Make every day a beautiful day.
Eye on Life Magazine is a Lifestyle and Literary Magazine. Enjoy articles on gardening, kitchen cooking, poetry, vintage decor, and more.
A special transmission outside the Scriptures;
No dependence upon words and letters;1
Bodhidharma
No words
only stubby pink fingers
nails short and rounded
drawing me close
or
a warm slender arm
tossed like a wool blanket
over my sleeping form.
Two white scars
crawl the veins of her wrists
like petrified caterpillars
frustrated butterflies.
1. D.T Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series (New York, Grove Press, 1978). p. 20.
Let the philanthropists leave their
mansion grounds
picture windows where
their good works are forever preening
like headless granite statues;
let a madman romp in their gardens,
a beggar eat off their table,
a hooker sleep in their clean white sheets
while they stand guard over the door;
today, the warden comes for dessert
but let it be the criminal,
not the giant serpent arms of the law
instead the petty snail trails
of the addict and the thief;
and instead of pretty daughters
why not bag ladies;
and for the wife who adores all his money
greet the ones who’d love a little of it;
high Oil the hills, the prisons of good
greet the sun as if the sun is greeting them;
let it rain a little on such mornings,
and a wealthy man be the peasant out in it
dampened by the spit of kings.
The solitary guitarist, robbed of his instrument,
strums, instead, the gilded blue dark sea.
Gulls float above his sound
like the notes he’s playing.
Half composed, half imposed,
the relationship, a kind of wave oncoming.
There is a song that drowns neatly,
another hovers between white carnage, green carnival.
Melody sifts down like night,
kicks free as sand.
Kiddies, death is upon us. This is no joke.
Drop to your knees in the parade ground.
Pray the stains off the walls, the blue out of the sky.
Look at the chalkboards. R.I.P.
See the faces of the teachers. Pale as moons.
And here comes the principal,
dressed like an undertaker.
He comes to bury not to rule this roost.
Sense the tremble of the old brick building.
It’s a coffin lid waiting to slam down.
And look at the books, afraid for their pages.
And the lockers bursting like bodies.
No more homework because no more home.
Nothing to learn for what can the reaper teach
that you don’t feel already.
Kiddies, the school is to close. This is no joke.
So stop laughing. We had to.
We will die in the great dirt of St Mary’s
where ego is crap and worms are sovereign.
Our mortality will get us as far as a stone tablet,
a few decaying roses, a one-armed angel if we’re lucky.
Mighty god of the earth will use our bones, our flesh,
for nourishment, will chew up the coffin like a candy bar.
If religion’s right, our spirit will miss out on all this.
If religion’s wrong, then the priest sends his regrets.
There’s strange drinks and there’s poetry.
There’s a bizarre kind of salad
with bits and pieces of stuff
my nervous fork has a hard time identifying
but there’s also poetry.
And for every person here
eager to bite into
the latest in holistic sandwiches,
there’s a scrawny few upfront,
dressed in the latest thrift-store ware,
hugging their all-night coffees,
so close to the stage,
they’re splattered by the pain and suffering.
Because there’s poetry dammit!
Pass it off as the price for going vegan,
or slumming in the once thriving jewelry district,
now a slack commune of artist’s lofts
and poets and trendy restaurants
and poetry, lots and lots and lots of poetry.
And not your grandmother’s poetry either.
unless, that is, your grandmother
is an unrepentant anarchist, beatnik-hippy,
who slept once or twice with Jack Kerouac in 1953.
It’s blood poetry.
It’s asshole poetry.
It’s turd poetry.
Just the thing to half-ignore
while sipping lentil soup.
Or when returning to the jungles of that salad
with more curiosity than hunger.
Until the poet gets to the part where
she screams how his love
is like a rusty razor
ripping down her naked chest.
Then my fork stops suddenly in its leafy tracks,
its prongs apologizing to some kind of bean.
Note: It ain’t “Dave” (Reitman: Kevin-Sigourney-Frank-Ben. ..), nor “Bulworth”, even…) - H’H.
…As Easy as 2-
3-4, Gangers! the skywrite
blaised Come Celebrate
Amer’ca-Spectac-U-Lar…
slated hoot for yu, yoo, yhue,
& nancies’ two, a-
shootin’-off-the-works, awatch
to the thousand pointings…
lights, cameras…uh, pod’n me
would you mind…with the backdrop
of…thanks (not even
Santa!) Yes! On the 4th. day
of the 7th. month
in the noisome nearly-Tri-
spentennial, a day for
all sparkillers t’
Sanctify: Nat’l Grill
An Animal Day
honoring ONE TRILLION for
War (almost the dead, that) weight,
criminal bail-out$
(felonslick gains highfed riggs),
oiled shores (SPF-
234), hyperdkids, Grade-A-Prime
budget cuts (all
grilled out!), Rip-Rop hounds,
illness insurance, pizza,
Splenda (sweeter than
insul’n), lost oxygen,
kitsch, Chinese drywall, Empyre!!…
Woodyalong on
Route 666 ‘cross divide
your land, our land, howl-
and THEIR LAND not made for you
or yu or yoo or me or
yhu hailing wall-eyed
Americisms - Sell-Sell-
Sell-Buy-Buy-Buy-Bye…
Foreclosures & more… Toy Store,
romcoms (sandbox Sandler), O’-
besity (coming
to ab domen near to yoo),
Championships (a
sale in every flavor!), sports
bevs (slick colors!), Roundup!, beer…
& how to be The
World’s Most Interesting Man?
as minds & bodies
devolve by/for a cast of
a dozen, & riant youu up
at The Lake, down on
the farm, the bottom of the
pond…rigged like shadow
budgets’ march to Corpwars, yu
rev’ling into the dinsome
shootin’-off-the-woiks’
Amer’ca-Spectac-U-Lar
(weather’ll be fixed) qool!,
like the 6-Pak with a 12-
Pak Activation Window
…It’s Summertime-Sum-
ertime-Sum-Sum-Summertime…
beachplay, clime supine
at the deepend (please shower
before…) chlorine wash, eyeballs
redded like Mirdth’s gobbed
marsh, the hon’moon’s been over
like the Iroquois
nye-agra thunder-water
straits gushing, gushing…gushing
‘til Morlde depletes her
blooded golden shower, the
Mother Load shot &
shat… as Nucular Mtn.
& Coal Crypts cough’n-on the
qool, 3D/HD-
30-40 Plasma - rife
peril in the Gulf
whitecola de pecado
en mierda, but deeper
water’s horizon…
It’s Summertime-Summertime-
Sum-Sum-‘Sumertime
country-fried American
Spectac-U-Lar Waterburn-
234 actively
made from REAL plastic
toys R US!, chilled-out-grilled-out
Karmaites sparkillers’
immolating shootin’-off
their charcoal-fired woiks, for
the Copa! Copa!
as Mirdth Copa Mundial’s…
ToddlersTiaras
LeBron LeBrennan’s
Awards
Tarball
Ursus Maritimus d’luves,
slick-ery as WD-40+…
Apartheid-uber-alles!
6.19.MMx.
ST
(Note: “You become the game if you allow the game; without consumerism there ain’t no consumers/It ceases without clients” - Ronald Popeil McDonald)
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
the pope, Anthony
showed-up at the coveted
waters, an Angl’can
with right angles connected
like a mitre, aye Midas
BLESSED BE HE…
muffling a sermon
for the Masses in wholly
communion with the
solvent & solubles, in
extreme unctuous, knave in
BLESSED BE THEY WITH FARSIGHT
vestments black & gold
raimed with the bodies ‘n blood
of shellings & of
skillings… cardinal Hallibu
looks to burnadebt, amens
BLESSED DEEPEST BE HE OF THE HOLY WATERS
to the friends of the
Lourde, solvent & soluble
n’more… the pope like
the heretics, masking for-
giving, telling not asking
BLESSED BE HE FROM D’MASKUS
Let the dispanning
begin, the spilling vis of
villainary, pope
to cardinal to pawn in black
water - caveats empty -
BLESSED BE HE OF HIGH OFFICE
the pope, Anthony
appears…fills with defiling
resurrection like
yurts…the pope, Anthony &
the pope mogulmobil
BLESSED BE SQUINNY HE OF THE BP
in the motor pooil
unreg. dipstick in repair
Sister Petroleua
anoints his feet annoyed on
the litreallon of virgin
BLESSED BE THE OILS OF THE EARTH
Manni-Lambda-cum-
Puget carelessly shattered
on to the glebe floor
not not-unlike all feet a-
wash in the whore of Babylon
BLESSED BE HE
flyin’ not, into
the sacrostink like a tar
tsunami in to
the faces of the vatics
anointed & sacrosunk!
BLESSED BE THE CHILDREN OF CHILDREN?
In the nightday, kneeled
to the anointmeant to ass-
uage energies, pray
(ecce signum) oh my gush
what is this fossil thinking!?
BLESSED BE THE CHILDREN OF TERMOIL
6.15.MMx.
(Morte)
(AF)
ST
This brilliant winter morning finds
waves of snow on every lawn
and red graffiti dripping
from the walls
of Temple Mizpah
once again
as down the street
stroll ancient men
who every morning
shuffle here for prayer.
As usual, they’re lost
inside old overcoats,
their collars up,
their scarves too long,
their yarmulkes,
as always,
in diffidence
askew.
This morning, though,
they don’t go in.
They shuffle near the curb
like quail.
They can’t believe
the goose-step scrawl
on every wall.
They know their world’s
awry again, an encore
of the chaos left behind
when they were young.
The good thing is,
Chicago’s better now
than was Berlin back then
even though the temple walls
make clear this morning that
someone’s struck another match
and the ovens of Auschwitz
are crackling again.
Note: The companion (piece) for “June-2010>” - misery seeks Its own… H’H.
…Away from the mass
swam Tut-Tut (Tanka to his
breathren in the reef
searching-out alertas &
alertees, to spread the scream -
tho’ bottlenoses
and pilots were streaming - of
the onslaught, BIGOILS’
campaign black blood red like a
fecal cell anemia
the newer weapon
of core pathetics… Tut-Tut
Turtle housed near to
reshelling swam frantic sans
terrapin antics, a good
Rept. not crocking, hard
to keep the breathren from their
croak…away from the
mass, the redblack gooey on
the globbtarred & feathered sprain
fodder for guzzling
green SUG’s & priaps -
see turtle-red-Sea-
turtlegreen - opened water
now and sonic runes to skate
coelenterate and
gar, demur the violent
tar!, what’s to help the
red kelp from the murky tomb?,
wayward Hayward not…tut-tut,
Tut-Tut Turtle, says
he, tort-us if you must, we
are ‘bove trust, anti-
trust, thrust your tail as you please
think you’ve had the spider’s sting
Tut-Tut’s wisdom sing
Truth or friction cannot wing
Thine n’longer King!
As I’ve told my wife too many times,
the meaning of any poem hides
in the marriage of cadence and sound.
Vowels on a carousel,
consonants on a calliope,
whistles and bells,
we need them all
tickling our ears.
Otherwise, the lines
are gristle and fat, no meat.
Is it any wonder, then,
that my wife has a problem
with any poem I give her to read
for a second opinion, especially
when the poem has no message
and I’m simply trying to hear
what I’m saying and don’t care
if I understand it.
The other night in bed
I gave her another poem to read
and afterward she said this poem
was no different than the others.
She had hoped I’d improve.
“After all,” she said,
“you’ve been writing for years
but reading a poem like this is
like looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.”
Point well taken,
point well said.
But then I asked her
what should a man do
if he has careened for years
through the caves of his mind
spelunking for the right
line for a poem
only to hear his wife say
after reading one of his poems
that it was like
“looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.”
What should he do—quit?
“Not a chance,”
she said this morning,
enthroned at the kitchen table,
as regal as ever in her fluttery gown
and buttering her English muffin
with long, languorous strokes
Van Gogh would envy.
“He should write even more,
all day and all night if need be.
After all,” she said, “my line
about the kaleidoscope and harpsichord
still needs a poem of its own.
It’s all meat, no gristle, no fat.”
Hiya, Jen!…Hiya
Jen, umm… Billy. Yeah, It’s me…
you ok, are you
sick? Well… Guess what? It’s almost
Summer!, swimming & stuff…umm
you ok? Billy,
remember last Summer? Oh,
sure! We went to my
grandma’s and grandpa’s in umm
Florida, hahaheehee!
remember we said
“Pensicocacola” &
“Pensipepsicol…”
Billy… It was great, we’re gonn…
It’s gone. My mom just talked to
my grandma…and she
said… It’s gone. It’s really Pen-
sic-koca-cola.
I’ve been writing a Poem
about It, It’s called “Targobbled,
Globbtarred And Feathered”
…Billy, you ok? Bil… Jen
I gotta go, I’ll,
I’ll see ya, umm, tomorrow…
at school, ok? Sure. It’s near
Summer… (He turned &
ran, she turned back into her
Poem, the thoughts came
rapidly, the words
slowly she heard the dolphin
voicings, their birds b’peep
then
Humans do not deserve this Eden.
6.5.MMx.
Note: For “Poems For The Children”, for Anthology: A Hero’s Journey (2008-2010, Ed: Erik Ekstrom; see also: http://iwvpa.net/mantelhe/index.php )
Hushed from the window
Closed up tight
The voice from beneath
I’d rather sit in silence
Follow the commands of the thunder
Hold up these walls against the wind
And free fall with the rain
Fast asleep.
Reload, reload
I’ll shoot these stars down
Where they fall I don’t mind
I’d rather sleep in darkness
Corrupting and condemning I think not
Just hold your hand out
Tell me what you touch
Do not disturb
Read your signs
Signs of the times
I want God to take me away
Kiss me goodnight
And never wake me up
So goodnight, goodnight
Goodnight to the world
To whom it may concern
I’ll rise with the fall of your sun
Only to remind you
Never to forget
Dust of a day
Passion to pray
For life is short
From dawn
Tonoon
Our flag
Flies silent
Over the sleep
Of the Brave
But on this mournful day
Its stars shine brighter
Proud of the glory
Bestowed on us
By their young blood.
Root beer floats.
Children play
under the
arms of trees.
Hey, check out
that old dandy
in pressed jeans
brings his own
folding picnic tables.
Honey decks
the tables in fine
acrylic ware.
A third fires
the mesquite grill.
Sweet smoke curls
dance in the breeze
drifting by family
and friends.
Whispering wind
tickles toasted ears
with auburn tresses.
Wind whispers,”
I am here.”
Find a peace
of the jigsaw puzzle.
Time to eat.
A spot remains empty,
waiting.
— Ann Rodela
The stories of the grandfather are not the father’s
For the generations have been kinder as memories falter.
The stories of the father are not the daughter’s
For the generations have been not in kind and memories soften
The stories of the daughter are not the granddaughter’s
For the generations have been their kindest and the memories are reborn.
“This poem was born as I walked the rather torturous path that was my journey to understanding my father who was a World War II veteran and former prisoner of war. He’s been gone for almost 4 years, but it was always Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day that meant more to him than any other holiday or his own birthday.”
(Snapshots from 1950)
Stuck on Midway during the action in Korea standing
on an empty beach, clear blue ocean, blue like the heavens,
behind, his sandals on over his socks.
Dressed in whites holding a gooney bird up by its
white wings, not hurting it, just holding it. “Here it is.
This is what I’ve been telling you about,”
he’s probably saying.
Posing with a hanging twelve foot shark,
looking more uncertain than proud.
Lying back in his sad, sagging wooden bunk having
a smoke, a very strange, I have to say eerie, look across
his face, a look of longing, of forlorn foreboding.
My Dad the Navy Man stuck
a million damn miles from home while mom and me
waited back home wondering how in the hell this
was helping our country win the war.
St. Peter’s in the Loop
Two minutes more, Father Cal,
and you will hear another
of my strange confessions.
Right now, I’m outside
watching the rain on my glasses
running in rills.
Once inside I’ll confess
the usual stuff
with a few variations,
none essential,
all accidental,
the same plot,
the same ploys,
the same frenetic tale
I have always to tell.
Next week, I promise,
it will be different.
Next week, I promise
I’ll fall on the kneeler
and whisper
through the grille,
“Father Cal, it is I.
You know the rest.”
Next week, I won’t make
another list in the diner
across from St. Peter’s.
Next week I’ll swig
on a milkshake instead.
Father Cal, you and I
will both profit.
Borders are fluid some of the time,
and some of the time they are rubber
and bands and plastic soft molds—
but trenches are hard and fast
and earthworks are things of permanence—
and when the gas was thrown across
the lines, the wind came up and weather,
and we who defended wore our masks
watched the heavy air because it had weight,
and waited to secure what we could.
During the soccer game while we retrieved
our dead, the Germans and English fought
the battle with a ball and make shift nets,
found they had more in common
than mustard gas, than boundaries.
Some of the time those who create peace
out of poison. earthworks, deep trenches,
who retrieve both their dead and others,
play a ball against a foot, understand the color
of air, discover borders have little insignificance.
my 1st bicycle
was a rusty piece o junk
my 1st baseball glove
was a holy old mitt
my 1st swim
was in a muddy old lake
my 1st car
was a leaky old smoker
my 1st birthday
i got eczema
they bathed me in goats milk
and oatmeal
and on memorial day
i’ll be looking forward
to tomorrow
— Peter Jones
