Saturday, March 27, 2010

Paper Tiger

Governments shake and shimmy
with outrage, striving to protect their own;
but the people forgot to submit
address change cards and the names
were all changed to protect the guilty.

Suits stand, belt out the company song;
after calisthenics, they shake hands and
utter power words as the captains
swing the incense.

Politicians mount up for virtual jousting
but, at the point of contact, the mirror shatters:
“We have met the enemy,” they intone,
“and he is us.”
They sip congratulatory juleps as
the lackeys sweep up virtual splinters.

The Grand Ayapoobah takes a deep drag
off a no-filter Camel; he leafs through
The National Enquirer
looking for a sign.

Nearer than we think and
farther than we can imagine,
The Old One sits wondering
what has happened to
the greatest show on earth.

Friday, March 12, 2010

March 5th, 2010

Born in 1960, I was raised in
the era of space exploration.
I believed that technology
would save us and the earth from us.

Yet here in 2010 we’ve never been to Mars
and Pan Am doesn’t have a moon shuttle.
The space station floating above us
isn’t filled with jumpsuited pioneers.
There are no Dyson spheres or flying cars.
HAL died years ago;
there’s no Rosie the robot maid.

Sagan’s billions and billions of stars
are still up there, but
they’re harder than ever to see.
Under chemical skies and
seas of floating plastic,
the forests still disappear and
rivers don’t reach the sea.

Cities are filled with suicide bombers
disguised as fast food franchises.
The tallest buildings house the
Kings of politics and industry
while famine, poverty, and war
feed on the masses.
The earth tries hard to shrug us off.

I seem to recall that our generation
was going to fix all this, but
we seem to have lost the path, and
evidently we didn’t all die before we got old.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010


Like a bull bass cruising
the weedy edge of a quiet pond,
she patrols a sun dappled patch
of living room rug.

Your quarries are old and wise;
You will not catch them easily.
The fly selection and cast must be perfect.
There can be no sign of fakery,
or it’s no sale.

Toss a catnip mouse within paw range and
you may as well have pitched a rock into the pond;
she will ghost away with a scornful tail flip
just as he will instantly disappear.

Both want something interesting,
something that honks them off
by daring to invade their turf:
It’s a Bass fly then, a goggle-eyed
baby frog or mousy, who’s appearance says,
“Oh no! I’m tiny, juicy and weak!”

Once fly hits rug/pond, performance is key;
a pregnant pause, one good twitch,
another pause, another twitch
and if it’s all good, they hit
like lightning coming to ground.

That’s a big if, of course;
but then, if you have to catch to have fun,
you’re not patient enough to fish.