Starpoet Newsletter Vol. IX, No. IX

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lisa Jain Thompson c. 2008  C. E.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bare rooted, the rose arrives,
A promise that in summer will
Provide red fragrant buds
To place on our kitchen table.

 

 

In March there is no worry
Of black spot or Japanese Beetle,
Only a description in a catalog,
Counting petals, touting scent.

 

 

By late summer, battered by storm,
Challenged by heat and humidity,
The early optimism may be replaced
By the stark Washington reality.

 

 

But now, caught up in pages of description,
The promises of our unbridled imaginations
-- Double Bloom scents and vivid rose hips --
Circumscribe the character of the discussion.

 

 

 

Lisa Jain Thompson
March 2008

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Truth is not always equidistant from two points. 
Not everything is a matter of opinion.
Some things are true and some are false.
Knowing the distinction between opinion
and evidence-based knowledge is essential.

 

-- Susan Jacoby

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

attempt at formal engagement

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the last eight years (although some count sixteen),
Mediocrity would be a welcome improvement,
A step up from the incompetence and smug arrogance
Of an administration that has listened only to God,
The shouts of business cronies and their young earth preachers
(Seemingly unable to tell the difference between their voices).
Life is not a noble crusade led by knights and future saints,
Men (and women) once human, remain so, subject to assumption,
Personal rage, and sharp brief moments of crystal clarity
Which they do not to follow because of their political situation.
Democracy comes with warts and all the frailties of the flesh,
Unrestrained desire can choke off even the best intentions,
Substituting fantastical personal beliefs and architectures
For a world proven less cooperative than their imagination.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Oscars are always dresses, hair, and diamonds,
The men are accessories, except for Bardem and Clooney
Who could do me in a moment if they wished.

 

 

If I were thirty years younger (and several tens lighter),
I would give them a run for their bedrooms and explore
Our assorted mutual interests in exhausting detail.

 

Lisa Jain Thompson
March 2008

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a landmark judgement with far-reaching social implications, Italy's highest appeals court has ruled it is a criminal offence for Italian men to touch their genitals in public.

 

The judges of the court of cassation stressed that the ban did not just apply to brazen crotch-scratching, but also to what might be termed superstitious pre-emption. Anyone who has seen a hearse go past in Italy, or been part of a discussion in which some terrible illness or disaster is mentioned, will know it is traditional for men to ward off bad luck with a quick grab at what are delicately called their "attributi".

 

The practice has become increasingly frowned on, but "io mi tocco i … ", which translates as "I touch my … " is still a common phrase, roughly equivalent to "fingers crossed". The judges helpfully suggested that those seeking reassurance should wait till they had returned to the privacy of their own homes before letting their hands stray trouser-wards.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We are all so web enabled,
Synchronizing dollars and data
In an integrated, masterful Enterprise
That will span the earth, if not the universe,
Overcoming the limitations of time and space
And the human interface to provide
Essential and effective and efficient services
Instantaneously at a single key stroke
Or perhaps the mere thoughts
Of the wizards in control of the starship.

 

Or maybe not.

 

                        At least not without
Bunches and bunches of money
-- We’re talking billions here,
Real money, even in the Pentagon –
And then all will be well, forever and ever,
Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

42

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What if the meaning of life
Is the search for meaning,
And everything else,
An intergalactic waste of time.
Then again, if we’re not alone,
Perhaps we’ll find someone
Who has a clue, or maybe,
We’ll compare notes
Then go our separate ways,
Disappointed at the quality
Of the people
Who hang out here.

 

 

 

 

Lisa Jain Thompson
March 2008

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I would finally be buried
Beneath some monolith on Mars
Erected by aging grandchildren
On the plain outside the city
Where no Martian has ever trod but us.

 

 

I would like to be remembered
On some planet around a star
Light years from earth and our ancestors,
Where children gather to be told ancient tales
Of life before we made the heavens ours.

 

 

 

Lisa Jain Thompson
March 2008

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a bit more stars for my partner, friend, and lover

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When all is said and done,
There will be poems yet to write,
Stories I need to tell,
Discoveries I want to see,
Voices I wish to hear,
And kisses I will miss
-- Already miss --
Knowing we don’t have forever.

 

 

I would go last,
Sparing her the pain,
Would outlive my children
So they will never deal
With that ancient gap,
Accepting that I may not
And wondering how I can
Make it easier if it comes to pass.

 

 

I don’t want to die on this planet.

 

 

 

Lisa Jain Thompson
March 2008

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The world is saturated with image

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

The dead are past helping, the living always need more,
A glimpse of hope, shelter and a bit of food,
All the battles wrought by kings and presidents
Are unequal to the war of the people whose mangled bodies
Become the ammunition for political theories and Sunday sermons.

 

 

Burying the dead is an act of improvisation; unfathomable corpses
Lay unburied, stacked in rows a thousand long, scatter about the field
Like so many broken Homeric heroes searching for their Iliad.
Misidentified warriors, unnamed sacrifices, gathered beneath
The smoke and fire of incoming rockets and military stratagems.

 

 

Through day after day of distraught families and friends,
The helpless efforts of chaplains, compassionate, and young officers
Cling to belief in the good death, offering solace and dignity
To trenches filled with good soldiers who last moments
Were so similar, as if the fates, the gods followed a single checklist.

 

 

Modern war, a product of human genius, rage, and dispassion,
Becomes more unpredictable, excruciatingly painful, and abrupt:
The dying depart in squalid absurdity, dispatched by devices
Built in dark rebel basements or artillery shells from heaven
That leave no identifiable human remains or family names.

 

 

Two centuries past, we left this world surrounded by family,
Conscious that we were dying, at peace with life’s limits,
We reconciled with our sins and our gods, left famous last words
Carefully chosen to inspire, comfort, and remember us by
-- War shatters us with discourtesy and suddenness,

 

 

Replacing even the briefest candle with mawkish sentimentality,
Political cant, and commercial hucksterism designed to ensure
A steady flow of willing volunteers into the killing solution,
Where soldiers become numbers and acceptable losses
And body counts soon replace the enemy’s  names and faces.

 

 

We have a remarkable capacity to forget and gloss over
Our confrontations with death: unprecedented suffering challenges
Religious beliefs taught in childhood; the ugliest realities
Fall victim to romantic fables of gallant knights and brave women
Who rise up valiantly to answer our nation’s bloody call.

 

 

Tens of thousands of wounded men and women have known
Death and suffering first hand:  We do them little or no service
To medal them, then pat their heads, and shove them aside,
An uncomfortable memory of our good warriors’ mission,
Who never quit or left a fallen comrade or even asked us why.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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