Lauren Celebrates National Poetry Month
Once again, ConVivio celebrates National Poetry Month with a series of ‘poetic’ posts. Today we are privileged to feature some recent poems by Lauren de Vore, a published Bay Area poet who has appeared on ConVivio a few times before as a Guest Poet.
Enjoy!
.
Click below to download a PDF of this post:
.
Reflections on Events, Current and Otherwise
As much as I try not to dwell on unpleasant things, they have a nasty habit of intruding, kind of like the whine of unseen mosquitos that drives one indoors on an otherwise lovely summer night, into my thoughts and poems. Thus the following…
A short soapbox rant:
Shout it from the Rooftops
Shout it from the rooftops
Shout it from the pulpits and the streets
Shout it at the gas-n-stops
Shout it in your texts, your posts and tweets
The emperor is naked
His crown is but a fake orange lacquered mop
His palace is a house of cards
His courtiers a bunch of spineless fops
Look behind the backdrops
Look past all the bombast and the pomp
Look beyond the photo ops
He’s in bed with those who own the swamp
See the cheating and the lies
See the malice and the venal spite
See how freedom bleeds and dies
Each time hate and chaos trump what’s right?
Blind are those who will not see
Ignorant the ones who will not think
Fight, resist, unwaveringly
Else into that stinking swamp we sink
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Some questions asked and answered:
Because
The paleo man hefted his club,
Brought it down hard on the paleo deer.
Eyes stared back from the blood-soaked ground
Asking why, why do you do this to me?
Because I have the club and you do not.
The lord of the manor lifted his crop
And slashed it across the peasant’s face.
Sullen eyes glared up from the mud
Asking why do you do this to me?
Because I’m of the purple and you are not.
The whaler launched his harpoon,
The big game hunter sighted his prey
And sapient eyes gazed back through the lens
Asking why, what harm have I ever done you?
Because I hold the weapon and you do not.
The slave owner cracked his whip, the officer swings his baton,
A mother, a father raises hand or fist,
And innocent eyes, the eyes of the beaten ask why.
They’re stronger, they’re meaner, they’re in command,
And you, poor soul, are not.
The faith-fueled fanatic waves his torch,
The zealot of left, right or center his flag,
With nary a care for another’s pain, nary a thought
As to why each hates the other one so,
For they are righteous and everyone else be damned.
A god in his heaven rallies his wrath,
His thunder and lightning and hurricanes,
And hurls them down hard onto man below.
And man in his clueless disbelief
Asks why, why do you do this to me?
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Observation on the dubious value of barriers:
Walls
Barricades, fences, and walls
Partitions nature abhors
In the end, every one falls
Over all, time’s army pours
Palisades, ramparts, and dikes
Constructs of hubris and fear
Mindset of rulers and reiches
History’s lesson is clear
For every wall, build a door
For every fence, build a stile
Never forget what they’re for
Else to the despots, seig heil!
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Commentary on apparent American values with regard to immigration:
Immigrants
Two caravans head north,
Driven forces beyond their control.
The miles are long,
Grueling and perilous,
Fraught with predators of every ilk.
Death and despair
Thin their numbers,
But the caravans push on,
Sinuous entities seeking
A land of peace and plenty,
For there is no going back;
Going back is certain death.
Far better to venture into the unknown,
To hope against hope,
And trust whatever powers there be
To guide them to safety.
And when at last they arrive?
Jubilation greets the one,
Reverence and joy, festivals and delight.
And the other? The other is met
With guns and walls, with scorn
And denigration and detention.
Two caravans of immigrants
Seeking sanctuary.
Who knew one had to be decked
In orange and black butterfly wings
To be welcome.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
In memory of Sandra Parks, Steve Slaughter, and the countless other victims of senseless violence:
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Cogitations of a sleepless night:
Past Midnight
It was one of those nights
When her brain wouldn’t turn off
As she lay in bed, a lone soul keeping vigil
While the rest of the world slept.
The grandfather clock in the front room
Te-tick-tocked the seconds away,
A-lone-all a-lone-all a-lone it repeated.
Yet she did not need a clock to tell the time,
For the radio was quietly playing,
And on the radio, it’s always past midnight.
The measured cadences of NPR
Or the late-night DJ talking, talking, talking
To himself, to her, to the brother-slash-sisterhood
Of night owls and insomniacs,
Unknown to each other yet connected
By invisible airwaves. Soon the night
Will turn to dawn and she will rise
To face the day, but it’s always
Past midnight on the radio.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
And in the night, remembering…
Empty House
She wanders through the house, its lone occupant.
A faint trace of her youngest lingers in one room
And if she looked she’d likely find an old shirt
Or shoe, but she closes the door and wanders on.
It used to be so full of noise and bustle,
Husband and children and critters, everyone
Rushing this way and that at the top of their lungs.
But the hamsters and fish and dogs grew old and died,
The kids grew up and away, and the husband
Took up with a new and improved model of wife.
The house is silent now, dust-free and orderly
After all the years of nagging and fussing
Over messy rooms and muddy floors. Everything
Is just the way she likes it. Only it’s not.
For the house is empty, and she’s becoming
A ghost. Maybe, she thinks, she should get a cat.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Visioned while standing with my horse as he grazed in the morning sun:
Ah, To Be Grass
Supine I lie
Face to the sun
Earth bed beneath
Taste the rain, the fine champagne
The dark aged chocolate loam
Root finger toes reach out and grasp
Holdfasts to the world below
Chlorophylled, wind-waved
My hair covers the rough
And smooth like a velvet shroud
Trodden, trampled
Grazed, parched, fired, frozen
I am dis-tressed
Beaten down, but not beaten
For come rain, come spring
All is green again
Ah, to be grass
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Reaction to being addressed by a server too young to know better:
Ma’am’d be Damned!
When did I turn from a miss to a ma’am,
From mademoiselle to madam?
The face in the mirror looks mostly the same,
To all of my teeth I lay claim,
I’m slim in the hip, my pulse doesn’t skip,
On mem’ry I’ve got a firm grip.
With gadgets and tech I’m fairly adept,
Up with Kimmel, Colbert I have kept;
Though hip hop and rap leave me quite cold,
Lin Man Miranda is gold.
I love anime and practice feng shui,
So what is it gives me away?
Have I some aura, some faint pheromone,
Does my voice quave some telltale tone?
For I’m forced to admit, I’m tempted to spit
Or at least indulge in a snit
Whenever I’m hailed with madam or ma’am,
That unwanted age-implied slam.
Can you not see I’m just ent’ring my prime
With many a hill yet to climb,
And per adage most sage, years are no gauge
Of actual sine qua non age.
So till I start flaunting sensible shoes,
Start dying my gold-y locks blue,
Until I appear in bright purple clothes,
In red hats with feathers and bows,
Humor please, if you’d be so polite,
For someday you’ll be in my plight;
Say ms if you must or miss if you will,
And all will be cool, will be chill.
I may be old mutton dressed up as spring lamb,
But madam’d or ma’am’d I’ll be damned!