After Paradise After Joel Sheesley's painting of the same name. Everything in its place, the carefully ordered refuge from a chaotic world radiates routine. A jail-bar striped comforter locks away passion. Bare floors, stripped and buffed, reflect the veneer of paradise lost. Firmly contained and framed, the reminder we once cavorted naked without shame, reveling in our sexuality, mocks the austerity of the room. The serpent was half right: knowledge of good and evil leads to half death, beyond salvation, beyond hopes of utopian dreams, shedding illusions. Closet doors slightly ajar promise a glimpse of hidden skeletons, a glimmer of still-breathing vitality. Sneakers and slippers, floundering boats in a placid sea, offer the scent of hope, hint at the vibrancy of a morning run, the sensuality of an evening tryst. What might we yet become? A paradise found again, for the first time. ©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
Tag: Poem Page 2 of 3
Man on a Journey After Joel Sheesley's painting of the same name. The man poses in front of the monument, freezes time, preserves a memory to linger over in his dotage. But this isn't the Great Pyramid or the Lincoln Memorial or some significant battlefield. Dressed as if he stepped out of a Masterpiece Theater whodunit murder mystery into the wreckage of misplaced innocence, to stop in the ruins of endured mistakes, next to a ladder to nowhere. His trench coat armor wards off the unseen bogeymen that haunt these neglected, unkempt grounds. His journey has come to this derelict, abandoned building, made him a tourist of his own past, aroused a desire to understand, to be understood. But the drab grey siding reveals no secrets. Busted out, boarded up windows offer no view to the soul of the matter. Only the autumn colors of the almost hidden sweater dispute the peril of revisiting past secrets, leave hints of renewal, possibilities of spring growth to come, tint the edges of a muted existence. ©2016 Kenneth W. Arthur
The Seduction
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,
the temptress tenders her invitation:
“Come, come to me,
rest your weary feet,
survey the peacefulness of my realm.
All this I will give you.”
At her side, I preside
over the resplendent vista,
turn to claim my legacy,
realize I am not the first.
Countless feathered kings and queens
have sat upon this throne.
Sometimes,
to feel like royalty,
one has to sit in shit.
©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 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
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