Rationed

 

 

Ration out the unified soul,

make it many instead of one.

 

See the breakdown of what is holy,

split into particles

uncomplimentary, wasted.

 

Trust in the brute because he has

no self-doubt, no self-examination,

Because it is easy to sacrifice

autonomy for certainty

and slice the swan’s wing

for monetary gain.

 

Before the circle became a line, some

nutshells still held their core - arguments were

for the sake of reflection and deeper knowledge.

When the circle became a line, tyrants were given

free-reign - the mutual exchange

between fear-and-getting replaced morality.

The ones of lights passed away

passed over their passion, replacing

faith with conspiracy theories.

 

Describe this gift of life.

What does it mean to you?

There are many waves,

one water

equality within the hierarchy

value in no-control.

 

Death is automatic

but choice

          no God

          yes God

is always

 

         an open door.

 

 

 

 

 

Open Wide

 

 

On the table, the whole of humanity

burning with fear, this onslaught

of harm, but love is not the victim.

All who have a soul within them, end up

rising up to meet the challenge of justice

and compassion.

 

The few who died long before their death

are now indisputably barren

and frighteningly corrupt.

 

Acts of mercy, acts of grace –

all of us deciding

which side we believe in.

All of us are now citizens, heroes of our charge,

children of the divine, effective, more

than helpless, feeding off God’s mercy, day to day

hour upon hour - held hostage to our inner world,

stripped of superficiality and distraction,

called to claim the slaughter we are accomplices to -

to choose the resting-nest of gratitude.

 

We are all asked to perform doubtless music,

formulate our morals and digest them

like a cure we have no choice but

to adhere to

 

for the horseman is at our tails and his shadow

is hard upon our shoulders.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deathbed

 

 

Strength has changed

appearance, ends with a mask,

begins with food of only a humane source.

 

In the late winter I built my nest,

made a cradle from branches and waited.

Now that spring is over and no offspring came,

I consider this cozy island a curse,

feel the heat approaching and have no joy to give.

 

Upstream, blood soaked in debt and weapons

I cannot wield, weapons

on the floor, by my feet, too heavy to lift.

I embrace the dread like I once did grief – inhabiting

my days with failed effort, trying to dull transgressions,

manage my Sisyphus rock

– push for the prize that never comes – push,

believing it will, knowing it won’t.

 

My barren longing, unremarkable, repetitive.

I would change my name, my shape, if it would help,

grow plumage where there is none, but my energy is crushed

with clinging, and the freedom that lords before me

like an oasis is only finished fiction,

a book of great magnitude, but

foiled of substance and lasting nourishment.

 

 

 

 

 

Build

 

 

By the whirling heap of fate

a new being is born – one that

watches, moves and holds.

 

One that stands without future plans

or regrets but takes two days to make

a decision and then sticks with it, in spite of

contrary opinion.

 

Blood on the knees, covering the unborn joy

that does not know if it can withstand the first breath,

but still kicks its way out of the womb.

 

There is nothing easy here on this planet,

its sharp beauty cuts and bends everything living

to the cruel unpredictable violence of survival.

Collapse, famine, or warm nest out of the rain –

the same parallel process of dying and becoming.

 

Standing noble when in weakness,

or succumbing to slavery

is the only vantage point choice.

 

Touch your eyes,

touch an outburst of sorrow,

touch beautiful geography underfoot.

 

Faith is a house, takes you in

to live sometimes as part of the furniture,

sometimes as a carpenter,

making furniture, sweeping,

making more furniture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mercy without Miracles and

Miracles without Mercy

 

A day 2,500 years ago

and life was the same, struggling

to understand God and fate

and how the stars may hold

prediction but lack all means

of mercy. For mercy

was an evening without power, was weak

as was seen

the majesty of forgiveness.

 

It was before Jesus came as sibling, as friend,

revealing the depths of God’s grace, the redemption

in surrender and late evening devotion, breathing

with the direction of the wind, open to hardships

as to miracles, orchestrated by a loving hand.

 

First God was many in our minds,

segregated, dissected, tangled with human

hypocrisies, pride and jealousies.

Then God was one in our minds,

higher, mightier than death, closer still,

 

until

 

Jesus

 

let us hold God in our arms, be held like

a tiny flower head is held by a child’s hand,

cupped, yellow buttercup, glowing,

treasured by God, each of us,

a necessary and loved creation.

 

Back then, even great minds glimpsed

such profound greenery,

but could not complete the joy.

 

Jesus is

humanity’s completion with God,

connection, void of complications,

like an infant’s first smile or that infant,

growing, learning,

holding out her arms,

saying your name.

Water Wings

 

 

Taking off my water wings

soon

maybe in a year or two,

maybe in ten

I will front crawl

fast to the edge, go under, somersault,

push off and speed,

 

or climb the high diving board,

up the steep metal steps, gripping

tightly, half-way there to the edge, three quarters then

race and leap, arms outstretched, thumbs locked and

going down, hitting the water fast, gliding across

the whole of the deep end.

 

Letting go of spiritual infancy, primitive

magic-tricks that sometimes worked,

most of the time, didn’t,

to soothe my anxiety, needing

the evidence of God, instead

of trusting faithfully, fully

- water wings off, front-crawl free.

 

 

 

 

 

Wind – Marrow – Bone

 

 

Death comes softly

like a small wave or

a blanket, lessening

the stroke. Slowly

the energy leaves and also

the will power to not let it go.

Death is gentle as a spider’s steps

or like the innate laws of decency

methodically, incrementally, ignored.

Death, I rejoice in you, as I didn’t know

how easy your touch was or how

pain and weakness arrive like your welcome mat.

Unless you arrive violent, but then, that too,

because it is quick, is merciful.

Bravery on the altar where you are worshipped

where you demand every part of a soul unseen to be seen,

equal parts of cowardice and courage, the darkening whine

and the warrior who makes it up the stairs

when the body’s strength is but a secret, barely

audible, straining to be heard.

Death you are tender,

you ready us for the quiet nod - yes

or the scream that ripples across the ocean - yes!

You make sure to narrow us completely

so you are the only way out, and we want out,

we want you – like a lover - Death,

lover of the drowned, the burned,

the cancer ward occupants, the accident fallen

and illness that compresses the lungs,

topples over the perching bird.

In the end, we all want you,

jealous lover of the living,

you take us all

either with a breaking virility or

smother us in a maternal fold.

 

Beautiful Death,

I have come close to you

and I learned

you are made of love,

embracing completely,

sensuously,

in the final surrender.

Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Five times nominated for “Best of the Net”, 2015/2017/2018, she has over 1260 poems published in over 500 international journals. She has 21 published books of poetry, six collections and six chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

A Small Town’s George Floyd Protest 2020

Hope all is going well. Here in the armpit of the nation, masks have never been mandated--and rioting takes place at a minimum. Thought you might be interested in the below piece:

Michael H. Brownstein

A Small Town’s George Floyd Protest 2020

No life matters until all lives matter. Black lives matter, too.

Are we not human? Do we not love our children, eat with forks and spoons, go to school and go to work?

Give me liberty, give me justice, do I not have a right to breathe?

                    —Protest signs

We came to the protest unprepared,

expecting a few dozen at most, not the hundreds

spread across the capitol’s lawn, not the anger,

the pain, the poetry of grief, a frustration

you could wear tomorrow and never remove.

When one speaker screamed into the audience,

Why did the white people present –

and there were a great number of white people present –

do nothing to stop slavery, do nothing to stop the KKK,

do nothing to stop the lynchings of the early 1900s,

and then demanded an answer again and again, Why? Why?

I went to the middle and said I would answer.

The moderator gave me the mic and I said, We were not there,

no, we were not there during slavery, and I said my name,

and we were not there when the KKK rose up ugly,

and we were not there when the lynching began,

and, yes – and I pointed to my arm – I am of this color,

and I am here now. (I could have told of things past,

but I did not.) It is up to us to change this – this color –

and if you are here now, it is up to you – this color –

and I pointed to my arm again. You have to make the difference,

you have to make blacks your friends, you must invite them

into your home, your life, and when you see the strong black man

walking down the same sidewalk as you, know this truth,

he too can be your friend – must be your friend –

and I talked a bit more and then I got out of the way

and listened to a lot more and, finally, we took to the sidewalk,

because there was no permit, but in seconds

we swarmed into the street, too many of us,

and we, stretching over two city blocks, took over downtown,

blocked incoming cars, watched as our numbers swelled,

chanted and sang for the mile from where we began to Lafayette,

where we turned to walk to the university,

new companions, black and white, and color no matter.

When we reached the great park before the university, we stopped,

and everyone, as if we were creating a large work of art,

lay on the ground. Floyd lay like this, the organizers said,

for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. We did too,

my hands behind my back, my face in the grass,

my wife beside me, her face against my back and we chanted,

I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe.

Give me liberty and give me breath. Black lives matter.

My wife had made a speech too, talked of racism in our town,

a place I will not name – Jefferson City, Missouri –

and she spoke of the many slurs and actions thrown at her,

but no more. This was the time to make the change.

Let us come together and change it. She turned to the line of police

and said, And all of you, you are the ones who must make the change.

When the eight minutes and forty-six seconds came to its end,

everyone stood. We thought it was over and began to walk home,

but something was different now, a cloud had fallen over us,

as if the eveningsong of solution and openness had suddenly gone dark,

but it was not dark, the sky a slow concerto into nightfall,

the day’s heat more oppressive, its humidity scarring.

Why is it violence must have a skin?

The crowd did not disperse, it grew smaller, yes, but stronger too,

a strong that was ugly like those who oppress with knee and word,

and you smelled the change in the air, you felt the tear in the flesh.

A block later a group of whites and blacks stepped from the crowd

to curse the police and a block later the first rock exploded the air,

a second hit the police car, then a smoke bomb of some sort,

and I watched as a white boy ran past me –

I can’t bring myself to call him a man –

his hands heavy with missiles, his face contorted, hit its window,

cracking it, and as he readied for another throw

a group surrounded him. Then we heard the slap of ignorance –

a white girl – how can I call her a woman? – slapped a black woman,

and for a second everything turned cold and cruel,

not like the deaf musician who sees music as rainbows

or the blind poet who describes beauty with the rise and fall of melody,

but as the sudden surge of an earthquake or a breaking of stained glass.

This, too, was halted as soon as it began.

The crowd, much smaller, rolled down High Street to downtown,

and my wife and I turned to go home as a half-dozen police vehicles

lined up and followed them until no one was left to follow.

We watched for a while, then crossed the street,

and she talked to the white girl, who was not in tears, but smoking,

proud of herself and the indignity she bestowed on the protest,

and walked with us as we went home, night falling hard,

a litter of stars, a brightness of moon,

and she apologized to us, and began to cry.

Turmoil

Arms once raised in ‘Heil’,

now carry coffee cups

in a time of consumption

before resumption

of Information Age war

when tanks are a memory.

Now swift airstrikes

initiate missile attacks,

conserve the lives

of democratic troops

reluctant to be squandered

without meaningful purpose,

yet loyally obeying

incomprehensible orders

to fight limited battles

with confusing enemies

in Iraq, Afghanistan.

While the fading hegamon

still bestrides much of the globe,

the only sovereign power

willing to confront extremism,

as long as it doesn’t offend

the peace loving people of Islam

who never seem to deplore

the brutal violence carried out

in the name of the prophet.

The decadent West,

whose wanton females

shamelessly bare their flesh

to the eyes of men,

tempting them to sin,

are the true enemy.

Admonitions

to reject calls to Jihad

are righteously ignored.

How else can evildoers

be redeemed for wrongful ways,

if they don’t accept the true faith,

the only road to salvation?

Someone coined the phrase,

‘Win the hearts and minds of the people’,

a strategic fantasy of our leaders,

who never understood

the will of the enemy

is stronger than theirs,

who know without doubt

that sooner or later

we will abandon our allies,

leave our trucks behind,

withdraw our troops,

proclaiming victory.

This pronouncement

meant to disguise defeat

by a primitive foe

that had no jet fighters,

hi-tech missiles,

just an unconquerable will

that refused to crumble,

despite devastating assaults,

emerging victorious

over the oppressors.

While another great enterprise

by the bastion of democracy

failed ignominiously,

every setback a further erosion

of the spirit of America,

besieged on all sides

by friends and foes alike.

Gary Beck

Holiday IV

We celebrate the Fourth of July.

The French celebrate Bastille Day.

I forget what the Russians celebrate.

Potemkin Day? Karl Marx Day? May Day?

But does anyone remember

why we celebrate these holidays?
We all seem far removed

from revolutionary change

and except for the usual 1%,

we all want more material comforts

and most of us are unwilling

to cut off the heads

of the aristos,

substituting fireworks,

patriotic music,

for the Guillotine.

Deceptive Words

The President addressed the nation,

explained why once again

we’re going to war in a foreign land

that does not threaten us,

but is inexorably linked

to the war against terror.

I wonder if he understands

in a declining nation,

once the policeman of the world,

limited resources

are insufficient

to stem the barbarian hordes

clamoring for the blood

of civilized Westerners.

So our leader spoke loudly,

despite carrying a shrinking stick,

paid for with the taxes of the people

who continue to get poorer,

while the wealthy profit

from ongoing wars.

And leader after leader

gave us war after war

consuming our youth,

devouring our treasure,

while a resentful world

measured our decline,

waiting for the tide of history

to dwindle us to impotence,

so aggressive nations

can conquer other lands

we no longer protect

We squandered our resources

in consuming interventions

that left us destitute,

barely able to resist

envious competitors.

The tragic fall

of a great empire

was caused by overreach,

led by the greedy few

reaping obese profits

at the expense of the people,

who foolishly believed arrogant leaders.

Gary Beck

Park Entertainment

A Broadway show

comes to Bryant Park,

a musical, of course,

safer then serious drama,

or controversial comedy.

The actors sing, dance,

highly skilled,

but their voices lack

warmth, emotion,

the vital qualities

that make music move us.

Yet this is a free show

and I can’t help wondering

why people pay

$125, or more, a seat

for impersonal entertainment.

Gary Beck

National News

The media tell us

the economy is improving

and the well-to-do,

the comfortable

believe them.

Yet the poor

struggling to survive,

the middle-class

of diminishing income,

no longer accept

reassuring pronouncements

that things are improving.

Gary Beck