Living on a flood plain
Some days it drizzles –
a black man's tail light fails him;
a toddler finds daddy's new toy.
Some days it pours –
the music stops pulsing for late night dancers,
revelers storm the Bastille for the last time.
But every day the waters rise,
stalk their unwitting prey.
The boot strap cracks widen,
threaten to breech the dam,
to drown us in post-disaster anarchy.
As the red waters fill our basements
and soak our carpets
we retreat to the rooftops
throwing daggers with one breath –
someone must be at fault, after all,
someone must pay –
and in the next desperately calling help, help
as we wait for the helicopters and rescue boats
that never seem to come.
Used once or twice and put away,
the Starcraft stored in the garage,
upon whose bow we had proudly
painted its name in our piety:
The Golden Rule,
slumbers,
a forgotten gift.
©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
Category: Poem Page 3 of 4
Modern Monsters
Life-sucking vampires
preach a prosperity gospel:
Give us your blood,
it'll trickle back down again.
Not in time to save your ass,
but you can't have everything.
Mindless zombies
create converts:
Give us your brain,
let the mob do your thinking.
The world will go to hell
but it will be a ride to remember.
Frenzied werewolves
seduce the soul:
Give us your vitality,
we'll change the world –
not if it means compromise,
but at least we have our principles.
Unfocused full moon rage.
Unrepentant full time death.
When the zombies and vampires team up
the werewolves run scared.
©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
Postscript to Wendell Berry's Mad Farmer Manifesto Walk a mile in the crazy angry farmer's overalls and join the ranks of perturbed earth-lovers trying to grow majestic oaks in rank swamp land. Maybe the mad farmer should have gone Luther on their asses and nailed his manifesto to every church door in America instead of writing a poem. Who listens to poets, anyway? What was this angry agriculturist trying to grow? Food to nourish the body? Revolutionaries for the new reality which was never to be? Maybe just some wacky tobacky? But the farmer gives good manifesto: Care more about your unborn grandchildren than yourselves. Worry about something other than profit. Be counter-cultural. Practice Resurrection.
Openings
cht cht
plop plop
tok tok
drip drip
What is the sound of water
penetrating the crack in the ceiling?
tap tap tapping into my brain
Chinese water torture disturbing my slumber
eroding my walls rotting their foundation
un-mended the opening expands
a growing obsession an incessant knocking
a flash flood threatening to undermine the ramparts
cht plop tok drip
What is the sound of love
penetrating my soul?
©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
Living on a flood plain
Some days it drizzles –
a black man's tail light fails him,
a toddler finds daddy's new toy.
Some days it pours –
the music stops pulsing for late night dancers,
revelers storm the Bastille for the last time.
But every day the waters inch higher,
the boot strap cracks widen,
threatening to overwhelm the dam
that holds back the reservoir,
seeking to drown us in post-disaster anarchy.
As the red waters fill our basements
and soak our carpets
we retreat to the rooftops
throwing accusatory daggers with one breath –
someone must be at fault, after all,
someone must pay –
and in the next desperately calling help, help
as we wait for the helicopters and rescue boats
that never seem to come.
The Starcraft stored in the garage,
upon whose bow, in our Christian piety,
we had proudly painted its name: The Golden Rule,
slumbers,
used once or twice
and put away,
a forgotten gift.
©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
The Eschaton: Upon Dreaming of a Barren Land, Bigfoot, and Kris Kristofferson as God* Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down the barren boulevard, an urban desert, exploded skyscrapers gape, disembodied toothless grins stacked one upon the other. At the neighborhood park, mirth burned away, the playground merry-go-round spins, draped with the body of a dead child. “They Killed Him and all the rest,” I wail, haunted by the laughter of impish ghosts wanting one more ride. A final act of salvation, God walks into the haze of my despair, flowing gray hair parted in the middle, beard neatly trimmed, with the air of divine confidence one expects in a deity. He asks me to call him Kris, of all things, and gestures at the world around us – “Loving Her Was Easier (Than Anything I’ll Ever Do Again).” His forehead, with more wrinkles than an old prune, and his eyes, squinting as if he had stared into a thousand fire plumes, betray his distress. “The Taker will return,” he warns, “it can't be stopped now.” He beckons me to follow and I wander a labyrinth of rubble, The Pilgrim, Chapter 33 of an endless story, seeking sacred refuge from endless horror. Finally, a green oasis, sanctuary, arises to swallow us whole and I behold the sights and sounds of creation's gathered remnants, frightened and amazed. Have you ever heard? A sasquatch, arms wrenched from their sockets, howl in pain as if to ask “Why Me?” Have you ever seen? A velociraptor, last of its kind, wander aimlessly, looking For the Good Times. But Kris simply sits on a stump of a forgotten tree in this forgotten Eden, buries his head in his hands and sobs. Only once more does he look at me, as if to plead “Help Me Make It Through the Night.” Even God doesn't know what to do next. Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends. *Italicized phrases are Kris Kristofferson song titles taken from http://tasteofcountry.com/kris-kristofferson-songs/. ©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
An Afternoon Hike
The adirondack stands watch upon the hill,
a lonely sentinel overlooking the meadow,
the Queen's Guard protecting the palace
as ambassadors of the heavens
and forest emissaries
come to consult.
Resolute in the afternoon sun,
she transforms from guard to
queen of the valley herself,
a siren singing her invitation:
“Come, come to me, rest your weary feet
and survey the peacefulness of my realm.
All this I will give you.”
Reaching her side, my gaze
wanders the majestic vista.
I turn to take my rightful place
as ruler of all I observe,
and realize I am not the first.
Countless feathered kings and queens
have sat upon this throne before me.
Sometimes,
to feel like royalty,
one has to sit in shit.
©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
Lessons of a Summer Day at the Beach
O Mother Earth, in selfish need we grasp
for the riches and might of guns and gold.
To profit and death we cling 'til last gasp,
feasting on your carcass, vultures so bold.
If we were to but pause in our pursuit
to taste the sweet juice of the orange night sky,
to smell cotton candy clouds drift en route,
our love for you we might intensify.
Hear the frothy madness of waves tumbling.
Feel the furnace blast of the golden sun.
Sink your bare feet into the sand crumbling.
Gaze to the horizon to be undone.
Wholeness cannot be found in token wealth,
but in the sacred earth we gain our health.
©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
The Scream (for Orlando, June 12, 2016) One evening I was walking along a path, the city was on one side and the fjord below. I felt tired and ill. I stopped and looked out over the fjord — the sun was setting, and the clouds turning blood red. I sensed a scream passing through nature; it seemed to me that I heard the scream. I painted this picture, painted the clouds as actual blood. The color shrieked. This became The Scream. – Edvard Munch We are the instruments of God. If that's all God has to work with we're doomed, an off-key, out of sync marching band parading off a cliff, cheered on by the bombastic blaring of trump-ets. Is that why the man is screaming under the blood red sky? Oh, how the crimson shrieks. Is it the horror of two men tenderly kissing? Is it the horror of forty-nine souls now missing? Is it the scream of a bad dream? Is it the blood raining from the clouds, running down the walls? Is it the tears flooding over the shrouds, cascading as an angel falls? Or is God screaming? And the man cowers as the shriek of nature's despair echoes, the cacophony of a marching band parading off a cliff. ©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
A quick and dirty poem inspired by my vacation retreat experience:
Bearing My Soul
I am
who I am.
To bear my soul is to
carry the knowledge
of who I am.
To bare my soul is to
reveal the knowledge
of who I am.
My soul as a bear
is strong yet weak,
frightened yet courageous,
healed yet wounded,
unsure yet grounded,
spiritual and physical,
simple and complex.
To bear my soul is to
discover and accept
who I am.
To bare my soul is to
open and risk
who I am.
I am
who I am.
It is enough
and it is good.
©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur