP
We can get it dirt cheap
Cuz they lost all that snow
We'll keep drilling for oil
Steal the gold from their soil
That way, nothing will grow
So pack passport and bags
Some American flags
Baby, let's start this show
With our vigor and verve
We can muster our nerve
And then tell them to blow
Whatever is great
Comes with a greater
Suffering
Not to torture you
But to nurture and structure you
For what's ahead, building your focus to face whatever comes your way.
What's nourishing
Replenish you
Not perish you
The nutrition of beans
Is different from that of indomie
Also the time duration for preparation
What's elevating always takes time.
Without pressure
No diamond
To fully live
It's to give it your all
So you don't fall
For what's not fulfilling
It's drilling; makes you crumble
Don't fumble just because of struggle.
spotted woodpecker
drilling like a jackhammer
tasty morsels grabbed
They are now but cash cows
(a trough in which to quaff)
for the many attendees
who sit on long-winded
Government-funded investigation committees
no one around to hear the sound
(of what falls in the woods)
while their coffers swelled
for all the papers printed on the ecology
more than several trees were felled
the fracking drilling boring too
(found underground)
wastes water in copious quantities
releases greenhouse gas
and undermines the earth in the final analyses
deliberate discussion and debate
('til the cows come home)
to which they are compelled
only exacerbates the issue
of global warming
with all their hot air expelled
New moon vanishes into a blush of russet
where humid air twirls along with clouds,
and stars burst…
flickering above hilltops
to cast my anguish across the sky:
How wanton gulls crisscross on a flight;
their shrill rattling an echo that my heart pales
from an image of first passion’s gaieties
outlined by his maze of treachery, of ruse :
Forgetting not my lesions from one August night,
tears split forth in torment
without measure:
Naïve at eighteen then, I drank yesteryear’s pain
hoping fate could heal me from such drilling spin...
then to wake up fed with grace
to echo new morn's canticle of beginnings
1st place.
Spine chilling velocity
Willing feverish ferocity
Pollution spilling atrocity
Pushes our buttons
Top billing forging
Fiendish drilling pomposity
Gluttons gorging in the isles of muttons
Coining the term “purloining”
Plunder even here down under
Cast asunder..can hear the thunder
In the proud land of
The long white cloud
Scold from the fold to heal
But won’t listen..do a deal
Gaudy gems appeal..glisten
History sold for pieces of gold
Cower to phoney crony power
Dour Parasites roll the dice
Show pony baloney hour
Off their heads...now divining
Mining our whining sea beds..
Palaver of scour..devour and sour
Splice our shining slice of paradise
Vice rather than stories of glories told
Voraciously gobbling veracity
Audaciously hobbling precocity
Generosity wobbling even in the home
Of lengthy Cumulus Curiosity…
Not being funny
In this Land of Milk & Honey
Won’t kowtow to the cash cow
Getting out of hand
Because the answer forever
Whatever will never ever
Be just money!
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