April 11, 2016, Prescott-
On a day when darkness and intolerance
Tried to rear their ugly heads,
I look to the west,
and see the lowering Sun.
Its message is, “I am constant.
Dismay not, at those who shun
your honesty and earnestness.
The poison in their hearts,
will be their sole reward,
and their plots shall be left undone.
Some days shall be of headaches,
but you must stay the course.
Make yourself invaluable,
be work horse, not show horse.”
April 8, 2016, Prescott-
The feeling
prods me awake
So the day begins
In joyful discipline I work
Not given to fatigue
only meeting needs
through worship.
April 7, 2016, Prescott-
The world saw the last of Merle Haggard, the man, yesterday.
He turned seventy-nine, then he turned and said “Goodbye, all.”
His words to us youth, back in Sixty-Nine and Seventy,
were to never forget the mountain dwellers, the cowboys,
the rednecks and the Blue Collar people, with their lunch pails.
He stood for the veterans, the grunts, the jarheads,
the squids, the flyboys and the weekend warriors.
“Don’t be runnin’ down our country, boys and girls”,
he said, while recounting the blues of the working man.
Then, there was the self-same man calling for an end to war.
There was the singer who stopped to listen, even to those
with a contrary opinion.
The price of that listening was,
you got to see the cowboy, the redneck, the roughneck
as a human being, a child of God, just like you.
He could have named his son Amos Moses,
or Elijah, or Jefferson Davis, or Thomas Jefferson.
He would never have named the boy, “Sue’.
Merle kept on with a Libertarian mind,
Living, and letting live, until he opted for eternity.
April 1, 2016, Prescott-
In honour of the launch of the annual Poetry Month:
Jesters gather, on the street curb,
Prepared to mimic, mock, perturb.
A small child gets away again,
with pointing out his grandpa’s shirt’s imaginary stain.
Even the family cat, it seems,
Gets a rise out of her lady,
by feigning screams.
A cynic once proclaimed April
to be the Cruelest Month.
With such ubiquitous mirth,
is his judgment debunked,
or is it a wise, prescient verse?
March 25, 2016, Prescott-
The Light spoke: “I came unto you, and offered Myself unto a crucifix,
upon the Plains of Ganges,
and you slumbered.
Later, I showed you Light and Darkness,
and you made them into caricatures.
I then showed you the Eight-Fold Path,
and you found it too complex.
When I came to you, as a Carpenter, a Fisher of Men,
you asked for Barabbas, and worshiped Mithras.
So, I again let Myself be crucified, that you might be saved.
You responded by quarreling, as to which of you heard Me correctly.
I came to you, in a time of darkness, and showed you the ways to
nationhood, and the gathering of knowledge.
You were most interested in the battle techniques of My generals.
Still, each time I came, there were those who heard the truth.
Their genetic memory was strong enough, that I came yet again,
and through a life of great heartache and sacrifice, I have brought
you the way to unity, a path towards reaching the Day that shall not
be followed by Night.
As you commemorate My prior sacrifice, will you listen to Me now?”
(This is offered as testament to the Truth, which sacrificed Its
Messenger, on this day, some 1,983 years ago. It has never left us
alone.)
March 22, 2016, Prescott-
Bruxelles, mon amour,
I hear your screams
As the hosts of tyranny
Hose your streets with blood.
You welcomed me warmly,
Giving a festival of peace,
French, Flemish, Algerian,
Standing side by side,
As the games of comradeship and hope,
Played out, in front of my eyes.
Paris, mon amour,
I recall your sons and daughters,
Taking time out of their frenetic days,
To help an oft bewildered Americain
Find my way across your arrondissements,
With nary a hint of hauteur, in their demeanours.
Rouen, ma cherie,
I think of all you endured,
As the scene of travesty,
When the Light of All France
Was immolated,
Just a stone’s throw from where
My paternal ancestors were first blessed.
Damascus, my friend,
I have not had the honour of your presence.
Yet, I hear and feel your anguish,
And, yes, I know these horrors are
Not what you wish,
For yourself, nor for the cities
Which weep alongside you.
All my friends and beloved ones,
Know the horrors and cruelty,
Will pass, must pass.
Soon comes the day,
Which will not be followed
By night.
March 17, 2016, Prescott-
Paddy, my brother,
what did you find,
while walking the fair isle’s countryside?
Brigid, dear sister,
it gleamed up at me,
a golden shamrock,
which I’ve brought home to thee.
Paddy, o brother,
I fear that you’ve erred.
The golden stone surely
was meant to be interred.
Brigid, dear sister,
do you mean to say
the sprite named Liam
shall spirit it away?
Aye,
I sense his presence,
on the roof.
Liam! Stop,
let us have the shamrock.
Sorry, kiddos-
POOF!
February 21, 2016, Prescott-
24. tower, kettle, hawk, charm, cotton
This little verse is about a tower, and the fields below.
A group of slaves found themselves set free,
The tower once home to their masters,
Became theirs to oversee.
The crop they grew was cotton,
Their fields were often sodden.
The moisture also led to evil,
in the form of dreadful weevils.
Now, the ex-captives were not simple-minded,
nor to solutions were they blinded.
On a cool spring morning,
they met and talked.
Of a sudden,
they heard a squawk.
The tower’s roof
was now home to a hawk.
“How do we get our bird friend
to like weevils?”, one mused.
“Let us spread some kettle corn!”,
another newly freed man enthused.
“This will draw some swamp rats in,
the hawk will swoop down and feast on the vermin.
Once the rats have been decimated,
the raptor will seek another way to be sated.
He will spot the busy weevils,
make several meals of them,
and the cotton, reap, we will!”
So it went, that the men worked hard,
their own well-being, to safeguard.
They managed to charm some ladies from town,
and families soon sprang up.
The team was no longer trodden down.
February 7, 2016, Prescott- I was happy with our Baha’i reflection meeting, this morning and I am happy for Peyton Manning and the Denver Broncos. Now it’s time for a short verse, based on prompts from the Winter Scavenger Hunt.
19. mild, ochre, bulb, tail, scale
Have you ever been to Khamsomulb?
A mild isle, ’tis, where grows a delightful bulb.
The shallots on Khamsomulb feed an iguana,
whose loving master named her Shannah.
Shannah lives among the reddest of rocks,
and so has developed a hue that might shock.
She’s ochre, you see, from crown to tail,
with nary a hint of green, not even on her scale.
Shannah the Iguana is fed shallots and fish,
which she knocks out, with her ochre tail’s
Swish, swish.
February 1, 2016, Prescott-
The Winter Scavenger Hunt prompt says “artist”, not “poet”, but a poet IS an artist.
Today begins the month “officially” set aside as Black History Month. African-Americans certainly are not limited to any given point along a year, in terms of their impact on our nation’s history. Yet, why quibble? We do well to reach as far back as possible, in comprehending the spirit and drive that gives each individual, regardless of ethnicity or melanin level, the capacity for great achievement.
The first published African-American poet, Phillis Wheatley, was brought to Boston at the age of 8, from either Gambia or Senegal. She was given the name Phillis by her captor, Peter Gwinn, and sold as a slave to a tailor named John Wheatley. The Wheatley family taught Phillis to read and write, encouraging her to study the Classics.
Phillis began to write her own poetry at the age of 14. She drew the favourable attention of both British and American leaders of both politics and thought, having audiences with the Lord Mayor of London and George Washington. Thomas Paine published her work in the Pennsylvania Gazette, and she drew favourable commentary from Voltaire.
Things went sour for Phillis, after her master died. Though she was freed, under the terms of his will, and married a Free African-American grocer, John Peters, the prevailing view of society was not favourable towards African-Americans. The Peters’ struggled financially, John was imprisoned, in 1784 and Phillis, along with their infant son, died shortly thereafter, she being only 31.
Here is a sample of her poetry, which drew on both Christian and animist influences, as well as ancient Greek and European Enlightenment thought.
“On Virtue”
O Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive
To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
I cease to wonder, and no more attempt
Thine height t’ explore, or fathom thy profound.
But, O my soul, sink not into despair,
Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
Fain would the heav’n-born soul with her converse,
Then seek, then court her for her promis’d bliss.
Auspicious queen, thine heav’nly pinions spread,
And lead celestial Chastity along;
Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,
Array’d in glory from the orbs above.
Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
O leave me not to the false joys of time!
But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee,
To give me an higher appellation still,
Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
O thou, enthron’d with Cherubs in the realms of day.[9]
Phillis had conflicting feelings about slavery, recognizing, on one level that it was the cruelest of institutions, while simultaneously expressing the view that captivity had served her well, by bringing her to Christianity.
In any event, I see Phillis Wheatley as the first great African-American woman, in public life.
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