Friday, December 29, 2017

Can't Be Bought

Sacramento Jazz Festival Collage
—Poems and Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

‘Neath every poem
Is a dream of
Unknown proportions
Laden with dubious

Which tell dormant lies
Like an intricate network
Of sleeping train tracks
One moment enjoying mild

Suddenly asked to carry
A tumultuous nightmare
The burned ruins of an
Exemplary, well-planned

Have we lost all we built?
Are we heading to war?
Will our survivors survive us?
Is there any hope for

To Hitler and trickle down
We tried it your way
And it didn’t work, now
Let’s open the window for some

In response to “Oak Hollow” by Taylor Graham

We’ll just leave those ferocious dinosaurs
With multiple rows of teeth
In the dusty history books

The issue is how much guns and ammo
Does today’s hunter need to prove
His rightful place on the food chain?

First he strolls into a gun store
And hunts for a good rifle
With a comfortable grip

At home he visits online to hunt down
A more comfortable price
Adds long-rifle bullets to the cart

Faithfully noting the warning on the box
That their range is over a mile
Offers up an assumed name, and Sold!

‘Cause we’re going to go hunting
With our noisy rifle or dozen, and
Let the recoil serve to pound our chest



After Philip M. Raskin’s
“Hanukkah Lights”

“The names of our heroes immortal,
The noble, the brave, and the true;
A battlefield saw I in vision,
Where many were conquered by few”

These are the guiding words of
Those holding ranks so high
They claim to own 100 percent
Of all that is the American Pie

They let others do the dirty work
That is so below their class
For they are David, mighty conqueror
Who kicked Goliath’s ass

And now they have a tax plan
That benefits the few
Funded by taxpayers immortal,
The noble, the brave, and the true


Response to Taylor Graham’s “Big Country”

(Medusa's Kitchen, 12/21/17)

We are a nation of laws
Cutting, grinding, polishing them
To replace every Mother Nature’s gem

Just because

The freedoms many of us seek
Go to those with gated lots
Country clubs and pleasure yachts

Fineries abound until they reek

Tall fences, constant imposition
Unilateral laws galore
Led us to a Revolutionary War

Which we won, or is that a fiction?

A mere painter’s helper was I
Standing atop a scaffolding
Masked, sweating, sanding

The best boat bottom that money could buy

At the end of the day
Worn out and spent
Though ready for more, spirit unbent

All for a minion’s pay

My treasure was not
Soon to be forgotten
One bite of fresh fruit, the rest is rotten

Priceless, can’t be bought


Today’s LittleNip:

If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.

—George Orwell


—Medusa, with thanks to Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz) for today’s challenging poems and his equally fine photos!

 Celebrate the dreams 'neath every poem...!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.