StarPoet Newsletter Vol. X, No. VIII

The sun has not yet risen,
The moon has already set,
Selene will rise tonight in glory
To outshine every star and planet.

Tonight along the shoreline,
When the moon is bright above,
Meet me in the shadows at the library
That I might taste eternity.

A monstrous child of unbridled democracy,
Adolf rose quickly through the political system,
A master manipulator, a brilliant propagandist,
He criss-crossed the country, speaking to millions,
A politician who transcended the usual petty divisions
Of a society at war with itself and history.

Above all and at the core, there was Hitler's voice
-- He was a magnificent public speaker,
Sure of phrase and glossy generalities,
A grand polyphony of media and stimulation
That promised Germany everything and the world,
But, in the end, delivered little more than
A handful of artful posters and the Holocaust.

Here comes the wind,
Bending the birch trees trying to bud;
The bright sky slips, blue to gray,
As winter reminds us of the month.

Geese and heliocopters cross the horizon,
Cars scurry down below, an insect
Splatters into our seventh floor window,
A fortuitous diversion from our computer screens.

Below us the Virginia valley softly rolls,
Light hills surround the ancient well paved paths
That snake across the fertile bottom land
Where office parks now preside.

Certitude in Washington
Is an occupational hazard,
An overwelming contagion
That can infiltate even
The most rational mind
Or glistening ivory tower.

The desire to engineer
The correctly balanced
Social perfection,
Like the belief that
The best of all earths
Is the earth that is flat,
Leads almost inevitably
To all encompassing legislation
That exhaustively details
Those dots and the "T"s
Preferred by those
Currently holding power.

It is best to let the stampede pass,
Then follow behind the frenetic herd
To reset the chairs
And straighten the rugs
That have tumbled to the side
In the madden rush
To some future Waterloo.

Despite all the doctors,
Despite all the researchers,
Despite all the advice
And recommended diets,
We either get Cancer
Or we don't.

We live or die
On genetic tendency
And all we can do
Is delay the inevitable
Untill such time as science
Can change the inner favric
Of our evolutionary being.

To everyone, to you,
Silent beings of the night ...
-- Pablo Neuroda, To Everyone, to You
El Fugitivo: XII

Here comes the old dykes,
Returning to our bar
For Carol's 55th birthday,
A celebration of longetivity
In the face of active indifference
And a world peopled with those
Who would deny our existence.

I sing of dykes, old and young,
And all the queer gay guys,
--The hetero poseurs and mincing queens,
The flanneled women and lipstick femmes --
Who, day to day, continue,
Refusing to retreat from the bright light of day
And the careful beatings and well placed arrows
That, like the sun, arise almost daily
To put us back in our place,
Out of sight, out of mine,
And out of reach of our America.

To all those who will never read this,
To all those who will refuse,
To all and everyone who breathes her sweet air,
I belong, I inhale deeply, and I sing.

The ghosts of earth and ancestor
Gather around me in decaying orbit,
Leaving the scent of fresh spread mulch,
A hint of cabernet in aging oak,
A struggle of olive and yellow daffodil
Pushing through the rich top soil
To check the winter azimuth.

I walk carefully, a lone cemetery
Filled with mute bones I must articulate;
The pure bark of distant bells
Breaking the early morning silence,
A sorrowful anchor of pale death,
A Sousa march atop the high plain,
Choosing which coffin to buoy me
And which to float away;
A low dark sound in the wilderness
As they pitch their tents around me:
It's my turn to gather wood for the camp fire.

Splitting the hazy mist,
I make my way to the sea,
A deep flare in the burning sky,
Outlasting the chillful rain and crashing lament
And a shifting scatter of dishevelled waves
That draws me past the white tipped breakers
To float on the ashes of my many varied origins,
A starbird once more and at last.