Foment in a sea of green
With torment in its tail,
Writhing in performance
Wrenching in its flail.
Rationale cavorting
In ocean lost to foam
With rank and file aborting
Its chaotic flight for home.

Truth defiled to window
Pride divorced to flaw,
International prestige lost
To reputation’s door.
Pitiful to spectate
Administrators fawn
As those, once great, capitulate
To observation’s yawn.

America capitulates
Sunk beneath the waves
As pinkly, pouting proffers
It tweetingly depraves.
Once great, to teeter terrified
On brink of void’s abyss
I see dead eyes, expressionless,
Lurch on to farewell’s kiss.

M.
Observing, in horror, the demise of something once…. Great.
Taranaki, New Zealand.
25 October 2017

Ancestors finger painted the first walls
- walls of shelter
a black cave where harnessed fire flickered
and made the paintings dance

Their Sun still rises
and we share their Moon

Except now Man has walked on the Moon

and is entertaining the possibility
of going to Mars

and going to Mars to search out caves
to shelter from the radiation

I wonder what will be the first painting
-perhaps a blue planet called home.

I want to die hungry
I want to die knowing life meant something
I want to die with piles of work unfinished....
unfinished poems
unfinished books
unfinished illustrations
unfinished paintings...

I want to die knowing I tried to my very last breath
to make this world a better place
that I tried to shed light into the worlds darkness
that I tried to transform something cold
and heartless and ugly into something beautiful

That I did not turn a blind eye
to the poor and the hungry and the homeless
That I spoke up when inequality was still a monster
guarding capital hill
and its stash of gold and treasure for the 1%

That I acknowledge that white privilege
was a serpent in the court room
devouring real justice
while turning a blind eye
to the crimes of daddies little boy
who just made a mistake for "twenty minutes"
over and over
again and again
in and out
in and out
for "twenty minutes"
and why should "twenty" consecutive "minutes"
of poor choices ruin his whole privileged...
I mean promising life...

That white privilege was obvious
when one person convicted of ****
walked free in three months
while other men just accused of ****
found but not proven guilty
spent decades behind bars
to only be eventually freed
when their accusers told the truth
about how they had lied
and none of it happened
and if you can't guess the difference between the two
you probably believe the world is flat
and that white privilege and climate change and global warming
are paranoid delusions of people who are lazy and worthless
and want something for nothing

That the dead no matter their color
still need to see their murders pay
for what they have stolen
what they have broken
and the pain they left behind
when they decided that when
they "feared" for their life
it went from to protect and serve
the community and the people
to I'm going to **** this *******

That I knew that #blacklivesmatter
was a call for justice and equality
not special treatment or supremacy

That the vocabulary of my sons heart
did not know the word hate
other than when he said things like
"YUCK!, I hate GREEN BEANS!"

That he not only understood kindness
but he knew and lived by its importance
that he strived for compassion and empathy
that he treated generosity and helpfulness
as a responsibility to those in need
that his pursuits of happiness
included helping others in their pursuits

That he loved and gave with a heart
that was always full
that was always hungry
from the time that I leave him
to the time he takes his own last breath
that he lived
to make this world a better place
that he tried to shed light into the worlds darkness
that he tried to transform something cold
and heartless and ugly into something beautiful

Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem:

Painting a Function Different

I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic
Beyond the porch-floor
Minerva hangs her wash
making the invisible visible
Eighty two and three quarters deaf
she doesn’t notice  
But this is, in fact, reality
Has always been this way—
Bent and bird-like existence  
Balanced on two twigs—always busy—

Her task, is the ******* of space  
Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing
The three phenomena which I must....

Things no one notices—
climbing on the abstract surface of a picture
Switching the curtains  
God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…!

It figures that—
Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune  
I try to fix them—
Her ankles now
And she curses at accidental quality
from the corner of her mouth
which has only one form
Clothespin or cigarette?  
Long johns and animals and men in heaven
and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities
surround us translucent, contained
  
I decide what to get for her birthday—

We are good friends
through painting a function different

For me?
Predestined necessity.

Minerva?
forgets her manners
and eats like a survivor—

Thanks going without saying.