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This poem I dedicate to Frances Lavelle Brown

{{ ... thank you, Frances ... }}

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THE WINTER HEART

Woe is the winter heart that forgets

young laughter

And fears to remember when faith's wild dream

was real;

Or lets life ravel out like a tangled skein

of useless yarn,

Dreading to hear the passing of days

on life's humming loom.

Spare me the winter heart

That clings to tags and tokens

of existence

Lost in dust of exhausted years,

Nor feels the sunward warmth

Of faith.

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SUFFICIENT FOR DARKNESS

When gray days hover and close me in

And rain is a curtain to shroud my mood,

When nature offers me no gift

To compensate my solitude,

I walk remembered clover fields in flower,

Serene and sunny for this needful hour.

Ethelyn Miller Hartwich

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RITUAL FEAST

Your smile catches me first . . .

Long broad perfectly chisled lips --
Hidden riddle twinkling from your eyes --
You speak with sad wry twist of irony.

"Who can say where our tradition begins? Might be,
Nothing ever truly starts -- or finishes . . . "

You muse, grinning across the table . . .

"Might be, reality just goes on . . .
Phenomenal waves -- sweeping
From unfathomable, formless void
To resounding, irrefutable fact."

You pause . . .

"Somewhere in the middle ground
Lives are found -- infinitely diverse --
Between unrecordable realms of HERstory
And unwritten lines of HYStery
OUR story is born."

Your ripe blood rose red smile . . .

"Thanksgiving always has been a tortuous time for me:
'WE THE PEOPLE' wish to proclaim untold gratitude
For gifts received . . . WE -- the Undiscriminating!
ALL-Encompassing Righteous-And-Reverent WE!
Overfull bellies belch unbound appreciation!"

Pausing to sip water
Iced with a slice of lime
Your lips pursue their quarry.

"I keep seeing all these scared turkeys
Running wildly around the slaughterhouse
Flapping feathers everywhere, screaming
Hysterically, 'WHY ME -- WHY ME?!'"

"What mistaken virtue calls us
To celebrate life by taking life?"

"Oh, I know they're only turkeys -- and WE,
The High-and-Might-Filled (Hu)Mankind
-- How kind are we {?!} Blessed Wise as
We are supposed to be . . . couldn't we
Just bow our heads and give thanks?"

You chew on a piece of ice . . .
Eyes, like crystal glistening, surface
From their well-concealed place
In your time-worn face.

" . . . Numberless dumb innocent birds -- annually roasted --
Ritually carved and consumed -- As We the Free-Born
Attend to Honor this Principle: LIFE -- LIBERTY --
PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS -- Undertaken All in the
Name of the Lord! -- NO LESS than the LORD --
Mind you . . . and WE CLAIM THE RIGHT!!"

Steam rises from your plate of boiled peas . . .
Phantom forms alive within a beam of evening light
Dance -- stark against the shadow of a wood-paneled wall.

"Let us not forget the people: countless unsung souls
Swallowed in this onslaught of Ignorance --
Self-Seeking Greed -- Blind Insecurity."

"How many suffer needlessly and die still today
In this land of (only so much) Equal Opportunity?
Even those less fortunate hold forth in Jubilation
Unquestioning Faith in a Well-Chosen Nation!"

"Didn't Lord Jesus already shed his blood
For our sake in this long-promised land?
How many must pay with their lives
To cover the cost of that sacrifice?!"

You attack your peas with a vengeance.

" All those incredible, unrepeatable peoples wholly give
Themselves to the Massacre . . . Die for their own True Beliefs
To Protect Chosen Ways -- Inherited Purpose -- Lands They Love
. . . All for which we now give thanks this day!"

Who can forgive the bounty of life we presume?

You chew vigorously. Your jaw cracks.
You continue to stuff more peas
Into a mouth already too full . . .

"We are no more than cells
In the body of life renewing.
How can we serve life -- opposing
The essence that dwells in every living
Being -- if only for a moment in time?"

"We scrap and scramble to sustain our sense of Self --
Dying skin, unwilling to shed the body that prevails.
Who has eyes to recognize life powers we deny?"

You close with a sigh.

The balance of truth -- like water -- seeks
Its own level -- we finish the meal in silence.

Parting wistfully
I stand at the door --
Watch your silhouette
Merge with shadows
Late fall light
-- Fading --

Last words
Like leaves blown
Through ice-crisp air
Whisper . . .

"Might be,
All we ever wanted
Was their blood . . . . "

<<>> k. allen <<>>
<<< >>> << 1989 >> <<< >>>

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ANTARCTICA

As Antarctica Melts:

As Antarctica melts
so melts the Human soul
As Antarctica melts
so goes the life of the world
As Antarctica melts
so does human dignity
As Antarctica melts
so does human greed
as human greed causes

breakdown of the life force
we call our Mother Earth.

Antarctica melts due to our hate,
our lust for power
-- our wars --
our own death
is by our own hands.

For we are the higher life form
-- we are doing this --
not God.

As Antarctica melts
so does the good
spirit of humanity
leaving only the evil
that remains behind.

Antarctica . . . so as it melts
so does the life . . . and
the good of humanity.

<<>> Shirley Marie Shirley <<>>
<<>> <<< >>> << 2000 >> <<< >>> <<>>

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sandscape

cold wind blows

in shantytown . . .

tumbleweeds cavort

with barren sands . . .

sad old shacks barely stand

broken down -- boarded up

worn dry bones collapse to dust

horizons^ twilight skies . . . .

<<>> k. allen <<>>
<<< >>> << 2003 >> <<< >>>

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Excerpt from

"ROOSTER TALES"

There goes that ol^ rooster
Churnin^ out his "cock-a-doodle-doos
Like clockworks up on Beacon Hill.

Those firecrackers last July
Must^ve rattled his gravel
Or scrambled his brain.

Someone might^ve spiked his feed.
He could^ve had a stroke
Or a manic episode.

What it was, I do not know.

One night, just after midnight,
That ol^ rooster starts in,
Whoopin^ it up for all he^s worth
. . . All night long -- callin^ out the sun
Like a searchlight swoopin^ round ^n round
Wakin^ up the whole darn^ town with
Light of day, still half-a-world away.

You know there ain^t a farm for miles around
(Not any more, anyhow) . . . the only one
Who gives a hoot about his long dawn song
Is some sleepless neighbor, hollerin^,

"PUT A CORK IN IT, YA DUMB COCK!"

It might^ve been the first time I paid any mind
To that ratchet-belly rasp -- grinding on and on
Like a toy car ignition what won^t quite turn over
-- Again and again . . . ^til the battery runs down
. . . sometime after dawn . . . .

<< >> k. allen << >>
<<< >>> << 2000 >> <<< >>>

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