Long Pronouncements Poems
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Natural Processes
That basket, the one that sets here, on this table, this table where he leans, leaning heavily upon his elbow, khaki left leg cocked-up. Where is it, his self-sought? In that rack of pipes from which he gestures, gesticulates with the stems, smoke, hot air? In that Bentley, in the basement carved out under the deck cantilevered over the brook that once powered a factory and made ribbons, is in pieces, in pieces in precise order? In that life lived under shadows, in the long partnership not waiting for answers not found in his corner, his pipes, his pronouncements? Is that the arrogance of the commonplace, refuge of the soon forgotten, those natural processes?
I hesitate to carry on, carry on, fearing what I might find in that brook, that basement, under the shadows.
King Vlad is anything but Democracy’s man of the hour.
Rather, à coup sûr, he’s really Stalin’s nasty little boy
who ironically parades "svoboda" and "glasnost" like
he really means them—actually he means them not.
King Vlad’s political traditions and pronouncements
are well-known among those who are sadly aware
of his tapestry of treachery and deceit—oh so slovenly woven
for all to see, just like some of his fellow-gangster favorites:
Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev, and Andropov.
King Vlad is anything but a real world leader . . .
His "Kind" are an open book for all to see and understand
what they are and what they mean for all who strive
for openness, decency, and real compassion in the
twenty-first century world order.
King Vlad—just like his Dracula name sake,
is a man without a soul, without a conscience,
who shall never shudder, wince or cry
at the piercing death rattle of a Kalashnikov.
King Vlad is truly no friend of Democracy,
sounding even at times not unlike Hitler;
he’s a demon leader with innocent blood on his hands,
always quick with the old Soviet reply:
Lie . . . Deny . . . Accuse . . . Reject . . . Criticize . . .
all tools of this redoubtable master of prevarication.
King Vlad should know that the Heavenly Souls
of flight MH17 know the "bitter truth," gorkaya pravda,
surrounding his lies, treachery, and deceit—all pejorative
attributes to a man with the mask of a real monster who
had the very best Soviet teachers.
And so Generalissimo Stalin . . .
How do you like your nasty little boy now???
He’s right up your alley, right???
“Putin” has five letters just like “Devil.”
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (August 9, 2014)
(Free Verse)
I'm trying to find a way to confront ignorance and hatred
that will have some real impact.
So far everything I've tried gets diverted
into confusion and madness.
There's no solid ground. We're all standing in quicksand.
We spout our pronouncements as we keep sinking deeper.
I'm searching for those who want to build bridges.
I don't care what you look like. I don't care how much money you make.
All I want is to join hands with someone
who sees, as I do, that the world's in deep danger.
And I'm hoping that we, all together, can turn this around.
I'm hoping that we, together, can start building real solid ground.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
peace, they say, is a dove.
here, by the river, though,
peace is the heron's slow rise,
the rustle of reeds, and
a kingfisher's sudden, sapphire dive.
no grand pronouncements,
no treaties etched in stone~
just the quiet knowing
that the river flows on, alone.
the river constantly flows,
carrying the weight, the worries,
the wanting.
In its flowing is a constant reminder~
‘let go, just let go,’
it murmurs with soft sighs,
and in those sighs,
there is a stillness, a home.
peace settles by the river, a fine silt,
on the riverbank, on my soul,
a quiet knowing, I am not alone.
It's inauguration day, January 20, 2021.
I could be at home, watching the TV presentation
pomp and pageantry. But old, achy, onerous and
anxious, bladder full with no toilet near, I wait
in a chilly car in a VA clinic parking lot,
entry to warmth and light prohibited by
the COVID pandemic.
Inside, my life-partner -- afflicted by
diabetic, infected purple insensate
second toe, left foot -- seeks news
of its possible fate: to be treated
or scheduled to be permanently removed
from its too snug position among
the other toes. Fidgety, I have settled
upon re-reading for the umpteenth time
selected pages among my (now) collection
of loose sheets between two crumbling
covers held together by rubber bands:
what's left of my copy of The Vintage Book
of Contemporary American Poetry, edited
by J. D. McClatchy. Many of these poems
(all perhaps?) are no longer "contemporary" --
this is a 1990 paper publication with poetry
from the preceding 40 years. I still treasure
many of the poems.
My custom, when alone, is to read out loud, and
to mark or circle poems, selected phrases, lines,
or passages that I choose, for whatever reason,
and often to think/fantasize how or whether
I might (or would) have written and then recited
in my own words, in my own voice, my own altered
poetic echoes of those lines, those thoughts, those
rhymes, those carefully or recklessly considered
pronouncements and descriptions.
And to wonder whether my own contrivances
would blend well with the originals that fostered
their appearance.
I conclude: my ersatz poetic products might be
somewhat like an infected toe that could be
snipped away -- or treated and tended, nurtured,
cured, made healthy, worthy enough for a place
crowded among those others.
As I have tried (fitfully) here to do.
(Snapping fingers rhythmically) Vocalese with ease... yeah... moments… improv… Off the top, breath bubbling, a spontaneous combustion of sounds, to be boppin' the melody/
Jazz popping vocal notes of wonderment, feeling the rhyme on beat street dancing lyrics, a rhythm so intrinsic… moments... Mark Murphy... strutting... smokin’… in a vocal breeze/
No wordy rhymes here, pre-packed pronouncements, no way man Murphy just cookin'… and burnin' up … a storm of free to be spoken word jazz vocals… word up, man! the beats/
Kerouac, Phil La Mantia, Cassady, Leroi Jones, AKA Amiri Baraka, Ginsberg, howling chanting, where the poetry hip, the truth seekers, and the social consciousness of the beat generation/
Mark Murphy… workin' the groove. got the spirit of it all... a deep, deep feel/ He was in the top lineup of Jazz Singers of his day/
Not just notes, but the nuance of his body movements on stage, spoken loud/
Mark spoke to the modern hipsters of the scat vocalese jazz speak genre… Effortlessly cool, an urban bohemian... that was Mark/
in the wonderland of jazz, Mark Murphy’s Stolen Moments… real moments, always in the swing of the moment… deep in the jazz vocalese pocket... Mark Murphy lives on… in the bright moment… his Moment... are moments with Mark Murphy (Snap fingers again, fading into silence)
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
On Learning To Become A Guru...
Unbeknownst to this unsuspecting witty mortal,
a reverberation attributed to butterfly effect
linkedin to hotmail twittering Facebook member,
who resides within Bhutan, his dignified volition
accorded me magnanimity titled sage without any
influential collusion from Russians bestowed yours
truly with said honorably distinguished appellation,
which humility of mine humbly accepted without a
protestation, though never would I brazenly adopt
spiritual holiness, yet flattered to share such rare
pronouncements, when unsolicited feedback lobbed
in my direction (way before advent of Information
Technology Revolution) often tendered, kindled, and
belittled this gentle human, sans when bullies slung
byte ting bit torrent loathsome scandalous red zingers
targeting personal vulnerabilities, asper being under
socially withdrawn, painfully shy, plagued with speech
impediment (severe nasality) caused by submucous
cleft client, plus weighing where needle budged from
absolute zero pounds, topped with passive demeanor
susceptibilities conveniently converging to establish
this bruised Earthling ideal choice as scapegoat, no
kidding with dread to endure endless days, weeks,
months...a lifetime channel of opprobrious, noxious,
malicious emotionally demonic, cannibalistic, barbaric
abominable, damnable, horrible diatribes chipping
(dale lee) at what measly self confidence shielded
fragile psyche fast crumbling into grist for hungry
caterpillar, unbeknownst that flight path randomly
followed by a representative of Lepidoptera order,
would ineluctably set very subtly infinitesimal
fluctuations within air (currently supplying biota
with requisite oxygen), also training perturbation.
He Speaks
Drums pelting like a hard shower of surprised thunder,
Assaults the persons walking on the narrow unused road.
The only way to the old hermit- it is paved with polished pseudo-stones,
Travelled upon by the ringed flesh of divergent feet.
He looked downward with sad eyes upon our arrival, and said:
“Don’t lose faith, now that the hour approaches,
The Day comes like a bold traveler,
Seeking to take your patience and faith in my holy pronouncements,
To think my word is dead or that it breathes lies to the fools.
But I say my word and my countenance
Will soon pierce the spiritual membrane;
That invisible curtain separating the here and the there,
The earth and the heavens; my time and your time.
Know that my patience is at an end.
Know that I will bring my hand upon the degenerate in judgement,
You, who concede that “The Lie” is better than the Cross.
Prepare for the beginning of woes to those
Who choose to reject my free gift of redemption.
You can still choose Life now, but later you must die to gain it.
Behold! My voice will speak as a King in power
For what is right and true, in the here and the there.
I am your King in waiting. I am coming for you.
Soon. Very soon.”
Drums ricocheting its soft thuds
Like a soft shower of surprised tranquility,
Accompanies the persons walking on the narrow unused road,
To the old hermit, which is paved with golden crested diamonds,
Travelled upon by the ringed slaves with divergent feet,
He looked straight into my eyes upon arrival and enfolded me.
A man once asked, in earnest quiet,
As winter pressed against the pane,
“What line divides the soul made righteous
From one that walks in silent stain?”
No thunder answered—only stillness,
The kind that listens more than speaks;
For truth is not in grand pronouncements,
But in the turning of the meek.
The good man is not born in brightness,
Nor crowned by some unerring light;
He stumbles, errs, and knows his darkness,
Yet labors still toward what is right.
He feels the weight of others’ sorrow,
As though it were his very own;
And in the bread he breaks for strangers,
A deeper kinship there is sown.
The bad man, too, is not a monster
Fashioned in some distant flame;
He simply turns his gaze from suffering
And calls indifference by another name.
He builds his peace on others’ ruin,
He silences the inward plea;
And every act of quiet cruelty
He cloaks in false necessity.
Yet mark this well—the line is shifting,
It does not bind one soul apart;
It passes through each living person,
A hidden seam within the heart.
For in the same breast dwell both impulses—
The will to cherish, and to sever;
And each small choice, unnoticed often,
Leans the soul forever.
So judge not harshly, nor too quickly,
For none are wholly lost or found;
The difference lives in daily mercy—
In how we lift, or press, another down.