random musings...

Tag: Poem Page 2 of 3

After Paradise

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

Man on a Journey

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 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 (v2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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

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