Archive for the ‘Poetry by Friends’ Category

THOUGHTS ON DEATH BY JEAN JONES

My wife told me that our neighbor died during the night,
we weren't sure where,
he was staying at a nursing home,
and yesterday, at work,
I found the obituary of my Aunt Lucille,
lived up to the ripe old age
of 92,
outlived all her siblings
including my dad,
outlived her husband
and even one of her sons.
She was born 1917, and like many
of her generation,
the Depression and World War II
changed the way she looked at things.
But even her
in her ripe old age
is dead, and all this
made me think of that line from
"Little Buddha:"  "What is impermanence?"
"See these people, all around you?  In 100 years,
they won't be here.  That is impermanence."
Do we live our lives knowing we are impermanent?
Buddhism not only teaches that, it states we are interdependent.
Everyone's needs are connected with one another.  H
ow are we to live in an impermanent
and interdependent universe?  The Buddhists teach people to be kind to one another.
Christians say love your neighbor as God loves you.
Christianity teaches not to be afraid of death
for Jesus conquered death at the cross.
Dying is going home in Christianity
but not many Christians I've met feel that.
Death is an unknown fear.
I'm frightened by it,
mainly because I don't know what's there.
I suspect there is nothing there,
a vast void,
so I run away
from it
as much as possible.
Perhaps I and many others
live our lives
like the characters
of an Edgar Allan Poe Story,
"The Masque of the Red Death."
While the Red Death raged outside,
people inside
Prospero's castle acted as if
there was no such thing.
There were continuous parties
and celebrations.
Then the clock would sound,
and everything would stop
until the clock
stopped tolling.
One night,
the Red Death appeared,
disguised,
and killed everyone there in the castle.
Are we like those revelers,
pretending death does not exist?  I wonder.

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Puncture Wounds is an ebook featuring poetry by Scott Urban and Bruce Whealton. “It is fully illustrated in blood drenched color,” to quote Scott Urban.

This ebook is available for preview at: http://WordSaladPoetryMagazine.com/ by clicking on “Puncture Wounds” from the menu on the left.

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The Hero’s Dream?

Every hero is formed
out of a belief
in what is right -
justice! -
that the fight against evil
is right ...
in the end
good will win.
I believed in that lie
and it cost me everything...
that belief,
that passion,
for what I thought was
right.
I was blinded by my passion.

I  tried to be the perfect hero -
Indestructible.
I'd fight evil
and I'd die
for her
not that this every mattered.

It didn't matter.

Maybe my love wasn't strong enough.
Maybe I just didn't recognize
my own vulnerability.
Maybe she didn't know
she could fall for one as vulnerable
as I.

She warned me
that fighting this, this Evil
was so wrong...
that I wasn't recognizing the risks
to myself and to us.

But I was passionate...
I thought I was right...
I didn't listen to her...
I didn't really  believe
that the danger existed,
I just followed my passions.

I wanted to be the perfect hero...
not weak
not vulnerable...
Surely it was right...
whatever it took,
the ends justify the means...
or so it seemed
or so I told myself,
if I had even stopped to think about it...

But I was driven by that lie
and my own passions...

In the greater scheme of things
In the end...
All that matters
is the one we love.

Bruce Whealton
September 26, 2009

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FOR POUND BY JEAN JONES

“il miglior fabbro”

For Ron and Joe

By sheer force of personality
you demanded court and asked others
to listen to your proclamations
whether it came from the newspaper
or from whatever else you were reading.
Everything was a lecture to you,
You were Pound the teacher at
“Ezuversity” and you held court there.
James McLaughlin was spellbound by what you
proclaimed: Jefferson economics,
or Mussolini, the benevolent
dictator, who was going to lead
Italy out of this usury
mess, this problem with the Jewish
bankers who ran the whole show- You were
tired of it- That was why you were
in Italy in the first place.
But then World War II happened:
There were your broadcasts, and then there were the
camps; something you never would have guessed-
Facism died along with Benito
and you were imprisoned in a cage
and you were contemplating your fate-
You expected to be hanged-
And then there were your Pisan Cantos:
“the ant’s a centaur in his dragon world,”
“what thou lovest well, shall not be reft
from thee, what thou lovest well. . .”
And what did you discover about
yourself as you contemplated death?
What you love, lasts. As the Apostle
Paul once wrote, “Love never dies.”
You were prepared for your fate.
And what was this fate? What was coming to
you? Something you never could have seen.
A mental ward. St Elizabeth’s.
As friends visited you, they could hear the
screams near your cell everyday. It was
torture, but like all things you bore it well.
And you cast it as judgement against you.
Instead of execution, you saw now
that all they saw was an idiot.
You were really a political
prisoner. Now, Amnesty would have
listed you as a prisoner of
conscience. But you believed their lies.
You became silent. You said nothing.
In the end, they broke you, which is what
they wanted from the beginning.
You are an Orwellian hero to
me, part of a new generation
that picked up your banner and cried out,
“Study. Learn. Before you write, know what you
are doing. And remember those before
you. They wrote for a purpose. Recall it!”

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UP A MOUNTAIN DEEP IN INDONESIA – POEM BY JEAN JONES

Up a mountain deep,
in Indonesia

in the island of Sumatra,
deep in Indonesia

where no one speaks English,

where the only tourists
are blonde-haired Dutch
men & women

& up the mountain
that goes up in
curves

driving in weaves
up a single road
up a mountain
where you find yourself
at the top
of a crater,

the crater a huge
lake
& down the crater
the lake stretches
out for miles

& from the top
of the mountain

it seems
that life when
viewed from a
distance
high above

it stretches for miles
its dimensions
unfathomable
its length & width
unrecognizable

its beauty
insurmountable

& before one
descends
back down

into the thick of things
into the crowds of people
into the cars that
weave around this life

it seems
that for an instant,
for a second
life like this lake
is so beautiful

an eye clear & pristine

one could almost live in it

swim in it
w/joy
on a hot
blue June day

deep in the hills
of Indonesia
where no one
speaks
English

where the
only tourists
are blonde haired
Dutch men & women

for an instant
you could
touch it

you could
live it
you could
believe in it
& for an instant

I was
glad
to be alive
to be there
to be here

on top of
the lake
whose
dimensions
are
unrecognizable

&
before
I descend
I see
this

& I am
smiling
for I am
alive
I'm ere
& I don't want
to be

anywhere
else
anywhere
else
anywhere
else

& I
wish you
were here

in the
sunlight
w/me

right here
right now

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Here’s a posting I got from Jean Jones, author various “Angel of Death” poems.
People’s New Testament

9:11 They had a king over them. The real king was not the star, but the power of
the bottomless pit.

Apollyon. The destroyer; either the devil or one of his angels.

updated 5:38 p.m. ET, Thurs., Aug 27, 2009
OKLAHOMA CITY – Whoever killed a pastor inside her small Oklahoma church
“staged” the body, authorities said Thursday, meaning it was moved into an
unnatural position after the slaying.

Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation spokeswoman Jessica Brown declined to
elaborate on how the body of 61-year-old Carol Daniels was positioned inside the
Christ Holy Sanctified Church in Anadarko.

Brown also said investigators are reviewing video surveillance tapes from a
nearby convenience store for clues in the brutal killing. A preliminary autopsy
found she died of “multiple sharp force injuries,” and a veteran local
prosecutor described the crime scene as “the most horrific” he’s ever witnessed.

THE ANGEL OF THE BOTTOMLESS PIT

I WAS SUMMONED. THE TIME IS AT HAND.

THE STARS ARE RIGHT. I HAVE BEEN AWAKENED,

AND DOZENS UPON DOZENS HAVE DIED TO SUMMON AND AWAKEN ME.

THERE WAS A WOMAN, ALONE IN THE CHURCH.

SHE SCREAMED. SHE WOULDN’T STOP SCREAMING.

ALL THIS BLOOD, SPURTING FROM THEIR BODIES.

ALL THEY ARE, ARE BALLOONS, FILLED WITH BLOOD.

ONE SCRATCH, AND THEY BURST OPEN, FILLING THE ROOM WITH THEIR BLOOD.

SUCH USELESS CREATURES.

IT WAS A GOOD THING I WAS SUMMONED.

I PLACED HER AS I WAS TOLD.

THE MASTER SAYS THERE ARE MANY MORE TO GO.

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Here’s a poem by Jean Jones. Jean writes: A made for order Angel of Death poem based on reality”
And quoting for the UK’s “Telegraph” newspaper (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/6080582/Model-murder-suspect-Ryan-Jenkins-was-a-good-guy-businessman.html):

“Model murder suspect Ryan Jenkins was a ‘good guy’ businessman

But the manner of his death could have been scripted for TV: as police
investigated the murder suspect’s suicide at a secluded Canadian motel, they
launched a manhunt for the mysterious young woman had checked in with him. The
dramatic end came at an isolated motel at the edge of British Columbia’s
mountainous interior, on the outskirts of Hope, a town known for its giant
wooden carvings made with chainsaws and as the site of the first bloody Rambo
movie. . .

The motel manager said the woman paid cash for three nights and when the couple
didn’t check out, he unlocked the room and found him dead.

“I cracked the door and there he was, hanging there in front of me, feet
touching” the floor, Walker said. “He definitely wanted to die. I smelt death.”

THE ANGEL OF DEATH CHECKS IN AT A LOCAL MOTEL

“You did well, Ryan, you did well. I liked the business with the teeth and
fingers. Pretty through.”

“I’m so tired, so tired.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, tell me all about it.”

“There’s not much to tell. The killing went by quickly. It was cutting her up
that took up so much time and trouble.”

“I bet you couldn’t believe that they used her breast implants to identify her
body!”

“That bitch.”

“I told you to cut off her breasts.”

“I was done cutting.”

“Well, we’re safe now. Near mommy and daddy.”

“I want to go to sleep, to forget, to sleep forever. . ”

“That will come soon enough, darling. Listen, I need for you to get some rope
from the trunk of the car.”

“Rope?”

“We have one final thing to do.”

“And that is?”

“To wrap a pretty picture and story for the media. I mean, I have a reputation
to keep.”

“Who are you?”

“Let’s not go over that, shall we? Suffice it to say that I’m one of your
Calgary ‘girlfriends.’”

“But I don’t remember you.”

“But I do you. I like the spectacular ones, and boy, you are spectacular.”

“What do you want me to do now?”

“Get the rope and follow my instructions.”

“Will I get rest then?”

“Yes indeed, my darling, yes indeed. . . ”

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