Poem of the Month - June 2017

 
the sunrise spoke to me  
it uttered riddles  
laced on spider webs  
in dewy silence  
 
the forests deep  
with the wise sentient  
soldiers of old  
that keep watch over me  
 
in the oceans wide  
balm to my soul  
a cool jeweled place  
 
I ache now  
my soul talks to Mother Moon  
please tell me  
the secrets of Father Sun  
 
she smiles at me wryly  
hush child and open your mind  
watch and observe  
 
each thing in nature  
a living being  
all doing their part  
 
beauty is here  
the ferns cover  
the mossy beds  
for you to rest on  
 
a place to lie in contemplation  
nature provides for her own  
listen and be nourished  
 
 
 
 
Copyright © 2017 Crimsin. All Rights Reserved  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

( Holocaust Remembrance Day )  
 
"...I should like someone to remember that there once lived a person
named David Berger." -- David Berger (in his last letter, Vilna, 1941)  
   
And what of memory    
for those unknown,    
unimaginable suffering;  
genocide so cruel    
it's denied as believable  
by a society    
desensitized to Truth.    
   
An African Proverb says,    
"Until the Lions have their day  
History belongs to the hunter."  
   
But not in this case.    
   
In this case we remember  
each faithful year  
those like David Berger  
as if we are raging  
Kings of the Jungle    
reclaiming our    
taxidermied History.  
~  
   
16 x 20 painting acrylic, oil, sumi, tears    
and remembrance on linen, 2003.    
   
I actually found a 1941 newspaper  
and 1937 frame in an old trunk in    
an antique shop that I used to back  
& frame this with.  
 

We milled around the dead woman’s estate
like vultures picking through the things  
nobody had come to claim  
 
A woman beside me bragged openly  
about the 100% Romanian wool rug she’d just scored  
while I held a sad looking stack of music CD’s  
with titles like “Romantic Italy”  
and pointed to a vintage arm chair  
we’d already loaded onto the back of the ute  
 
I didn’t tell her it smelt like pee  
I figured it would destroy the romance of the find  
and it’s hard to gloat over something beautiful  
while admitting you’ll be carrying part  
of the dead lady home with you  
to hopefully soak out in the wash  
 
We loaded half the ute that day  
with the kind of junk  
people donate to thrift stores  
or leave in the bin for landfill  
CD’s with songs so old  
they don’t play them on the radio anymore  
a Betamax tape I couldn’t play  
old knitting guides with patterns that were  
moderately out of date and could be tweaked  
for something more fashionable if someone  
was so inclined  
 
I filled a shoe box with buttons  
knitting needles, ribbons and lace  
old cross stitches just waiting to be finished  
trinkets from overseas trips  
that maybe I would keep  
or maybe I wouldn’t  
 
Yet for everything we took that day  
what bothered me was the things  
we left behind  
photo albums of people and places  
no one would remember  
a pair of glasses so strong  
they gave you a headache  
just from trying them on  
and a framed black and white photo  
of German couple and two small children  
with the inscription  
“The Stintman family  
leaving Bremerhaven, August 1953”  
 
We milled around the dead woman’s estate  
like vultures picking through the things  
nobody had come to claim  
 
© Indie Adams 2017

 
Monkey see, monkey do,
Monkey screw and then unscrew
Monkeys slip their lock and chain
Never gonna be the same

Monkey see, monkeys hear
Monkey learns to show no fear
Monkeys learn to have new fun
Watching how to shoot a gun

Monkey hear, monkey speaks
Unlike the rat who only squeaks
Monkeys learn to shout out “No!”
Then discuss just where they'll go

Monkey speak, Monkey see
Nothing is entirely free
Monkeys initiate evil plan
Learned their evil straight from man

Monkey see, monkey do,
Monkeys sniffing Uhu glue
Monkeys killing just for fun
De-evolution has begun

   
   
like the lonely tumbleweed    
we go where the wind takes us    
with seeds left behind to take root    
in the minds of those we touch    
   
we roll on never to stay long    
it isn't in our nature    
we go where called    
solitary is our way    
nighttime out solace    
   
some people grasp for solid things    
to steady them in this dizzying world    
we reach for words    
to put us on firm ground    
we hold them    
make love to them    
   
I've scorned the poetry    
that once set me free    
the thunder called    
I answered not    
the sun shone I strayed the path    
   
I reach for the poets I love    
they're not to be found    
& we roll on    
   
   
   
   
Copyright © 2017 Crimsin. All Rights Reserved  
 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   

they say  
the boughs that bear most hang lowest
you only see the fruit hanging low
never think of the stress on the arched back
 
trust me
ordinary is a blessing
 
no it is neither a case
of ungrateful
nor of the insatiable human nature
but an observation
 
just look
at any gifted
creative genius
struggling at
not fitting in
 
flawed is not for humans
it is a term for objects
for humans are simply
humans
with all their inherent 'qualities'
 
so to expect a human
to be flawless
is foolhardy
yet
you expect  
the gifted to be  
above failure
 
you couldn't be more human