StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XI, No. XLIX

Trumpet blown, trumpet blown,
The world is lost, the world is gone,
No god appears to save us all,
No savior rides down from heaven
To carry the men and women
Of good will off world.

The earth rocks, rattles, shakes,
Swallows whole cities, separates,
The Golden Gate lies five fathoms deep,
The world is lost, the heavens burn,
God save us all if Allah wills.

Merry Christmas, the War is over,
The bombs bursting in the air
All in celebration of our
Dear prophet's birth.

Happy happy Christmas
Long may they reign
In war and on the battlefield,
In pulpit, square, and screen.

Turkey, turkey, turkey, turkey,
Turkey, turkey, turkey; Thanksgiving
Lingers unlike any other holiday, 
Pumpkin pie disappears in days,
Mash potatoes magick themselves
Into potato pancakes next morning,
But the bird survives to feed another day:
Soup and snacks, hot sandwiches and gravy,
Meals from frozen turkey months later in Winter;
Perhaps old Ben Franklin was right afterall,
Turkey is the feast that keeps on giving.

You don't need to have a baby,
You don't have to destroy the cells,
You don't need to get pregnant,
You don't need to kill the child;

Don't listen to what others tell you,
Do what you think is right,
The choice is yours and your body's,
Not the preacher or the police:

Live with your decision,
It's yours alone to make,
But if you believe in some god,
Some promise of reward and immortality,
Live with that too and don't complain
That you don't know what to do.

The man in the white house,
Lost in the white house,
Wandering from floor to floor;
Searching for a room,
Looking for a door
That nobody's seen before.

The man in an oval office,
Surrounded by beige and roses,
Stares out at the helter-skelter,
Expecting to find nice, easy answers,
Hoping for a graceful exit
That doesn't require a decision.

This is silly, I'm no older
Than I've always been,
I was five, I was me,
Twenty-one, still the same,
Me at fifty and me at sixty,
Always one in my continuum;
There is no "that" person,
Only, always, this one,
Born, alive, and afterwards,
Darkness to darkness,
Sperm/ova to ash;
I am each sliding moment me
Up and down the timeline,
World without end,
Forever and ever,
Me.

Work the beads
Spin the wheel
Read the Qu'ran
And genuflect

Pizza and anchovies
Meat and potatoes
Mac with orange cheese
Pastrami with mayo

No fish, no pigs
No cloven hooves
No cows, no mollusks
No unnatural foods

Monarchy, oligarchy
Democracy and Sharia
The Pope, The Mullah
The President and mob rule

Classical, modern jazz
Hip hop and blues
Pop and rock
And God knows what

Too much government
Tax, no tax
Not enough government
No tax, tax

Caf, no caf,
Coffee, tea or water
Guns, no guns,
Bambi, lunch and dinner

Keen with the hunger of blood,
Life survives, however it may
-- The child, the young mother,
The ancient refugee walking
A cratered highway shoulder
Beneath an arid afternoon sun.
A rumble of bombers approaches,
Hidden in the high sky, passes by
To some more troublesome enemy,
Soldiers, our troops, theirs, shrug their
Shoulders and continue to maneuver.
The old man shakes his head, sighs,
Settles off in a cover beneath a tree
To watch all the great heroes
Do what seemingly needs to be
-- Today is still not a good day to die.

When Rimbaud first impressed me,
I was in love with Dylan and tracing his path;
Now, when I read Illuminations and Drunken Boat,
I note how much Dylan grew
And Rimbaud remains a young poet's game
Better savored in youthful memory
Than on the page.

These are my cheeks,
These are my teeth,
These are the lips that were
Once thought fat;

These are my eyes,
Including the bags,
This is the mind
That I've always had.

One life, one body,
One person inside,
Me, now and always,
Woman and child.

The boys can do
What the boys can do,
The men will say what they please,
At the end of the day,
I know who I am
And need no approval from them.