Painted Face

A face is but a 
face. And so 
why waste such 
effort on 
painting, 
shading, 
lining, 
underlining, 
essentially 
hiding behind 
what is really 
not you. Oh, 
but I see, or I 
guess I'm 
really not 
supposed to see. 
(Who's in there anyhow?)

Smiling Lies

I put photography aside 
for it is the ultimate lie, 
that is, photos of people. 
Smile. Say cheese. 
Sadly enough we're fooled 
by the empty expressions. 
Ever see tears in a photo? 
Hypocrisy? 
Desire? 
Hate?

A tree can be a tree;
a rock, a rock;
a sunset is only a moment before the night,
but a smile...?

Instant photos, measured flash, 
automatic focus, but 
who controls the depth of field?

A photographer is born every minute.

I'll capture the moss on a rock 
but don't ask me to define 
the lie behind the smile.

April 25 1983

Inactive Volcano

A crumpled brow 
A stare from behind bifocals 
Snowflakes danced amongst the hairs 
while an upside-down smile hung from the angular nose.

But behind it all there was loneliness
I know it, I recognized it

Buried under that mountain of pride
       waiting to erupt 
lay a trembling volcano 
       capped by snow.

I Can't Pretend

Retreat, oh what simple refuge this 
       nicotine and fire water is,
       that is due to living amongst 
       incredulous contrast and contradiction.
For just as I bathe in the glory of love, 
       oh sweet love, that continually gives, 
       grows, shares and cares, 
The hate that I have for injustice 
       twists my tripe 
       and stings with the fury
       and the venom of a nest of 
       agitated hornets.
I bury my inebriated mind amongst a 
       crashing tide of disharmony. 
Not even the inundation of percussion,
       the rancor of the accordion, 
       the melody of the steel strings, 
       the pounding of dancing feet, 
       the muffled laughter and murmuring voices 
Can hide from these eyes and ears, 
       unable to grow callous with age, 
       the pleas of hunger 
       the pleading for justice 
       the longing for love.

Call of the Cicada

The dusk fell rapidly 
as the clouds obscured the setting sun. 
I lay still on my bed, 
my head's harmony disrupted by a music 
which unleashed a thousand imprisoned thoughts.

One cicada screamed her solo.
Another joined in chorus.
My waxing sobriety took flight.
and the cicada became a swarm.
The music, being scored in my head
became a driving force.

Refuge. Safety. An answer to an indecipherable call. 
The walls, the windows, the books on the shelves, 
the now unfamiliar voices that dirtied my atmosphere 
which became thicker and thicker, heavier and heavier. 
Everything around, squirted me into an 
unusually comfortable detachment from reality.

Now, through the window of my car
which carried me in search of some hope of reattachment
I could hear the chorus rise and fall, rise and fall.
The conductor of this music conducted me as well as her orchestra.
the car lumbered on following the command of the conductor’s wand.

Having parked the car, it was but a short jaunt through some woods.
The sound of the cicada burned like an acid in my head.
The earth and her trees undulated as the seas 
and if the choice were mine I would have surely fallen to the ground.
My mind was being swept away by an undertow.

A wide path under dense hardwoods.
The cicada pulled me off of the path to a 
trail descending to a vista at lake’s edge.
Why am I here at this small open patch in the woods?

I stood petrified and watched as my body 
sat down to observe the sinking of the sun beyond the clouded horizon.
The chorus of cicada reached a dizzying climax-
and then stopped abruptly.
Startled, I noted that there were now four of us. The surprise 
cleared my head instantly and I looked on with interest 
that I might discover the reason for our presence in this unusual performance.

My physical being meditated the medley of sounds sights and thoughts 
in the fading spears of golden sunset.
Two lovers wrestled in their first embrace.
The final light melted warmly into my soul.
The stars would soon dance above.
I sat to rejoin my body.
Two cicadas sang a final song. 
The crickets took the stage.

 Aug 12,1983

Feeding the Beast

Another revolution 
In a country close to home,
And if we don’t do something 
It’ll be right here too soon.
So pump that wilting beast 
with all the arms you can.
Subjugate the people 
and paint with blood their land.

For freedom shall RING 
till their eardrums do burst, 
through great blasts of great bombs 
we’ll with napalm quench thirst 
We’ll prove with our might 
That we are as always right.

Oh say does that blood spattered 
flag yet wave,
O’er the land of the...
O’er the land of the...
O’er the land of the..?

       ---------

Redrum redrum can’t you see?
It’s but a game
Designed for you and me.
The same old words
The same old tunes
The same exploited people
Their lives in shambled ruins.

Apples peaches pears and plums 
We give the good guys lots of guns.
The ones who fight for bread and land 
are just a bunch of commie bums.

       ---------

Little girl, little girl
belly distended 
pray the fight your parents lead 
will someday soon be ended.

Fat businessman, fat businessman 
burdened pockets bulging gold, 
We know why you have your wars 
to keep your pockets full.