On The State of World Affairs and Other Madness

The cat chases its tail, the dog whimpers in sleep,
The heart skips a beat…
It’s not a nightmare, not a movie, a TV show.

Wake when you will, but where will you be, in bed alone,
In the den, your unknowing hand holding a gun,
At your desk starting at nothing?
It doesn’t matter— Looking deeply matters:

Unless you turn it inside out, look long at what you find
The mind eludes the eye of reason.
Recall the flowers of betrayal and delusion with merciful disregard,
Struggle all your life to save this dying thing
This beaten, bloody thing called love.

For the tail is chasing the dog,
The cat is barking in sleep, the heart is cracking
Hope is a Gypsy song rising over the ash of Auschwitz

Mad Men rule the world—
And if they wake from a coma of hate, will they give a vision truth?
Will they feed the poor, give up peace?
When will your heart slow to a murmur and hiss into silence?

I want to say the cat is calm, the dog is happy,
Humankind is wise and kind,
But the cat is gnawing the cage, the dog is humming a dirge,
The good flower columbine was never a flock of doves:

Littleton, Kosovo, Dachau, Wooded Knee, Santa Fe, Noblesville:
Large extensions of the fist we use to abuse the children.

The Government is drinking our blood, but what’s new?
Ask People of Color, Veterans, Teachers, Students,
Ask the families of the dead kids:
Where next the murder of the day, massacre of the week?
Buy yourself a body bag, you may need one next.

The heart is failing, the heart is failing, there are no known donors

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Nosegay

What Chopin wanted most
was to die
in George Sand arms,
on his deathbed
all he got
Was a nosegay of violets
She left at his door
When her daughter
turned her away–
People can be such shits.

Nosegay

federico-chopin

He wrote a friend on his deathbed, “She promised me I would die in her arms.”

How did Chopin die?

George_Sand

Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin aka George Sand, Novelist.

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And yes, I’m aware that the event may be based on legend, but many believe it is true and by it’s very intensity, a legend becomes a painful little poem with a nasty but truthful conclusion.  It is justified by that truth.   “Art is not a study of positive reality, it is the seeking for ideal truth.”   ~George Sand

The Killer

I am the misconceived unconnected son of an ordinary woman who baked as many cakes as your Mom, loved me as much.  My father went to war, saved the nation, came back shell shocked with medals and memories he cannot tell. Something went wrong with me.  It was not the boyish pranks, soap on your windows, Halloween T P on your house or car.  I am evil behind a mask, the guy who breaks into your house, microwaves your cat, leaves a note, “I just had to see.” I feel no remorse, it’s all good fun.  I’m the unknown gunman of the drive by shooting, hitching a freeway, waiting with a rifle, dropping a cinder block from an overpass… Tense, clean-cut, overly polite, the All-American type at the 7/11.  I pack a 38, take a bus to Nashville and murder six people in the mall for the thrill of it, the fun, the fame. I am the unexplained American dream gone nightmare destined for the black print of the newspaper —  The brute in us all, the reason you bolt your door at night.

 

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*Cover Photo by Gwyn Henry

Toward Samhain, for Shawn Morrissey

It would be a lie to say
I have no sorrow for the dead
I sing to them
To steady heart and head.
Sorrow, a boy forsaken
Sleeps no doubt
In the quiet of my bed
He cannot be mistaken.

Rising to the early light
To torpor I awaken,
I care for him
His Sadness never shaken.
Cold days in ink
I give him voice, the mild
And the meek,
Seldom have a choice.

Sometimes tears are words.
Understand me,
Ghosts follow in gloom
Throughout my home
Looking on lovingly
They crowd the rooms of memory
They do, until we join them too.

Friday 13. 2017

This poem has nothing to do
with Shawn Morrissey being dead.
He’s very much alive & well.
It’s for him because he’s into ghosts, horror, sci fi
and other spooky stuff.

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Painting by Odilon Redon

Ouroboros

What the hell was I thinking
coming here
to a Hell, I keep asking myself 
what on Earth
I’m doing here and come up
with the same
and different answers– Heaven
The Serpent
devours itself and then looks
for more to eat
because it is always expanding
contracting
Thirsty hungry restless alive…

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Rayn Roberts
9/25/17

Good Friday Meditation

Morning moves toward noon, a dim moon floats above the hill
It is a skull– In my head as in the eaves doves moan
Mondial irises bloom the color of shrouds

Under a cold sky the cedar trees shutter

The low groan the dog utters is from the chilly rain–
It has always been as the papers say, “Man found murdered
Near Saint Mary’s church” so much blood and pain, too little change.

 

 

Rayn Roberts 2017

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