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Showing posts with label window. Show all posts
Showing posts with label window. Show all posts

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Windshield to the Soul [Today's News Poem, July 22, 2010]

Windshield to the Soul [Today's News Poem, July 22, 2010]

I) Abandon the Apartment
Stacked in columns—expired and spent—
Monuments to the emptiness
Choices offer the drinking gent:
Loyal soldiers of my distress.

II) Owens Valley to Fresno
Prison camps for the Japanese,
Rabbit guts on the interstate;
Desert frost in the night will freeze
Windshield-water, opaque in slates.

III) Guided by Stars on the Freeway
Stars and twinkles of dreams are vast;
Constellations above us spill.
Now the middle of night is past:
Relative to our speed, we're still.

IV) Final Scene in Burning Vehicle
Don't you listen; my screams are lies.
Look! My atoms are casting shade!
Plastic blends with me! Send my eyes
Up; my ashes can stay where laid.

“A Greyhound bus traveling to Sacramento from Los Angeles crashed on a highway in California's Central Valley early Thursday, killing six people and seriously injuring nine others.”
– GARANCE BURKE, Associated Press, July 22, 2010, 5:20 PM EDT
http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/U/US_CALIF_BUS_CRASH

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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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