That's the lucky part

I've heard it said by my history teachers:

George Washington was the first President of America,

then a newly formed Republic,

finally successful in a war for independence against the

mighty British Empire.

It was a protracted struggle,  costing lives and wealth.

In doubt over the many years of battles was the triumph of the colonies.

How they won is undisputed, with major credit given to the

leadership of the Continental army, and luck.

Luck is a powerful intangible at work over the many generations of

human life, and it continues to be active.

In America, I've heard it said by my history friends

that luck has ended for the people of this land.

The current president, nameless for this diatribe, is a disaster.

He is a disaster not only for the people of America, though;

he is a plague on the nations of the world.

I've heard it said by my nighttime mind:

this current president is immoral but not immortal.

That's the lucky part.

Edna (1892-1950)

In Paris, a simple bridge over the river Seine
could not be rebuilt:

George Dillon brought his younger arms,
surrendered to lavish red-haired charms
and the scandalous Fatal Interview
about the sexuality of two
was promptly published on the following Saturday.
It offered a literary way
to understand the sad demise
of one famous Poetess sonnet-wise,
who became drug addicted and Steepletop lost
at an undeniably human cost.

Me?

With lips like a valentine heart
and sweet songs from her apple cart
would she love me, if I said
I could raise her from the dead
and read Aeneid or Baudelaire
in French or Spanish, if she'd care.
We could go walking in the nude
and while not perfect or purposely rude,
I'd kiss her inside her candle's glow
and play music on the keys of her piano.

She could recite her poem Renascence
with that unforgettable voice which forever haunts.

off the foggy coast of wild Peru

how did you survive

when they killed the number five,

and tossed your Father in a cell?

because in Kashmir there is a riot

when Indian troops demand a total quiet

from early dawn until an indefinite tomorrow

like a conquering Spanish Pizarro

off the foggy coast of wild Peru.

what will you do?

a sharp-eared owl heard the softest drums

of an approaching storm:

she saw the clever swarm

of power-hungry mouths

eating the primordial forest nude and bare,

leaving

nothing but thin air:

her tongue could taste the odor

of a menacing nightmare

softly creeping 

into bedrooms where children were safely sleeping,

dreaming of their grand empires

of laughing moons and shooting stars and youthful merriment.

their closed eyes and gentle faces,

wrapped in imaginary blankets of loves' good graces,

rest in peace.

what will they become?

more statues made of gold?

F. Scott Fitzgerald, American novelist

Celebration beer in hand, 

the stranger sat next to Scott and asked about the Paris weather.

Zelda overheard the question and threw her drink

at the face of the questioner.

"How dare you?" she demanded,

"Who ever cares!"

as soon as she finished her last word, she went

to replace her drink.

the weather improved in her absence.

but just as soon as she left, she returned,

drink in hand.  

Scott had a drink in hand, too,  and one resting on 

an adjacent table.  

he liked having a simple choice. 

Scott saw Duncan walk in with a young man who

was half her age and decided to introduce himself.

when Zelda saw him knell before the aging dancer, she yelled,

"How dare you?"

"Who ever cares!"

and she ran from the room, drink in hand, and threw herself from

the nearest balcony.  

the weather improved in her absence.

Jair and Donald

everybody knows that

former President Jair Bolsonaro,

a Brazilian by birth,

is loved by the American president,

Donald.

Bolsonaro lost his most recent

bid for a continuation of his own

Presidency, in 2023.

He claimed voter fraud.

Everybody knows that

he is opposed to same-sex marriage,

abortion,

affirmative action,

drug liberalization,

secularism,

and, of course,

a woman having her own voice (as in abortion).

is it any wonder why

trump loves this guy, even though Bolsonaro

is younger and better looking.

trump himself claimed voter fraud when he

clearly and decisively lost a prior presidential

re-election bid. 

They are kissing cousins from afar,

men in love,

Brazil and America,

united in their quest for total power.

 

A literary table

A literary table in a Paris cafe
found Picasso on the sidelines
with surprisingly little to say.
Braque and his wife kept sipping their tea,
explaining the concept of ideal harmony:
"it's like poetry on canvas to form a new art;
a metamorphosis of rhythm which springs from the heart."

nearby hung a painting of two men reading from a letter,
arguing in jest about which one was the better,
but Picasso never wished Braque away;
although, in 1921 it certainly seemed that way.

Braque finished his tea and felt quite alive;
he had to break with Picasso is he were to survive,
and so off he went,
as though he were Heaven sent.

his studio was filled with tactile space
where curtains with irony and white lace
fluttered by the open windows.

TS, phone home

i slept in the Victoria Hotel
down in old Mexico
and walked on handmade tiles
colored in deep indigo.

Eliot wasn't on my floor
nor was he in the bar
listening to the young gringo
strumming on an old guitar.

i heard he was still swimming
in a pool without a sound
with a handful of wasteland dust
i remember he had found.

he was wearing a huge sombrero
pulled tightly against his cheek
with a slip knot fully made
still showing the receipt.

my margarita had no salt
but i drank it all the same
to not offend the bartender
who called me by my name.

a Spanish lady with the melons
she was proposing to sell
approached the nervous tourist
ringing the front desk bell.

i came to walk the canyon
so deep it smelled of death
where spirits wear an empty mask
and take away your breath.

a train would leave the station
soon maybe the next day
and though tempted by those melons
i knew i shouldn't stay.

my coach was full of writers
down on their luck & drunk
on mescal which they all consumed
until their voices shrunk.

we stopped above the canyon walls
& began the long decent
into darkness at highest noon
i wondered what it meant

i heard the hidden waterfall
down in these depths of doom
and supped on poetry endless
beneath a Copper moon.

Ho Chi Minh didn't play golf

Ho Chi Minh city:

street traffic swallowed by honking horns

where a new Trump Tower

is to be built over the bones of Ho Chi Minh,

a man who wouldn't wash dirty dishes

for any rich white developer.

Ho Chi Minh claimed no deferments.

he held aspirations for his people,

his country,

and their future as an independent nation.

His sacrifice was for a unified Vietnam,

not for an irrigated front and back nine with

world-famous greens,

tidy bunkers full of smoothed sand,

and custom Italian tiles craftily laid inside the men's locker room,

where golden showers would soon soothe the skin.

Ho Chi Minh didn't play golf.  

 

temples in the mountains

i wore my robe and soft slippers

sipped mint tea

heard the wind outside my tent

harmoniously

ushering in the night.

 

i saw temples in the mountains

heavy stones beside my head

a thin mat on the hard ground

which i called my bed

comforting my soft soul. 

i saw the prayer flags singing

snows deep within a high pass 

wild goats with coats of heavy fur

searching for a blade of grass

growing cold in winter.

 

i saw the great wall moving west

sat in awe

felt the land beneath my feet

move at the sound of a shepherd's call 

and a new day dawned.