Poetry Annex

This page edited by Gary Lindorff
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Here's a song by Ariel Lindorff:

All Right [1]

=====================

Man and log (after Rumi’s style)

It’s hard when things start talking. . .
Listen to this conversation between a man,
trying to restart a fire in his woodstove,
and a recalcitrant log. . .

Man: You big baby!
Why do you fight me
with your smoldering mass?
I patiently built a little nest of kindling
right underneath your glowing belly
which I ignited
and fanned with my breath;
why do you mock me?

To which the log replies:
How do you know what is in my woody soul?
You can’t see beyond your own clamoring for heat.
Do you imagine that I care
whether you freeze a little today?
I was once a tree, pointing to the sky.
A hawk landed in my crown
the day before I was felled. . .
Have you ever held such a creature
aloft in your fingers?

Man: Come now. Everything goes back to its source;
you first, I will follow. . .
But right now my fingers are turning blue
because of your unhelpful attitude.
Just give yourself up to your situation
and maybe you will find peace
in rising up my chimney as smoke.
Bless you, let’s be friends now. . .

Now the log: I’m sorry, this is not pride talking!
There is something worthy in my core.
Maybe I was meant to be carved.
Take me out of this iron box!
I demand redemption!

. . .So, you get the idea.
It’s hard when things start talking. . .

--Gary Lindorff

======================
The fire in your bones

What if what they say is true
and all the oceans rise?
Will we just move to a higher stair
beyond threshold of surprise?

Or what if this old house collapses
and we don't lift a stone?
We're all in this together
or we're all in this. . . alone. . .

That we're in this together,
is really nothing new.
What I breathe out, you breathe in. . .
Your footprint is my shoe.

I've watched you sleep a thousand times
and you have watched me cry
or I passed you begging in the street. . .
I see it in. . . your eye.

Yes, I've been weak and you've been strong
or maybe you were poor
and I was your rich neighbor. . .
Anyway, we've seen it all before.

So, what if this old hut collapses
and no rich ones to see?
Or what if we're the rich ones,
and no one takes. . .no pity?

What if the intruder leaves
'fore we can load the gun?
Or what if all the guns go off
before the dance is done?

And what if the rivers dry
before the salmons spawn. . .
Or, watching the dust storms come
all we do. . . is yawn. . .

Now, sit beside the water
where the river bends,
right there beside that familier face,
your best and oldest friend.

And listen to the river sing,
it's those faces in the stones.
And each breath that you're takin' now
fans the fire in. . . your bones. . .

And each breath that you're takin' now
fans the fire in. . . your bones. . .

--Gary Lindorff
======================

Journeying on my feet

I am standing over the toilet peeing,
staring right through the wall,
right through the white wicker shelf,
through the veil
of all those tenacious molecules of paint
and sheetrock
and insulation
into a waking dream
seamlessly woven out of
past and future
and hope
and personal power.

I want to be happy!

When I blink
I want this house to disappear
and return when I open my eyes.

And when it comes back
I want it to know, once and for all,
that I am not a stranger!

When I am peeing, I journey.
Many men do.
And furthermore,
I believe that we are all looking
beyond
that dead space of regret
into roughly the same world
where anything is possible,

and why not
in this life.

--Gary Lindorff
======================

The war god speaks

The specter of a war god hovers in our midst. It
does not rest for long.
Nourish me it says. Feed me with your blood. I am
accustomed to great feasts.
I hunger for the stench of death. I yearn for the
corpses.
Not just the brave ones, but for those stricken
outside the field of battle.
My delight is to feast on the fallen child who knew no
evil.
My heart of steel despises love. Those that serve me
are deceived.
By blinding their eyes and steeling their hearts, they
can't see
That they serve one who thrives only on the existence
Of suffering, torture, and death.
I have led the human race through the tortures of
hell.
People have tried to vanquish my influence by turning
to their gods, but to no avail.
They haven‚t learned: only a unity of spirit can
overpower me.
In disunity my power will prevail.

--David Lindorff, Sr.
==========================

A pacifist's wish

Last night a mouse
ran across the strings of my guitar.
And in my dreaming I knew
that he was the leader
and that he was passing on intelligence to his legions
that I was but a harmless pacifist
from whom they had nothing to fear.

But also in my dreaming I knew
that it was my compassion they were testing
for, smart as they were, and,
even in the flush of their hubris,
they had sensed that I was somewhere deeper
than the trouble they were manifesting. . .

(Not that they could ever guess,
unless they had escaped a lethal trap,
that there was such a thing as “stress”.)

. . .yes, somewhere deeper,
wishing that the world
might disappear for a split second
and come back minus
anything that doesn’t love it.

But, my house being their universe,
how could they have an inkling
that when a creature’s world is dying. . .
what wells up is a grief so vast
that he might cherish their ignorance. . .

--Gary Lindorff

======================

A Brutal Poem For Brutal Boys

Casey Sheehan died for nothing
Died for George
And George’s friends
On George’s order
[ Died for money]
[ Died for Oil]
Casey Sheehan was privatized
Body and blood privatized
STOLEN STOLEN STOLEN
George's Toys.
DEAD DEAD DEAD
THE NATION’S DEAD.
Back from Iraq shot and broken in boxes.
Hidden in boxes on George's order--
On George's order, yes
AND BY ORDER OF CONGRESS--
OF CONGRESS
IN CONGRESS ASSEMBLED,
Oh, yes,
UNDER THE POWER & AUTHORITY OF CONGRESS

-- Dennis Morrisseau

[The writer is a Republican Independent candidate for Congres from Vermont. Permission toreprint with attribution is granted .]
==================================

Mars, oh Mars

Mars, oh Mars
how pink you are!
You hang in the south --
a blushing star,

Above
the abandoned quarry,
where I have come
to say, I'm sorry

For confusing you
with the god of war
when Earth
has always been his whore.

Nowhere else
does he stake his claim;
pity you
must bear his name!

As you draw near
(How you have missed her!)
see what's become
of your fair sister. . .

Come closer, close
as you can get.
You thought you knew her,
and yet

As you gaze
into her face
through clouds
delicate as lace,

You see much
more than blue --
a motely of bruises
old and new!

Look past your envy
of a billion years,
and you will see
whole seas of tears,

Tears that cannot
wash the blood
that stains her deserts
and dyes the flood.

The god of war
will have his way
until his whore
is old and gray. . .

But long before
the pimp is through
I fear she'll be
as red as you.

Wish her well
as you withdraw,
and tell the universe
what you saw. . .

That a planet
beautiful as this
may never know
a lover's kiss!

--Gary Lindorff
==================================

Poor little American

I was walking along one day
and I almost stepped on an American.
It was only this high,
hiding its tail,
all muddy and emaciated;
its ribs were showing.
Its eyes were dilated.
It was obviously desperate for love
and a nice warm bed,
but I was already late. . .
And besides,
could this really be an American?
I thought Americans were people, for one thing,
scrambling to pay their bills,
humming pop tunes or old commercials,
falling for the same old half-truths,
pretending that they didn't vote for the idiot.
Watching their neighbors drive by
out of the corners of their eyes,
looking harassed. . .
(They used to smile.)
You know what I mean,
an American!
I rubbed my eyes and looked hard
at this pathetic, suffering creature.
Yup, no doubt about it,
this was an American.
I felt bad, but it had a collar after all;
its master was probably looking for it right now.
But I have to admit, as I walked off
my heart was heavy. . .
Poor little American,
poor little American. . .

--Gary Lindorff
==============================

I pledge allegiance to myself
and to the wonder of my birth.
I pledge allegiance to my health
and to cherish my own worth.
I pledge to serve my conscience
no matter where it leads
and to maintain my defense
against hypocrisy of creeds.
With my hand above my heart
I pledge to serenade my soul
and learn to amplify my part
just like a singing bowl
In which my truths are held secure
against allegiances to greed.
I pledge myself to tend
to both the flower and the seed.
And to call all life around me
my equal and my peers,
and may the great Earth ground me
for the balance of my years.

--Gary Lindorrff
=======================

Trouble not the past to answer

Trouble not the past to answer
who am I and where we are.
The spirit of this life's a dancer
like the breeze that spins the star.

. . .She moves us to embrace our time
but, like her, it can't be held.
The green, the bitter and the lime --
she unravels every weld.

She only winks to those who watch her
lift the bird and stir the rose.
There are those will try and catch her
but she's gone before she goes.

In this or that we seek to find her
in a poem or in the arts,
but these efforts just remind her
to be gentle with our hearts.

-- Gary Lindorff

==================================

A Poem for Men Who Have Nothing to Do

This is a poem for men
who have nothing to do.
Lost in their boots.
Mix up the names of trees.
Not sure of their directions.
Trying to remember their stories.
Squint at the sun.
Look up at the snowy ridge.
Get lost in the thought
of a cave up there.

If you are looking for something to do,
take the weapons away from the boys
before they blow us all
to kingdom-come.

And now you know why
this is a poem for men
who have nothing to do.

--Gary Lindorff

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Your Conscience

I am coming --
Made of stardust
and the dust that escapes from vacuum-cleaner bags,
I am blowing.
I am rushed and roaring
like a waterfall
coming straight at you,
pushing ghosts out of my way. . .
I am spitting out the taste of middle-age,
hacking out the nutrasweet of misspent youth!
A little manic,
stubborn. . .
I have been lied to,
cheated and abused
but none of that has molded me!
I am coming for myself,
for you,
for my mother and father.
I am like a thing of light,
stepping out of a chain-mail
of dead cells
and scales the color of fog.
I am like a mega-fauna
crashing straight out of the wilderness,
blazing my own way,
snapping branches as I come.
I am American
and I should be dead,
extinct and broken. . .
Oh, yes, forgotten too.
I have been drafted and flogged,
pissed on and denied,
forced to commit atrocities. . .
My feet are bare and bleeding.
I walk gingerly
for the sacred ground is bruised
and bleeding too.
Trembling I am coming.
Awed by my own existence,
I tell you, I have been summoned!
I have no choice
but still I am glad.
I am coming fast now!
I am coming strong and loud.
Just know this --
I am not turning around,
I am not going away.
Coming is my vision.
Give me work.
Make me welcome.

--Gary Lindorff