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I Wont Hide My Disgust

Some like to question my patriotism.
Because I express pessimism,
With negative criticisms.
If anything I should be accused,
Of being idealistic.
I joined the military when just a kid.
I wanted to protect this great land,
From enemies that threatened...
Where my family and friends would stand.
As I did!
And proving to myself and others,
I was that brave and fearless man.
That was during the Viet Nam era.
When many my age,
Were trying to pass college entrance exams.

Two weeks after my high school graduation...
I was pledging allegiance to this great nation.
In an Air Force uniform!
I bravely adorned.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To A. L. Persuasions to Love.

THINK not, 'cause men flattering say
You're fresh as April, sweet as May,
Bright as is the morning star,
That you are so ; or, though you are,
Be not therefore proud, and deem
All men unworthy your esteem :
For, being so, you lose the pleasure
Of being fair, since that rich treasure
Of rare beauty and sweet feature
Was bestow'd on you by nature
To be enjoy'd ; and 'twere a sin
There to be scarce, where she hath bin
So prodigal of her best graces.
Thus common beauties and mean faces
Shall have more pastime, and enjoy
The sport you lose by being coy.
Did the thing for which I sue
Only concern myself, not you ;
Were men so framed as they alone
Reap'd all the pleasure, women none ;

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poem by Thomas Carew
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Don't Shoot The Messenger

An expressed view hits me in the middle of the night.
And some of them have more then just a tiny over bite.
Too ugly to wear.
Too ugly to share.
Many times truth takes this form.
Graphic images with warning signs beware.
In the darkness upon our midnight dreams what is it we see?
I am insomniac who can't sleep because of the knowledge of what is going on across world.
I must spread the truth I keep telling myself.
Do right by my fellow man.
But the question how far should one go?
Why do so many need somebody to hold there hand?
Scared of what change might mean for them.
Scared of the unpredictable future.
Scared of the escalating volatility across the globe.
Fear should never dictate ones judgement.
We have allowed it and made too many compromise because of it.
In the interest of your security but who security is that really?
I keep hearing that tune in one form or another.
Fear mongering beyond any realistic proportions.

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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On The Death Of Prince Meshchersky

O, Voice of time! O, metal's clang!
Your dreadful call distresses me,
Your groan doth beckon, beckon me
It beckons, brings me closer to my grave.
This world I'd just begun to see
When death began to gnash her teeth,
Like lightening her scythe aglint,
She cuts my days like summer hay.

No creature thinks to run away,
From under her rapacious claws:
Prisoners, kings alike are worm meat,
Cruel elements the tomb devour,
Time gapes to swallow glory whole.
As rushing waters pour into the sea,
So days and ages pour into eternity
And death carnivorous all eats.

We slide along the edge of an abyss
And we will someday topple in.

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poem by Gavril Romanovich Derzhavin
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September, I-III

To Yury Nagibin

I
What's an awful weather outdoors? However,
Of no matter such an incident -
In january I'm living as in september,
Persistently and frenzily.

September, don't draw your wing,
Your wing of yellow-orange colour,
And, please, postpone your last will,
Your last day - give me linger, rather.

Wait me a little, don't sleep,
All enveloped by the will of grantor,
And, as in past times, waste your riches,
Indulge all growing trees with bounty.

What it had been! How the grass had strained
In order to turn green with such completeness,

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poem by Bella Akhmadulina, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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Seemed an eternity

The minute of failure

The little boy’s body stiffened, then relaxed. Stiffened then relaxed. Eyes wide open, staring fixedly, and unseeing at the ceiling.

The young doctor grimaced with the effort, pumping intensely with his hands as if trying to pump water from a deep and long dry well. His hands moved in cadence with the old “Bee Gee’s song Stayin Alive” playing unconsciously in his mind.

The E.T.s that had originally answered the call to the lad’s home with the always dreaded “possible drowning victim” still sounding in their ears, stood uneasily in the doorway watching the frenetic activity.
Their usual M.O. was to end their vigilance when they had delivered the patient to the Pediatric E.R., and return to their truck to await the always: soon to come “next emergency.”

This time they couldn’t pull themselves away with the usual detachment that was expected of them. It shouldn’t have been that way, but when the victim (unfairly or not) of whatever the trauma ‘du jour’ was, was just a kid, they seemed to feel a guilt or responsibility that wasn’t truly theirs.

They had given the first ‘breaths of life’ to the bluish lips at the family’s swimming pool. Had done the first compressions to the unrising chest, and now seemed vested somehow in the boy’s welfare. They couldn’t leave. They felt obligated to stay. As if just by their presence, somehow the lad would be helped. Failure was something they didn’t accept very easily in their profession.

The doctor nodded to the R.N. assisting him and then stepped back rubbing his tingling, aching hands and arms While the R.N. seamlessly picked up the Bee Gee beat, brow furrowed in concentration.

The video screen above the bed showing the boy’s vitals blinked with red and green lights. The screen would show green, (which was good) for a few moments… but then would return to the dreaded red. Hopes rising and falling with each change in color.

With the red screen returning more often, and more often, and the green less and less so, faces turned more grim. Eyes started averting others, as if there were a mutually shared shame that was spreading contagiously among the caregivers and the spectators. The mother sat stoically, staring almost without blinking, straight ahead at her son.

It was as if the grim reaper stood back hidden in the shadows, patiently awaiting the inevitable moment of concession of human effort and futility.

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poem by David Whalen
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LPGA (Is Racism On The Ladies Pro Tour?)

Will someone please say it’s a rumor and not true,
That professional woman’s golf is not going to,
Require that players who play in any LPGA events,
Have to speak English or back home they are sent.

Wow! Why not take the lead of the PGA men’s side?
When Tiger Woods emerged did others run and hide?
No! They practiced, worked out and hired coaches,
As brighter lights shined some women hid like roaches.

2009 from September 7, is just over 100 days away,
It takes years to learn English unless sports you play,
Basketball, football, baseball are a few that come to mind,
The Ladies Profession Golf Association is ahead, not behind.

Many ex-players are making the adjustment to play by play,
Far from the days when, “you know” was all they could say,
But, this progress has taken decades and now you expect,
Better golfers to learn proficient English just to get a check?

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poem by Luke Easter
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To Live (exist) : The love/hate relationships people share with mirrors

The first time he saw a mirror,
he was minutes old in a hospital.
Already getting used to the warmth of his blanket away from his mother,
his toothless grins and coos of his reflection meant nothing,
he didn’t know the meaning.

The 607th time he saw a mirror,
he was exactly three and dressed in best.
A mother’s gift of a round, ornate mirror; his tiny hands could not grasp it enough.
Hair parted down the middle, chin - up and to the right, is it impossible for children to take serious portraits?

The 1,501st time he saw a mirror,
He was three and two months in the place he would soon love the most - an old practice dance room.
Cheered on by mother, brother, and father’s spirit, scorned by the new fatherly figure, he learned quickly and instantly obsessed his figure in the room lined with mirrors.
In spare time, his mirror never left his hand.

The 18,409th time he saw a mirror,
he was seven, almost eight, and in advanced ballet.
Thin and lithe, different with no friends.
All he wanted to see was his reflection as he danced in the mirrored room.

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poem by Kristion Robideaux
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The Owl And The Sparrow

In elder days, in Saturn's prime,
Ere baldness seized the head of Time,
While truant Jove, in infant pride,
Play'd barefoot on Olympus' side,
Each thing on earth had power to chatter,
And spoke the mother tongue of nature.
Each stock or stone could prate and gabble,
Worse than ten labourers of Babel.
Along the street, perhaps you'd see
A Post disputing with a Tree,
And mid their arguments of weight,
A Goose sit umpire of debate.
Each Dog you met, though speechless now,
Would make his compliments and bow,
And every Swine with congees come,
To know how did all friends at home.
Each Block sublime could make a speech,
In style and eloquence as rich,
And could pronounce it and could pen it,
As well as Chatham in the senate.

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poem by John Trumbull
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From the Persian of Hafiz I

Butler, fetch the ruby wine,
Which with sudden greatness fills us;
Pour for me who in my spirit
Fail in courage and performance;
Bring the philosophic stone,
Karun's treasure, Noah's life;
Haste, that by thy means I open
All the doors of luck and life.
Bring me, boy, the fire-water
Zoroaster sought in dust.
To Hafiz revelling 'tis allowed
To pray to Matter and to Fire.
Bring the wine of Jamschid's glass
That shone, ere time was, in the Néant.

Give it me, that through its virtue
I, as Jamschid, see through worlds.
Wisely said the Kaiser Jamschid,
This world's not worth a barleycorn.
Bring me, boy, the nectar cup,

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poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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