to Mother Teresa
András Adorján
’92. máj. 15.
Thank You God Who Lives Inside Us
Thank God, thank you Kubát János
And all of living and dead idols
Thanks for Gandhi, Barcza, Liszt
All the muses’ inspiring kiss
Thank You for my troubles, misery
Thank You for the pushes towards humility
Forgive me for being just a man, silly
You’ve created me this way, (can’t) You see?
Thanks for crushing my vanity, pride
In return I got a humble heart
Let me be worthy just once more or say twice
Let me be sincere, confident, nice
Let me radiate your shining inner light
When our Father Sun is out of sight
Let me be your instrument, please
Play your melody through sinful me
Let others receive your call by me too
Let me join your Army of Peace, would You?
Put down the sword of the anger, we’re blue
Do not punish us, yourself Our Father of truth (You true)
Yes, you heard it well, we’re really you
Who created who how could we knew?
There’s no telling, there’s no proof
Who is us (and) who are you
[editorial note: the writer is a chess grandmaster and candidate world champion, resident in Budapest, Hungary]
I set myself afire
Charles Monette
On David Buckel
like a black gold gushers first appearance
oozing inhabitability via air, soil, water and weather
I set myself afire
like a Vietnamese Buddhist monks meditative protest
immolating the ravages of war
I seek to ignite awareness
Most humans now breathe air unhealthy
unthinking corporate fossil fuels enrich the wealthy
I combust to grow the green
Prospect Park, yesterdays headline blazes
remember my arguing LGBTQ landmark cases
now alls left my coaly ashes
I volunteered for an added value community farm
coordinated for senior organics recovery
I plead our only planet, do no harm
my early death reflects many early deaths
what are we doing to ourselves?
pollution ravages we burn like savages
I am David, some say my death is heartbreaking
my suicide note? A hopefully earthshaking
my final flame breathtaking
I am a symbol burned to Prospect dust
my call to humanity, I felt I must
I set myself afire
Reportage below by Carla Herrerie, Queer Voices, Huffington Post
David Buckel, a prominent LGBTQ civil rights attorney, fatally set himself on fire at Prospect Park in Brooklyn, New York, early Saturday morning, April 14th, 2018. Â He was 60 years old.
In a suicide note left near his body, David said he had used a fossil fuel to ignite the fire and wanted his death to symbolize what humans are doing to earth.
Pollution ravages our planet, oozing inhabitability via air, soil, water and weather. Most humans on the planet now breathe air made unhealthy by fossil fuels, and many die early deaths as a result my early death by fossil fuel reflects what we are doing to ourselves.
Rest in peace David Buckel
Ode to a Goddess
Charles Monette
My new songs, old and tuneless now
Sour in limbo’s empty chasm…
Wishing… I had dreamed they’d sing to you
Surprised by your text in the night
Your ring pillowed over
Mourning’s alert pulsed aimlessly
A table’s tulips open slowly in a Japanese vase
Yellow’s hopeless jealousy stalks red’s deep love
Variegated flowers dance in beautiful eyes my ladylove
Petals soft as skin warm my memory
A lovely vision comes in sight
I hold it, dream anew when twelve hours strike midnight
With me now amid forest’s solitude
Enchantment, held close, imagines amour’s guarantee
Not to know beclouds, bemists uncertainty
On a ragged wild precipice, high fog’s walk
Unsure below
Lightheaded thoughts drift off… in languid vertigo
Awaiting love’s return
A goddess’ pale smile
Her adorable being, heart pulsatile
Returning to Black Mountain’s wide expanse
My sanctuary on high
Glimpsing all that’s down below, what my soul espies
Nothing’s left undone, Nature patient, … should I be?
Witnessing night’s Northern Cross, Cygnus’ brightest stars
Wondering if empyrean’s guidance will navigate afar
Stygian’s gloom envelops doubt
I stand outside to look for me
Ten thousand breathing trees stand by, they only breathe to be
Then sleepless silly tosses
Upbraid my rest assured
Till unheeded turns ruminate, run off to join Sigurd
Moon drops on taste buds
Will not stir silence, nor a heartache suppress
Wretched beats starving, save your sweet caress
Awakening to you, my sleepy eyes’ delight
Sweet, sweet your green-eyed greeting
Unspoken love now speaking
Your lips, those lips’ full blossom bloom bouquet
I ache to kiss …. Excite passion’s touch by fire
Love me truly love, till love fulfills desire
***Cygnus - a constellation in the Milky Way; a king changed into a swan
*** Sigurd - the hero of the Volsunga Saga
*** Stygian – of or characteristic of the river Styx; infernal or hellish
I’ll stay here till I get here
Charles Monette
fingers on strings,
low E and high
note holding on till it’s gone
fretting a left hand
strumming, back beating the right
slow motions getup, magic in sight
moving from outside
a sound hole in the center
touching composition, no impedimenta
strings ring, sounds sing
badges of callused tips repetitious
attack the dance, let go of cautious
if you hear it’s off thru a tap of the floor
find a grin in your grimace, now close the door
pickup & pick it, play guitar once more
backbeat now, E & A’s humming combine
bass coming back to a ‘fore-mentioned-line
as you strum, use your thumb ain’t it fine
I’ll stay here till I get here… just
learning the action, playing what will be
whatever checks out doesn’t belong to me
Untitled
Phil Innes
No more black nights on
Forgotten promontories
Other vigilance
Whither the Storm?
Todd Vincent Crosby
When warmth gives way to bracing wind
and sun’s fair gaze has turned away,
gather the net, prepare to fend the
craft from Triton’s chilling fray.
Starboard, windward, port or lee?
Which quarter now commands our gaze?
Shall turbulence deny us now
deliberate passage of the days?
Trade comfort of the stoney heath
for chance among the rolling fetch,
Free of tender love and restless grief
Hope and hunger a ceaseless catch
Autumn’s veil conceals not fear nor sorrow
yet cleanses away a soul's dark night,
That dawn deliver on the morrow
a crescendo… winter’s blinding light!
75 at tea
Todd Vincent Crosby
a fine grit covers this shabby old couch
pouffing up as i plop my fat ass down on it
its grey green canvas, dusty as my skin now
replete with the troughs of old age
i lean my head back finding that old familiar indentation
And you are there before me,
infinite in your youth, tangled hair a mess
energetic, so full of life‘s timeless beauty.
we whisper sun dappled oaths barefoot in the orchard,
a full moon and its crickets bearing us good fortune.
whatever the future would withhold from us
it could never deny us laughter
Yet all too soon mischievous minstrels found willing ears
to woo us
with promises of hotter tropics
and bluer seas.
But how could the skies have been
bluer than those we had reveled beneath?
or another ocean
contain the immensity of our joy?
Indeed these long years, laughter was not denied me
echoing off these farmhouse walls
evening, morning, noon and night
the laughter of children… of family… of friends.
What wouldn’t i give to walk again with you
dottering down this misty country lane, leaning in close
sharing a knowing glance
a chuckle at some private, distant joke.
Under the moody November twilight
your blue teapot perched on my plant stand
a steaming, fat, blue parrot
Miles and Coltrane suspended in vapor
I hope that life has brought laughter
to your house… upon your loves
and that you have not lived with desire
to rewrite the drama of life’s final act.
Such a sweet melancholy to see you again in all your glory,
before i knew you were to be gone so soon.
i smile, assured that if that moon, and those crickets
had spoken true,
you would have loved living in this old house
peaceful and solid,
infused with scents of leather and bergamot
with me savoring the chilly evening that once left me shuttering
an opportune moment for a steamy cup of tea!
Walking… Thinking… Talking… Singing…
playing with my dog
even if the dust has gotten
a tiny bit out of hand.
All souls’ elegy
Charles Monette
unbearable dreams… all the departed were present
wild and wanton, their spirits gasping the air
the eve of All Souls’ Day, dreaded beliefs recurring
as mirrors imitate the wintry grey of bones
passing graveyards dark silhouette
death’s acceptance rejected anew
wandering souls searching the wind
disrespect running deep in the ground
to be thus remembered under a gloomy November moon
rain falling, rituals’ rabble rife
dry water’s life splattered o’er remains
meaning gone from the garden’s grow
genteel blathering clouding memories…
yet a distant time, a distant place draws near
moans of the dying congeal sedulously
muffling the striking of a pitch-black clock
years passed along with days
troubled souls seeking marigolds, the sweet bread of the dead
unsettled aching in the hereafter
a patch of pain, regret… why, why, why
tonight…walk the road’s center… beware of encouraging the dust
of disturbing phantoms’ shadows resting alongside
for peripheral chills will envelop one’s spine… raising hackles
flashing terror’s mischief, a spur to run
eerie echoes, otherworldly rattles lack relevance… yet
add to the scare of the chase… catching up… falling behind
running off, outracing grown up ghosts
traditions slipping, screaming for a delicate plain
daring in daylight
hurrying back to bury somebody at the cemetery’s edge
perhaps a priest’s prayer will banish ghostly faces
exhorting them to their place… to await midnight’s exhumation
lopsided red-streaked-gray marble, water and a candle
an oblong tombstone’s engraving chiseled out
nameless as an unknown soldier’s
epitaph shrouded in secrets
stumbling bones stuck in mud’s asylum
hungry ghosts grabbing, unwrapping life’s promise once more
disappointments’ confusion leaving the marrow of emptiness
as if fine one moment and dead the next
[A note on the image]
Aladar Korosfoi-Kriesch
All Souls' Day --1910 Oil on canvas, 51,5 x 72,5 cm
Hungarian National Gallery, Budapest
(It is a Hungarian tradition to go to cemeteries to honor the dead)
You cancelled your vacation
Charles Monette
you cancelled your vacation, said it was a waste of time
you didn’t ask me to come along, so I didn’t cancel mine
said you’d rather go to the carbon conference
though a governor on your pedal slowed deliverance
a pick-up artist curing smelly compost on the curb
you lost your drive, now drive less… unperturbed
two times a week buys pricey green organic groceries
take a bean, walk a block… second hand store sells ivories
recycle that glass… that plastic… redeem it like never before
hey reuse it, refuse it, metamorphose into a see-through door
all that garbage… all that trash… all that shit galore
soon be floating… polluting… Cousteau’s ocean floor
take your time, saunter slinky as you walk away
look back once, close your eyes as if to say
a shake, a shrug, a pissed off tattoo demeanor
should’ve fought to hold you, found two words, ‘I love Lena’
out of this world, you were trippin out my world
neither differences genteel, non commutable…nor easily unfurled
Cape bikin, Maine coast traipsin,… old friends lyin on a windswept beach
hot sands’ blain, hidin out in Cockaigne… never within reach
dancing-dizzy, spinning, whirli-gigging love’s confusion
falsetto-falling, famished on brink’s recision
white flag surrender comes to you wide-open
as in a gray love story filmed by Bergman
Malvern Hill
Charles Monette
It was the sixth and last of seven days
The battle for Malvern Hill, July 1st, 1862
McClellan and Lee locked horns in Herrico County
Virginia… up a piece from Poindexter’s farm
Disjointed assaults on the nearly impregnable Union position
Yanks up on Malvern Hill, the favorable ground
Slopes cleared of lumber, greater visibility downhill
Lee orders attacks directly… instead of flanking…
Artillery would clear the way…
Tragic miscalculation
Deadly fire rained thunder down on the Confederates,
Slaughtering them in their charge
5,300 rebel casualties without gaining an inch of ground
Blue bled too… 8,500 in all
Despite the victory, McClellan withdrew
To Harrison’s landing on the James River
Gunboats now protected his army
Malvern Hill lay soaked in blood, pockmarked
Bodies lying there still
[The image: Watercolor by Sneden]
Cicero's Hands
Mike Murray
A man of letters, a man of riches
He didn't have to burn those bridges
He lived and played with the men who held the sword
There was safety, but there was right
And in the stillness of the night
In the troubled times, his hands held only words
CICERO'S HANDS HANG IN THE FORUM
CICERO'S HANDS -- A GENERAL'S WARNING
ARE YOU PREPARED TO PAY THE PRICE FOR TAKING A STAND?
FEAR AND TREMBLING IN THOSE HOURS
TELLING THE TRUTH ABOUT A MAN OF POWER
WHEN YOU TURN THAT BRIDGE TO BURN, THINK OF CICERO'S HANDS
Asma's poem defied the danger
She warned, "Why mind this stranger?"
The stranger claimed to speak God's voice alone
Then the voice commanded slaughter
"Who will rid me of Marwan's daughter?"
When it's time to speak your mind, think of Asma's poem
There's big payback to check out
You're gonna end up sticking your neck out
When your life is on the line, you're all alone
When you call for folks to ponder
The crimes of those they honor
When you turn that bridge to burn think of Asma's poem
CHORUS
In their hearts, your words rings true
But they'll still come for you
When they hear the big man say you ought to be banned
All those battles to be won
Will they mean much when you're gone?
When you turn, that bridge to burn think of Cicero's hands
CHORUS
When it's your turn, your bridge to burn think of Cicero's hands
When it's time to speak your mind, think of Cicero's hands
When it's your turn, your bridge to burn, think of Cicero's hands
published with permission, copyright 2017 Mike Murray
overflowingly so
Charles Monette
thoughts dying in clouds
focus within reach
abruptly pushed over edge
thoughts wander, wonder over water
never landing
burning out
cosmic relatedness
all relates to all after all
random stirrings of memory
mind soaring, soaring beyond
imagination gliding
a splash of color scalds the earth
inspiration’s shaking foundations
stirring up rough dirt
far flung falling… an abysmal feeling
unreliable winds pelting exalted thoughts
blowing tree tops… life’s fluctuating fray
jump startled by thunder’s explosive cracks
vaulting over reckless danger
assiduously revised
I come to you… a spur to writing
Other voices
Charles Monette
March winds have quieted
Too soggy to blow
They sigh away to churn the sea
Listening for words of beauty
Some never heard before
Looking, hearing for a different way
Forsythia’s early yellow
Bell-shaped flowers, shrubs of an Olive family
Offer easy to appreciate full throttled blooms
Counting on spring to lift the gloom
Renew assurance with each green grass blade
It’s a young loving time of year
Moody moods’ last brood dissipates
To a chickadee’s call
Rivers swell muddy with snow’s last white
Something to remember me by
Winter’s baton passes grudgingly
Robins perch proudly, atomic tangerine
Did we expect any other?
Coming down with the rain
Wet showers circling… soaking a tree
Lichen brighten, stamp okay
Blue purple crocus open to day
This spring’s beauty ever slightly unlike
Ice floes slow
Charles Monette
Ice floes slow, a meditative pace
snow fringed, white edged circled upon the river
some big as all outdoors… shaped like continents adrift
melting atop… daystar’s penetrating rays also deeply felt
currently moving down river
till finally vanishing, becoming one with the waterway
smaller chunks, little snowbergs slip by… side by side
slandering in the sun
seemingly moving to end faster, to add to the deep
begun perhaps as ice shockles way up north
or frozen on a neighborhood bank
southwardly… slowly flowing southwardly, a push pull to the sea
look… an ice raft rafting, broke loose from the shore
reminders of Arctic collapsing firns,
neve no longer, never more to be
earth’s frozen waters flowing precipitously
I watch sipping coffee, an uneasy tranquil stare
pleased to see them moving, knowing Spring will soon be here
Venus Smiled
Charles Monette
3 straight years, Earth is getting hotter
3 records set in a row
NOAA cooking the books
NO Antartic, Artic melting away
Chinese plot… I think not… do they want waterproof?
feel the swelter, helter skelter… Phalodi… Africa 123.8 degrees
drought, starvation,… no water to grow to drink
emissions of heat trapping gases, greenhouse gases
carbon monoxide
planetary warning planetary warming
threat to the natural world
El Nino swoops in… hot energy, water vapors release
2016 the hottest year 3 straight records in a row
trouncing past records, rising temperatures warm the globe
our constantly changing planet
Artic oceans 20-30 degrees above normal last Fall
seas ice sunset
startlingly rapid coastal erosion
some connectivity… an accelerated era
hot data records 3rd straight in a row
do you feel it?
water
cold water, hot water, no water, high waters, waterboarding
water color, waterfowl, waterway, waterworks, waterlogged
water pollution, waterproof, waterfront, waterfall
watertight, water under the bridge, water cannon
water wiping out the bridge Waterloo, water,
water everywhere, nary a drop to drink
war-uh, watery, water
water
