Mantra for Sunset [Today's News Poem, January 21, 2011]
Call for your mistress, she's marching away.
There goes her green; her sandals and toes
Ripple the undertow, stagger the sand.
Distantly, gulls scribe 'm' on the sun.
Ponder the letter then hum it aloud.
"Mmm" is the rattle liberty makes
Inside your skull, which was stretched by ideas—
Sadly, your brain's back down to the size
Prior to freedom—it's smaller in fact.
Hum for the seagulls; call for the sun—
Everything's shrinking and even the torch
Fades and the light hisses on water.
"For now, the fear of destabilizing the municipal bond market with the words “state bankruptcy” has proponents in Congress going about their work on tiptoe. No draft bill is in circulation yet, and no member of Congress has come forward as a sponsor, although Senator John Cornyn, a Texas Republican, asked the Federal Reserve chairman, Ben S. Bernanke, about the possiblity in a hearing this month. "
—MARY WILLIAMS WALSH, The New York Times, Published: January 20, 2011
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/21/business/economy/21bankruptcy.html
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Showing posts with label statue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label statue. Show all posts
Friday, January 21, 2011
Mantra for Sunset [Today's News Poem, January 21, 2011]
Labels:
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Today's News Poem
Monday, May 31, 2010
Memorial For Vagrants [Today's News Poem, May 31, 2010]
Memorial For Vagrants [Today's News Poem, May 31, 2010]
The windows are shattered. The vagrants are haunted:
They're stray silhouettes in the alleys, betraying
The layers of darkness that linger this graveyard
Of wealth. And the playgrounds were filled with the children
Of workers. And now they are filled with the lurkers
And drunkards: their stories, too scary for movies.
The living? Who honors the living? Who follows
The losers not planted with markers and statues?
Who builds a memorial, praising the triumphs,
Or mourns for the losses a slide or a window
That carried the children with sand in their footwear
From heights to the depths. And the gardens were smiling,
The plum trees were fragrant. The rosemary blossomed.
The sidewalk was even. It carried the tiny
And precious embodiments love and compassion
Can cultivate. Grown and he's desperate for money—
For anything. Pushing a cart with his blanket,
With photos of happier memories: fading
And lacking memorial—save for the spirits
Of children who played once with sand and now needles,
On playgrounds forgotten—he notices something.
A sign from the city. It's closing. They're fixing
The structures. They'll clean up the shards in the sandbox.
A sign in the weeds says “For sale by foreclosure,”
In front of the house where the windows are broken.
“Black middle-class neighborhoods are hollowed out, with prices plummeting and homes standing vacant in places like Orange Mound, White Haven and Cordova. As job losses mount — black unemployment here, mirroring national trends, has risen to 16.9 percent from 9 percent two years ago; it stands at 5.3 percent for whites — many blacks speak of draining savings and retirement accounts in an effort to hold onto their homes. The overall local foreclosure rate is roughly twice the national average.”
– Michael Powell, The New York Times, May 30, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/31/business/economy/31memphis.html?hp
“Yet for this young interrogator detachment was not ultimately a viable solution: “I know I am the same person who was doing those things. And that’s what tears at your soul.””
– Nancy Sherman, Opinionator, The New York Times, May 30, 2010
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/05/30/a-crack-in-the-stoic-armor/?ref=opinion
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The windows are shattered. The vagrants are haunted:
They're stray silhouettes in the alleys, betraying
The layers of darkness that linger this graveyard
Of wealth. And the playgrounds were filled with the children
Of workers. And now they are filled with the lurkers
And drunkards: their stories, too scary for movies.
The living? Who honors the living? Who follows
The losers not planted with markers and statues?
Who builds a memorial, praising the triumphs,
Or mourns for the losses a slide or a window
That carried the children with sand in their footwear
From heights to the depths. And the gardens were smiling,
The plum trees were fragrant. The rosemary blossomed.
The sidewalk was even. It carried the tiny
And precious embodiments love and compassion
Can cultivate. Grown and he's desperate for money—
For anything. Pushing a cart with his blanket,
With photos of happier memories: fading
And lacking memorial—save for the spirits
Of children who played once with sand and now needles,
On playgrounds forgotten—he notices something.
A sign from the city. It's closing. They're fixing
The structures. They'll clean up the shards in the sandbox.
A sign in the weeds says “For sale by foreclosure,”
In front of the house where the windows are broken.
“Black middle-class neighborhoods are hollowed out, with prices plummeting and homes standing vacant in places like Orange Mound, White Haven and Cordova. As job losses mount — black unemployment here, mirroring national trends, has risen to 16.9 percent from 9 percent two years ago; it stands at 5.3 percent for whites — many blacks speak of draining savings and retirement accounts in an effort to hold onto their homes. The overall local foreclosure rate is roughly twice the national average.”
– Michael Powell, The New York Times, May 30, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/31/business/economy/31memphis.html?hp
“Yet for this young interrogator detachment was not ultimately a viable solution: “I know I am the same person who was doing those things. And that’s what tears at your soul.””
– Nancy Sherman, Opinionator, The New York Times, May 30, 2010
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/05/30/a-crack-in-the-stoic-armor/?ref=opinion
Subscribe in a reader
Labels:
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Khakjaan Wessington,
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