Irises

TOO MUCH

Their just too much, the radical right-
too much for most men to handle,
although their well paid whores
are certainly willing to handle:
most men.

BLUE MIST

The sun had dipped below the horizon
and the valley and draws were filling
with a blue mist, wearily sitting in my study
I was gloomily reflecting on a recent massacre
in Baja Mexico, when a family of fifteen
quietly gathered in the dark room.

As the rest silently stood around the edge of the room
with mute beseeching eyes, one of them
stepped forward and apologized for the intrusion,
but asked if he might be able to explain:
I suddenly found myself going with anger at my elbow
through the front pages of fanatical deceit
(may God have mercy) on a night
that was warm and black and filled with autumn decay.

Days have passed but there remains
the smell of murder that terror and tore
chunks chipped from a flat wall
and the stains on the Earth and stones.
Fifteen men women and children were rudely awoken
from their beds in their homes.
Fifteen human beings were lined up
and cruelly executed by a gang who is a front
organized, funded and directed by the American radical right.
It caused my heart such pain.
I sighed from the souls of my shoes,
and thought about the brutal place
of hate and terror and shame.
My mouth was as dry as dust.

Then I heard the echoing sigh!
The stains became pools of blood again
and chips from a smooth stucco wall began to fly.
A riddled corpse fell to the thirsty ground:
over whose body loomed the brutal paid assassins.
A rooster crowed and flew away.
There another one lies a grotesque statue
done in blood and bones. Among the noise,
screams and cries for mercy I see
before me another cluster of corpses
already eternally embracing in a gory mass.
They seem to have erupted from the dirt and lawn.
Each face stares past me from its ordained place:
the ones at the end made an attempt to run
but were cut down by the guns that cried halt
and so they did resting for ever.
Then the ones in the middle with extended hands,
as if to stop the death delivering bullets.
They were forced up against the wall
and so were given their final piece of land.

It was when I turned that I saw again
the one who so politely asked if he might explain,
he raised his head and clearly said to me,
"We were all carted off, tossed into
the emergency vehicles. There were
so many of us that we ended up
stuffed suffocating on top of each other.

And so our dangerously peaceful lives were undone-
judged unfit because someone didn't agree
with how we lived with God and where happy."
"They murdered all fifteen men, women and children
so that they could heal the World-
remaking a perfect God's creation after their own image.
They killed all fifteen of us to set an example,
to intimidate the rest of the people in their healed World"
It was then the spectre faded and left.

"The living lie." a harsher condemnation
spoke in scorn. "Their's is the shame,
who praise God and justice and practice avarice,
and act in ignorant fury-
to tell us unbelievable lies about a gang
taking over Northern Mexico with violence.
A gang that's most detailed and minor operations
are ferreted out and published all across North America
all, we're expected to believe, in less than 12 hours.
No gang could exist operating that way!
That is not a gang that is a front:
being used to brutally kill harmless farmers and their families.
Nothing like blatantly obvious intimidation!"

"Law that lets the culpable parties
parade their guilt- dead men, women and children-
as though it were some sort of virtue.
And when it was pointed out,
the quick dumping of the story from the news services,
followed by the inevitable contrived inquiry.
All legal basis vanquished, for the good of the children
(even the dead ones) the thing rapidly arranged."

"With impartial justice we would still see
our wives and children alive today;
who were so unceremoniously piled into vehicles,
where their blood mixed upon the floor.
We were all related by blood, one big happy extended family.
Careful bullets in the chest, backs and skulls of my family
stopped dead by their cruel terrorist attack,
and so their dangerous powers live on-
judged, condemned and shamed all in one!"
So this ghost slowly effaced in turn.

An angrier voice replaced the other,
which scornfully spoke, "Aiee the shame is theirs
in word and deed for those who spout
about law and order and practice murder and greed,
it was just a front for an act of ignorant fury-
then, men of God and good citizens
send their rubber stamp inquiries
from the oblivious authorities,
Is it true then, did they really die?
Say that they were evil, under investigation
(just omit that all the farmers on the peninsula are)
then bury your consciences with the corpses.
And what kind of law lets outsiders organize
vicious thugs to kill innocent farmers and their families,
catch their lackeys red-handed, temporarily halt the charade
and leave it sanctified by a bogus report.
The legal basis has vanished,
a chimera, good can only come
from having it exposed
and let the law be changed to protect
the people, their property and their liberties.
The news is out. The phony gang
that is a front for the American radical right's
interventionist policy of extermination- is genocide.
If today we let them have their way
no one is safe and no one's property is secure- anywhere!
Who will be next on their hit parade?

Yet their papers spread the obvious lie,
they give the facts that they deny-
while their stories defy common sense!
What's left is rotting, and our/their
property is purchased at conveniently low prices
by people acceptable to the radical right.
The mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters,
sons, daughters, cousins, aunts and uncles
are all blinded by their bullets,
the priests blessed us with the sacraments
while our blood washed the World's face.
The truth is out: the gang in North Mexico
is a front for the American radical right
who hire assassins to kill all that
they do not approve of."
He paled then by degrees and though still flushed
with the passion of his truth he too faded away.

"Automatic assault weapons were used."
A calmer shade said who followed him.
A tangled bunch of foliage
some dried some tied to right wing political interests,
a natural enough union though,
when one considers history,
these movements always draw
certain helpful criminal elements toward them,
and besides they can eliminate other criminals
not useful by setting them up;
while, continuing to pretend to believe their propaganda's lies
about who is violent rather than them.
Sectarian strife for supremacy, divide and conquer.
They take over the remains
of what is left of the mess.
What a tremendous success!"
His attempted laugh was choked stopped
by bubbles of blood clogging his air way,
which caused him to break down in great pain.
With a terrible effort he continued.
"It was now time to further the propaganda
of non-existent violent traditions,
backwards looking rather than
"moving on to the next level"
- that is their latest cliched response-
which keeps us mired in this dire distress.
We must not look back to live and learn,
its look ahead, program the living,
not dwell on the lessons learned from the dead.

The last words died on his lips. A spirit said,
"Here lies one who wanted to live and see
his children grow-firmly rooted in traditions
of the past. A gangster fired standing
on both feet killing the father and
his children, condoned by tones of
brute authority.' a voice spoke again
" the lesson is easy and cuts most deep
It is a lesson we will keep always in our hearts."
reason, logic, persuasion, protest
mean nothing and accomplish the same
but the silence of the grave,
when civil liberties receive nothing but polite neglect.
The American radical right it seems your way is only
through murderous force;
You have degenerated to godless extremes,
you pretend to be pilot washing his hands
when in fact, behind the scenes, you direct the show.
You repudiate our honest existence
and condescend to acknowledge us
only when you smash out our teeth.
And then you rap your gavel for your order
with terrorists yielding your guns.
The issues simplify to one-
Then your justice insists
you must exterminate anyone who
does not think and act as you.
History then becomes one sordid muddle
divide and destroy, whatever deceit it takes.
No principles but perfidious power,
implemented subterfuge, highly political
Its enough to make a good man sick!!

Another corpse who hadn't spoken yet said,
"My curse upon your polite manners,
on people who loot a land
killing people they refuse to understand;
who keep the populace on their knees
(and delude themselves into thinking it prayer)
with a ready automatic and tyrannical laws;
then they let slip their monstrous thugs
who erupt in blind stupid rage after
being given a larger cage they
in self-interest turn against their own kind in.
The game is now being exposed,
while you hope you've killed all opposition;
or, the citizens will have had enough.
The time has come for you to stop
and yield your place with a show of grace.
World conquerors handing on to Democracies
a true spirit of liberty, while we reap the
ruin of all your errors rolling behind you.
unkempt promises, Faiths perverted,
bogus investigations, and traditions
centuries wise ruthlessly exterminated.'
You came you saw you conquered.
So you gorged - and then you passed on
to your next set of victims- Good riddance!
Now if we could rid ourselves of the refuse
of your self-serving, servile sycophants
that feast on the scraps you fling
to the floor at your avaricious feast.
Dressed in today's passing style,
the fanatical young apprentices of hate
ply your bigoted trade in dismal streets.
Brain washed into believing their 'True Religion'
is the only one it is based on power politics
and graven deceit who, dictate how all shall live.
They strut like the grey pigeons
who walk around trying to impress
themselves by each one echoing each other.
So this is how God and devil became so entwined.
Another puppet head of state, appears
in a fairyland democracy run by computer
generated elections. And another billboard
democracy joins the herd, Who knowing
what they do could love them? God? If God
is truth and love and goodness how can it
have anything to do with this?
The little children with mutilated faces
stand silent like a mute appeal.
Still the radical right's cursed existence cries out for
the pity they never observe.
If only they would stop and reflect
that God is good and not a luring lie
they might yet heal their disgrace-
with everything and everyone living their lives
just trying to get along.
We are all God's children who are what we are
and share in our birthright to be just as we please
with but one restraint:
We do not have the right to steal another's liberty!"
Then all the spectres silently slipped away,
in the distilled rain that had begun to fall
but could not clean the hills
the mountains and the valleys.
now cloaked in darkness.

STATE FAIR LOVERS

The weather was fine, as the sun
slowly settled to rest its oval faced ensconced
in a nimbus of pastel pollution.

From the fairgrounds the Ferris wheel circled
round and round: lifting lovers
into dreaming starless skies.

In the twilight a million colored neon lights
shone like falling stars; the carnival rides seemed made
of precious jewels emeralds, and rubies, and sapphires, and diamonds.

And in the baskets raising and falling in graceful arcs,
the lovers circled round and round
swirling through the realm of dreams.

Whatever became of the State Fair lovers?
I don't know, but driving by the fairgrounds yesterday,
all I saw was an autumn mist sweeping the trampled fields and empty lots.

A WEDDING

Afternoon in July and the cars traverse
narrow laned cityscapes where in the season of blue
the sky is as wide as tolerance.
As the day wears on the buildings watch each other;

close friends are nearer than relations
because of mutual affinities frozen in time.
But time is flux and those narrow one way streets
remain steadfast as a memory in my mind.

I drive by the church and think of your wedding
the steeple shines grey among the green trees,
in a vast evening bachanal celebration.
The shaded lights conjure our smokey dreamscapes.

But before the minister came and went, sprung from a door;
and, then all of us students, carpenters, scriblers
discussing contemporary commonalities, all in a haze of smoke,
toasting the quiet of twilight on poems and shadows.

The echo of your words, your pledges given,
an orchard budding blossoms where fruit has already fallen,
soaring so incredibly high the land a distant mirage
floating music makes my pipe sing;

or, so it was in the resplendent night
and from the glasses, I'll always drink your good fortune,
remembering your impoverished house, the dancing,
your rich cake foreshadowing the peril of success.

Cresting the West Hills, considering the poor print gift
(my gift of beauty was a picture by Van Gogh)
I recall the day that floated like an expanding bubble
growing beyond the confines of any calander year,

a radiant Summer surging over the banks and past the horizons
lasting well into October but inevitably Winter comes
and with it the inexorable erossions
that spread its gnarled branches all the way to British Columbia.

With Christmas close at hand a man's retail buisness,
the salesmen, the herds of people nudging one another
in the whole shivering rain covered mornings
to keep quiet the past regrets, wise retailers discoursed on trade,

Carthaginian genius- but commerce congests cities.
Counselors pontificate in conference rooms over in Vancouver
as raw materials cross from the island, a provence developing,
youths fish in season, and hike in forests

that are threatened by the encroaching suburbs,
only marriage will motivate them. Life in the mountains
are so saturated with fun, the liscenced premises
and the brew flowing freely, only who will save the marriages?

The straights are buffeted by violent uncontrolable winds
white caps send the waters into a frenzy
while the women grab whatever they can in the driving rains
that blur the seascapes and landscapes into one blind soggy mass.

In my home, the books line the bookcases and pictures and antique
plates decorate the walls. Where I'm happy deep in my easy chair.
The wife and I have eaten dinner seperately from our almost grown boys,
sitting down all together is a rarity these days
of deliberately developed chaos.

But we've reached the calm of burning embers.
In the shrinking lengths of years.
It is extremely wet this year I notice
The round table and rich solid oak furniture

belie a false prosperity in everything but love.
But we talk of trivia or trying to stay caught up
with the boys busy lives. The gardens garlened
with autumn colors in our ever more intimate yard.

But we discuss politics, corruption and tyranny.
In the city of Portland there's a cast of phony charactorers
like those of the middle ages, who travel around searching for 20th century witches.
People who don't live like them.

My son nods and notes the latest hypes.
The present persecutions have roots in history
deeper than history, than my own knowledge.
Watching the sly looks of their operatives.

and ignoring obviously contrived conversations
that echo out of every retail store in sight
I live my life happy in my own way.
sitting at home looking out the windows at the lovely grass.

The depths of my marriage will transport into the 21 century.
It is a profound sorrow that the other one of lost friends
didn't. The broad violet sky. The neightborhood kids
make their fledgling attempt at asserting their place in the world

till the air is soft with cool the evening darkness
drives them from the streets
into warm rooms flooded with artificial light.

Left sitting alone letting five hours slip past,
the scurry of squirrels and night settling birds
shape the early stages of nightfall
the people sit in frount of their TV's no country bumpkins here

these are prosperous aggressive individuals.
Even the youngest couples have a car
and mortage payments. No one here will
be allowed a life long wondering.

I look at them and hear the silent screams
justified by children. How can one
explain to a people what it means
when freedom is nothing but a memory.

How can I tell about the propaganda
that explains the explosions
whose regulations are nothing
but a merciless self-serving cunning.

I love my city too much to leave
I ask the obvious questions
that can be answered
only by lies or denials or evasions

Night has truly fallen
I think of my grandfathers place
where chickens were fed and
he made his own wine.

Calves were grown to a size
suitable for butchering.
the garden helped to feed the family
and each peace of wood that went to build his house was placed with love

The basement with its myserious canning rooms
(and stairs that descended into childhood adventures)
he formed and poured himself alone with the foundation
after digging it out wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow.

Hybrid tea roses, geraniums and lavendar
my mind drives home inspite of
sitting beneath a sky where stars are disappearing
into a vast emptiness, where my house sits warm and inviting.

Along the road with many houses quietness approaches
in most are various stages of marriages
mosquitoes land and visciously suck my blood
each house has its windows blind with night.

Looking at my house I see the multitude of years
and all thats left of obituaries, and the wakes
arise my thoughts that persist of them
among the cold wind and rustling leaves.

What has the permanence of these families come to?
There names have been removed and forgotten
and no one even knows how many families
have lived here. What lasts is the echos of their journeys,

the sojurns filled with pain, sorrow and rejoicing
voices, loved shrubs, all echoing away into eternity
like the soaring flights of my mind toward heaven
raising me back towards our Earthly paradise

paths wind through the deep dark gardens
stooping every so slightly with its past
our lives are the dreams of past generations
years after the divorce I attend your wedding again.

YOU HAVE BECOME

The gardens around the house,
city center, neighborhood
which I watched and where I drove;
for all these foreshortening years.

We have created a home and family
in joy, in love and in sorrows:
created from so many moments
created from so many things.

You have become all my heart for me.

SILENT LEAVES

Silent leaves scarcely shudder
in the decayed dark breeze;
the arching wren
draws a parabola in the dusk.

In my loving heart
the black breeze's death rattle echoes,
twilight descends,
a colorless sky, gently remonstrates.

And over the evening tree tops
an old woman, the harvest moon, wearily climbs its steps,
Why have the voices stopped singing?
Why is there so much mindless noise?

THE 16th FALL OF GENOCIDE

The 16th fall of genocide is starting,
a girl runs around the corner shot in the back.
Leaves are turning in Portland's beautiful West Hills.

I always knew that I would grow old,
but never believed that my country would ossify.
What remains besides democracy's false facade?
Fear in the coming evening,
I peer into a mirror at a stranger
staring back at the grey haired person
with features I have known.

A radio blares in the little street.
Its election time, and someone
is shooting at somebody out there somewhere
in a district the radical right wing would like to win
running on a law and order campaign,
as if the truth would never eventually be learned.
A cold wind blows from the Willamette River.

But what is that to me?
I thought my life was my own
and would continue
like a torpid river flowing to its end.
This isn't the future
that I worked for. What are centuries,
windswept beaches? I etch out each day
and its an eternity to me.

History is only the flotsam that's left.

God, how can you understand this spec
of human consciousness, our concerns and our misery;
and, how can we know the immensity of your concerns,
let alone hope for some tiny crumb of pity?

MY POEMS

My life has been my poems.
I have written most of it down
and stood solidly with those derelicts
who were left behind or hunted down
living each day from hand to mouth.
I was their witness
for I too was related
by preterite blood with them.

I felt their anguish,
their sorrows and false hopes,
and endured what they did
as they lived: the fear, the human
frailties, the paranoia, even their virtue and honor,
and, an endless stream of sad misery.
Their blood mercilessly spilled,
somehow stained my soul
branding me for life.

Trees and shrubs thrived
on the profusion of it
that was spilt on this wide World,
of green grass, brilliant flowers,
and sweet sounding songbirds.

I wrote about the women too.
Prostituted by boredom and greed,
blinded by bigotry.
I drove the city streets
leaving the bouquet's blighted blossoms
on the dirty steps of the golden temples:

and, returning home
I listen to you sing,
from behind the dark deep windows,
to the rising tide of night.

A COLLEGE BOOKSTORE REVISTED

Past the exit, beyond the frowning silver detectors
and noisy din of cash registers are rows and rows
filled with books on geology, mathematics, history,
physics, psychology and political science-
in short, on everything taught at the university.

A college student hurries down an aisle;
his studied air of youthful confidence is a new found armor,
his bright eyes shine as he peers at the class text tags;
near by is a triumvirate of friends, they are rowdy
young men whose boisterous bravado echoes across the vast abyss

of time's frontier.

Its late in the afternoon and the city streets are burning.
Semester is just starting and a human torrent
flows through the bookstore between steep banks of gleaming

merchandise;
a cute coed, with blue eyes and coral pierced earrings, keeps up
an everlasting racket,
and two more attractive coeds erupt in cruel golden laughter,
as they snub two would be suitors.

The teeming room vibrates with air-conditioners and fluorescent lights,
its a human collage of sights, sounds and smells.
What a contrast to the library where would be scholars
study long arduous hours in sepulchral rooms, and fill their minds
with great stores of facts and who can commit great feats of memory,
and haven't the wit to lead a miller's mule.

The knowledge they've acquired is all there;
it sits like old furniture gathering dust, while cluttering up an attic-
refuse rather than treasure; I leave the bookstore
with visions in my eyes, and depart driving West,
where a bloody cloak brutally settles to the ground.