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04
Jan
13

Dumpster-Divers: A People’s Revolution


 

 

dump

Living in a small rural lake-side community in Southern Ontario, many who live here year round are often of modest means including myself hence, some have found interesting ways to augment their meager incomes by pursuing a practice of Dumpster-diving. Though I have heard this term referenced some time ago, I never thought that I would ever experience the practice; at least not til the other day when I was invited to join a neighbor friend to do just that.  This compelled me to write the following poem to honor this new experience and one I most certainly intend on repeating:

Dumpster-Divers: A People’s Revolution

The refuse of others is there to be had
What is consciously wasted can drive you mad
But we dumpster-divers, we’re mighty glad
Our best of hopes is for this to go beyond just a fad

From clothing to computers it’s there for the taking
The bounty of goods is the land-fills forsaking
The practice proves environmental change in the making
Even still, some societal laws we are considered breaking

A new era of impoverished peoples is overtaking the globe
The gap between have and have-not is alarmingly beginning to unfold
And like the garbage, the poor are being mercilessly left in the cold
Possibly the roots to a People’s Revolution, future generation will be told.

04
Jan
13

Poetic Lethargy


Embarking upon this new year 2013, after decades of writing and amassing hundreds of poems, prose and a variety of essay on a spectrum of topic; you might say my `muse to the moment’ so expressed, I have decided when warranted, to provide a preamble to what is posted with the intent of adding context or background. Ideally this will add a touch of `color’ to better illustrate the reason or understanding to the posting’s content.

To this end, here is the first of the 2013 series:

As any writer, author, I experience from time to time a sense of frustration stemming from the seeming inability to attract critical attention to my works.  This garners a sense that what is being written is inadequate, superfluous, non-relevant yet, for some unfathomable reason, like an addiction to recreational drugs, I continue to spoon out page after page of material.  This frustration from time to time must be expelled by expressing it in written form – a catharsis if you will.  Hence, the following:

Poetic Lethargy

Much to write, much to say
This my life, has become the way
Yet, not one heeds the words wrote
Let alone, the words spoke.

There is no special wisdom or insight to behold
But to transcend what my consciousness is told,
The unknown words of thought brought to the light of day,
Leaving to others to interpret what they have to say.

So what becomes of this poetic lethargy?
How to release the creative energy,
To dispel the thoughts, those that come to mind
With want only to make see, the literary blind?

02
Jan
13

2013


2013 purported to be a magic-marker, the embarking into a golden-age yet,  at the strike of midnight, all is found to be the `same old way‘.   Will it not take more then the change of calendar dates for humanity to alter its destructive path, to recognize all that preceded December 31st, 2012 was, is, of its choosing and doing?

Increasingly immersed in the flood of technological gadgetry to mask the pain, suffering and emotional detachment, individually the collective grows blind and calloused to any promise of correction to the apathy that has metastasized the human consciousness.

True this brief diatribe sounds pathetically negative but, it is born from disappointment and frustration that what has yet to unfold in the promised days of 2013 is more likely then not, to be an amplified replay of 2012 and decades preceding. Should this pessimistic projection be ultimately proven wrong, no one would be more pleased then myself.

This all said, all the best to any and all whose eyes and mind encounter this posting.

16
Dec
12

The Face I Face


Image
I woke from a darkness to face a face I am not
The last of my memory is being shot
Who have I become with this face I got
Would this be the face I would have otherwise sought?

Is to be forgotten the face of who I am?
Does this face make me the other man?
Will those who love me need start again?
Or have I become a living sham?

Medical science has rendered this face a new life
Has all been cured by a sterile scalpel knife?
Or has the door been open to a life of mental strife?
When in the mirror the face I face, does not appear right.

05
Dec
12

ENERGIZED CHAOS


ENERGIZED CHAOS

Energized Chaos: Metaphor for the unseen power of electro-magnetic influence in the structuring of form from chaos

02
Nov
12

Human Conflict


A Soldier’s Patriotic Stand

I was just a young man, naive by any measure
To the military, I was an absolute treasure
No defined morals, ethics or things to get in the way
Giving them the opportunity to make me think, do, what ever they say

Shipped off to boot camp with similar guys like me, their peer
Once there, the first two weeks, the drill sergeant was the one most feared
Drills and exercise became the main course of the day
Shooting bullets, bayonet stabbing, were made to be just play

Three months in I could see I was becoming another man
Like molding clay, I was putty in their hands
After weeks of simulated war games and psychological drills
I knew not only if I had to, but, I knew I was ready to kill

Then the day came when it was no longer just play
On a foreign battlefront mission, a sudden explosion marred our way
Chaos issued, bullets and mortar shells exploding all around
When the dust finally settled, it was then I grew sick by what I found

A gut-wrenching scene of dead and bullet riddled bodies, strewn all over the place
They were mostly school-aged children, what we did was human disgrace
The explosion, a school bus engine backfiring, was the spark to trigger
This band of young soldiers armed, primed for any fight, to make us feel bigger

Since that fateful, life-changing experience, I can never forget
This man, the military made me, is my life’s greatest regret
For now the moral burden of innocent blood spilt by my hand
Makes it harder to believe this country’s patriotic stand.
    

 




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