Long Anachronistic Poems
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Local used bookshop, an easy energy
comforting shelves crowded with tracks of wisdom,
literature, philosophy, religion, the sciences
even graphic novels, saucy and weighty
fluff, too, for pool side reading
fairy tales of fear and fancy (what does turn pumpkins
into coaches after all?)
stacks of Natural Geographic, provocative, with
indigenous innocence, lands and space
undusted spread of news
I walk through zig-zag enticement on floors that creak
like old folks mating
uninhibited, protracted browsing
bookworm's comforting crawl
steadied nirvana
Do I take a step in a different direction?
buy a cookbook though I've little kitchen recollection
Authors recognizable
soothing charm in
brittle, yellow pages
that have passed through protean ages
Gravitational pull of old, in a world where nothing much
stands still
like wired lives, pushed hard in the making
I'm told that I'm shackled to what's obsolete
to free myself from choke holds past
like a bookshop, anachronistic
Did I mis-read value? Nourish the inessential?
Outside signs are visible: site cleared for re-development
Demolition seeps (like tar) into our lives
to strip space familiar
to uproot stakes of what's connective
My aged bookshop, a disrupted treasure,
worthy of a quiet reverence
dignity
before the landscape veers
Poem composed: March 8, 2021
Revised: April 3, 2021
Last Names
by Edmund Siejka
Whenever I meet someone
At a party, a restaurant or in line at a store
And the conversation turns to last names
I respond politely
When they ask
What nationality is that?
The question strikes me as anachronistic
Like how old were you when you were born?
For some of us
The spelling and pronunciation
Of our last names can be challenging
Harboring a jumble of
Consonants and vowels
Without rules
But we need to remember
That each last name has a proud past
And each name has a future.
If rudely pressed for an explanation
I sometimes describe my last name as “American”
Clearly stating
That my great grandparents immigrated from Europe
Over a hundred fifty years ago
And we’ve been here ever since.
In this day of fluid identities
My answer seems somewhat vague and evasive
And occasionally met with arched eyebrows
From people I hardly know
But it stops them from asking additional questions
As I feel under no obligation to say more
After all
Didn’t we all come from somewhere else?
It's too late, beloved, for our dream shattered,
Under the night sky, chimeras have us buried,
Intoxicated with illusions, wrapped in cigarette perfume,
On deserted streets, we are shadows of dreams unfulfilled.
We're lost in the labyrinth of forgotten corners,
Us, wax figures melted in the moonlight,
Bodies scorched by the flame of silent incapabilities,
In this dance of forgetfulness, against an outdated backdrop.
Oh, times, oh, mores, what fate has been decreed?
In this vain search, what meaning have we let slip?
I look for you at dusk, I lose myself in wanderings,
We flail in the silence of an anachronistic time, with no way out.
Time runs, but to where, it no longer knows,
Its patience worn thin by our tribulations,
My abulia and passivity, will they yet endure?
Is there still room for a drop of romance, one last poem?
Too late for romance, too late for dreaming,
Too late for you, too late for me,
In this twilight, the ephemeral takes its leave,
For infinity, we remain unfinished, uncommenced.
Too early for hopes, too late for regrets,
In our own late hour, all seems lost,
Too late for new beginnings, too early for endings,
In this dance of fate, amor fati is our final chorus.
And so, in the silence of the night, we fade into the void,
Our love, a shattered dream, an echo of the past,
In this fleeting world, we remain just two strangers,
Lost in time, lost in ourselves, lost in everything.
In the shadow of time, the soul finds solace,
We wonder why the years lay down in silence,
Why we remain closed, like birds refusing flight,
Seeking hidden meaning in the language of flowers toward the sun.
We close ourselves, like old, forgotten books,
Misunderstood by time, which watches with cold eyes,
We, who love words, are lost,
Searching for ourselves in every verse written with hope.
Perhaps in losing, we will discover the pure essence,
That something which makes us eternal, beyond time,
In a world where souls flow like rivers,
Leaving behind only the longing for what might have been.
If only we had the courage to lose ourselves completely,
To surrender to the wind whispering secrets,
A wind that calls us to embrace fragility,
To lose ourselves to find ourselves whole.
Perhaps only then, carried by the waves of the unknown,
We will understand the true freedom of being,
Carving our path among the dancing stars,
Carrying us to places where memories become real.
There, poets always find their place,
Even when the world no longer believes,
In their songs, forever anachronistic,
Obsolete, yet permanently contemporaneous.
Decreased dissension
grudgingly did abate
unclouded protests trumpet
Trump to abdicate
irrefutable proof generates
activist voices to accumulate
linkedin over Green Party
blessedly to administrate
hoop fully figurative tide
will turn and aerate
political atmosphere whereby
progressive minds will affiliate
otherwise business as usual,
cuz spewing deadly particulate
will only aggravate
dire straits, where
webbed wide world series
of unfortunate events will airdate
prophetic apocalyptic fate
especially if nonprogressive
stodgy commander in chief re-elected
flush with bigotry and hate
increased chance (chants) ripe state
for revolution avast swath
of population to amalgamate,
and overthrow anachronistic government
absolute zero survival unless dramatic
nondestructive strategy eschewed
to supplant exploitation and mandate
radical transformation, which dramatic
shift off grid if lucky requisite
Earth friendly manufacturing
can possibly ameliorate.
It is said that the world is quite strong.
When we both agreed, we were wrong.
But systemic risk leads to a spare call.
And it makes life hazy, as we shall.
When weak surfeit fulfills incisive inquiry,
the diction is made utterly dull and wiry.
Implied options for a farewell gathering
The effect is similar to lathering.
A dreadful jester with mixed craziness.
When guilt clouds your eyesight, haziness
A genuine illusion and a shaky submission
You are vigilant in the face of recognition
Lacking a faithful foe as a recent symbol,
To a mindset that is wrong at its core.
For the moral majority, act proudly humble,
to develop skills in each particular sector.
While skilled amateurs and realistic untaught,
assist fetch harmony to the dissonance.
This reliable test incites calm unthought.
That is aimed straight at the outer imminence.
It requires steadfast cynicism and rustic grace,
so as to withstand this negative preening.
And sway away from school without a trace,
to allow the word "normal" a fresh meaning.
Written: September 29, 2022
Pleasant spring like day January 12th, 2020
Courtesy climate change
(think global warming),
I would never wish to exchange
unseasonable temperature
way out of range
far to balmy, undoubtedly
ole man winter
weather did shortchange.
Once thermometer readings rise
even smidgen one moost not minimize
Earth way out of balance,
I haint gonna catastrophize
as bajillion acres plus
one after another ocean dries
even the skeptic cannot turn
blind eye and believe contrary lies
when every species practically extinct
and self proclaimed éminence grise
doth trumpet and stubbornly tries
to claim plethora unearthed resources
as sudden goldmine
against wages of sin
former traitor joe redeemers actualize
to catalyze nth industrial revolution
teaching as heresy
ecocentric, which material basket
of deplorables power mongers bowdlerize
Concurrence toward meteorological
trend most all people agree
toward adapting, experiencing,
and witnessing increase -
fair in height degree
bestowed upon Thomas Newcomen,
Richard Arkwright, Samuel Crompton,
Edmund Cartwright
and James Watt first Industrial
Revolution conferred as honoree
appellation not necessarily
in retrospect donned as noble pedigree,
now hundred of years
later downside we see
of belching, coughing,
disorging... yes siree
foul, (née deadly)
cancerous, gaseous, noxious... pollutants.
Decreased dissension
grudgingly did abate
unclouded protests trumpet
Trump to abdicate
irrefutable proof generates
activist voices to accumulate
linkedin over Green Party
blessedly to administrate
hoop fully figurative tide
will turn and aerate
political atmosphere whereby
progressive minds will affiliate
otherwise business as usual,
cuz spewing deadly particulate
will only aggravate
dire straits, where series
of unfortunate events will airdate
prophetic apocalyptic fate
especially if nonprogressive
stodgy commander in chief re-elected
flush with bigotry and hate
increased chance (chants) ripe state
for revolution avast swath
of population to amalgamate,
and overthrow anachronistic government
absolute zero survival unless dramatic
nondestructive strategy eschewed
to supplant exploitation and mandate
radical transformation, which dramatic
shift off grid if lucky requisite
Earth friendly manufacturing
can possibly ameliorate.
Thee Apple Hove Bing an Herbivore...?
(hint – app peal)
Sans maintaining a strict carb on diet
(for Peat Sake) iz like really coal
man, cuz carnivores consume meat,
which genetically modified organisms
engender incredible non edible size foal,
these agribusiness farmed animals shot up
with synthetic hormones
spurring heightened development
accidentally, inadvertently, and unleashing
King Kong monstrous outrageous gnoll,
whereat each footfall taken
by scary creature resembling
a humanoid hyena
results in said frankenfood digging,
one after another humungous hole
resulting in dirt pile
cresting, kickstarting, and
rivaling a mini
spring mount tin knoll
necessitating massive
manhunt to cap cha
lurching, pounding, and thudding
beast whereat entire
motley crue all harkened
from places named Lowell,
nonetheless heil lee calf full
to arm themselves with more'n one
tranquilized tipped pole
anachronistic cautionary expedition generating
masterfully baiting monster
with immense gritty buttered roll,
whose gargantuan ramp
aging spree across
world wide web
found endangered population
tuff lee from their
picturesque enclave i.e. Floss
on the Mill as zee unbridled
quasi jabberwocky took a selfie gloss
silly attired (trumpeting
"FAKE" ska don face mask)
likening pulling up moss
as coiffed "hair...hm..." all the while
gabbling, instagramming,
snapchatting, and toss
sing fearsome Frankenstein
with especial bent toward
those sharing surname Voss
in tandem to flagrant
disregard to paradigm
housing hefty prime
statutes of grammatically
correct syntactical rhetoric, plus rhyme
ming showcasing a novel
discovered talent to enrich pantheon
until the end of time.
since times of auld
where linkedin note able people
(some long haired others bald)
plaintively, suddenly, and called
urgently to be importantly installed
to brainstorm figuring a solution
to vanquish, nightmarish,
and hellish abominable madness!
Gate and Column
Enea celebrates the wedding of Frederick and Leonor
He owned a benefice “out there”, beyond Ravenna,
but now, in middle age, he’s coming home.
The action’s moved to native-town Siena,
though interspersed with roistering in Rome.
The countryside was never lusher, blander
(at centre-right, the campanile and dome
of Enea’s cathedral). Now a pandar,
and Bishop of Siena, there he stands.
The princess, gorgeous goose. Her randy gander
enthusiastically takes her hand.
Both Leonor and Enea have a master
in Frederick. The meeting, so long planned,
now permanently pledged in paint and plaster,
has come about. The careful Sienese
will toil for them, but won’t avert disaster.
But that’s ahead. Today, they are two trees:
That’s Frederick, the sturdy, healthy pine.
Exotic Leonor, who’s Portuguese,
a slender palm tree. Every little sign
is phallic. That anachronistic column,
the city towers, lances which incline
on lusty shoulders: and, of course, the solemn
Camollia Gate is welcoming, vaginal.
All those armed men – suspicione dolum?
The tree that’s withered, ailing, saturnine’ll
encapsulate Enea, or Pinturicchio?
The Pupil painted it. The verdict’s final.
-- Just a bit of silliness --
"Baissez le rideau, la farce est jouee..."
---- Daumier
39 & 1/2 days had passed;
the rain had lessened.
Noah, grungy and grumpy,
paced the wet deck
like a caged Lion of Judah.
Reading the Odyssey by blubber-light,
Jonah, a free-thinker, cruised
in his whale below; he marveled,
captainishly, carefully pronouncing
the unfamiliar Greek, an uninvented
tongue he couldn't speak.
Ham, an adherent to all the dietary
restrictions, was relieved
at the journey's almost-close.
Consultation of the Holy Books
had proved he wasn't kosher
and, therefore, could not be served.
Still, Shem and Japhet eyed him oddly.
They had a lean and hungry look.
The wives, sensible lot,
cleaned the kennels, did the chores
and tried to keep an even keel
in the anachronistic mess.
They drifted onward,
tired of fishing fruitless waters,
doubtful now of being made
fishers of men.
All things considered, it was
a perfectly normal situation:
men were mystics
and women staid and sturdy workers.
And yet, Ararat, still beneath the waters,
may not have been the only futuristic
structure in this grey, flat
seascape.