the setting sun glows crimson over distant hills
people enjoy the balmy temperatures
sip their mojitos and manhattans
anticipating finger food and tapas
chatting with friends and neighbors

not everybody notices
the folding blossoms of the garden flowers
or the sweet evening songs of birds
the daring hedgehog venturing forth
    to look for food
the smell of honeysuckle gaining force
    under the rising moon

the beauty of our nature
often gets talked away in conversations
reduced to just a pleasant ambiance
that loosens our tongues

in our obsession to communicate
we tend to overlook the soft magnificence
the world presents to us in dusky evening hours

the graveyards of Verdun
are full
with summer flowers

children are playing
hide and seek
among the crosses

their parents
   coke in hand
keep looking for the names
of their grand fathers
on the wooden beams

verifying the family album

swallows dive steeply
under darkening clouds
slowly approaching from the west

you try your best
to give them shapes
and faces

them
who in grey noisy nights
fell out of life
   bright red leaves
   flushed prematurely
   by sudden frost

* *

summer rain
pouring down in strings
   suddenly
washes over
   the pain of many years
softly flows over the scars
soaks the old scabs
carrying them away

opening rain

it makes me sigh
   deeply
makes me remember
   moments of love
   hate
   passion
   despair

washing out
  sediments of bitternesses
  from ancient layers
  of thought and memory

it lights my desire
to again live fully
    look into a world of rain
   with fiery eyes

             * *

poplar branches
embrace steel-blue clouds
so they would not
    driven by thunder and lightening
tear off their tender arms

the trees bend daringly
and you anticipate
to hear the hissing sound
of splintering wood

it does not happen
their postures grow ***** again
clouds disentangle themselves
and continue their wild chase
for other arms

survived once more

morning mists
along hilly country roads

the sun
   not quite awake yet
struggling to rise
above a drowsy
   Sunday landscape
sends out occasional
left-footed rays

we speed along
   quietly
images of the past
time together
on our minds

   walks on the beach
   and through old lanes
   dinners at the ocean
   wild nights
   lovely late mornings

we keep passing early churchgoers
in stirring villages

the sun keeps gathering strength
the world turns clear

the mists of our memories
dissolve into
the moment of parting

* *

One for the NRA: Support your right to arm bears!

speeding southeasterly
   away from the metropolis
suburban shopping malls give way
   to fields of corn
chased by sunflowers between pine forests

the train pushing
with 100 miles per hour
against the heat
  of a summer noon
towards the mountains
hidden in a haze

then the ascent
on the old artful track
wheels screeching
at the narrow turns
between occasional small houses
built of stone
a hundredandfifty years ago

the silhouette of a big bird
   among the spruce
of cragged peaks
   outlined against the sun

steep mountain meadows
   mowed in morning coolness
the grass already turning into hay.

my birthplace coming up,
a renovated station,
a short stop,
   moving on -

I see
an uphill forest road
on whose high point
a wily stone
   thrown long ago with young ferocity
had killed a squirrel
   instantly


   none of my tears
   would make it jump again
and climb up on its tree

with gathering speed downhill,
on through the river valley
flanked by wooded hills,
spiked with farms
and cluttered haystacks,

rushing by
old steeples in old towns
with some new factories,
until a confluence of rivers
   another stop.


then turning southward
   downhill still
more narrow in the valley
past steep rocks
old castle ruins above sprawling freeways

until the hills recede
and cumulating houses
in a widening basin
suggest the temporary end
of traveling

surprised
   I step out

wondering how
to resume

amidst the terrifying news
that oozes daily from our television
I wonder what our world is like

is there indeed nothing to report
but global warming  war  and refugees
greedy power mongers  and ****** politicians

why does the money I donate
seem not to make a difference
in suffering Africa
end global violence and exploitation
help refugees to find a home

I wish the news were more exhiliarating
and lift our souls
rather then send them
into useless desperation

to call hard science „fake news“
creates suspicion that this abuse
of hard facts about global warming
is but a shabby adorning
of the power of money
which tastes sweeter than honey
as lobbyists prove every morning

my thoughts
   go wild
synapses flash
   in syncopated fright

left brain
   against the right

powers of reasons
battling fears
   unleashed
   from primal memories released
   by an unwatchful intellect
   relinquishing control
   in tired slippage
   at the end of day

I NEED YOU

talk not to me
of the reality that media shoot
at me from morn to evening

not of catastrophes or cruelties
humans inflict upon each other
with never-ending venom

speak to me of the delight
a newborn gives its parents

the joy and pride a child feels
mastering its first challenging task

the sudden sparkle in the eye
of refugees when finally they have reached safety

the wordless joy when two have found each other
and for a time need nobody else

speak to me
of all the moments in our daily life
that make us proud to be human

the 19th SCHOOL shooting in the USA in 48 days

the gun lobby is lying low
the president
     surprise
avoids a straight comment

17 school children dead
because in the land of the free
any psychopath can buy
a semiautomatic without problems
and vent his frustrations and fears
in a shooting spree

home schooling is on the rise
for better or worse

what do you call a president
who is unwilling
    or unable
    to protect
the health and security
of his people?

LOSER!!!

whenever I hear
Scarlatti’s “per la nativia di G.C.”
it brings tears to my eyes

must be the frequencies
of sounds and voice
that conspire
to touch a source of my being
of which I know not

embodying a loving harmony
I have been longing for
without knowing

simply beautiful

decisive words
   take their time

they reveal their significance
   like buds unfolding
   nourished by the soil of doubt
   the rain of memory and meditation
gradually to the troubled soul

until the flower
   of loss

   suddenly
   in full bloom

makes you tremble
at its pristine
    relentless
    beauty

      * *

decisive words
   take their time

they reveal their significance
   like buds unfolding
   nourished by the soil of doubt
   the rain of memory and meditation
gradually to the troubled soul

until the flower
   of loss

   suddenly
   in full bloom

makes you tremble
at its pristine
    relentless
    beauty

      * *

on an enchanted summer evening
the world feels wonderful and meek

why do I still crave more
     than I can feel and seek

why do I need to go beyond the pastoral
    trust the smooth surface
     of this world
     only for blissful moments

feel almost something like relief
when daily imperfections
crowd me again and throw me hard
into the maelstroem of those obligations
that have accumulated over years
tell me I have matured and know
what all life really is about

but also loudly shout
     I do not know
the meaning of my life

yet I envision in the hour of my death
my last breath will flow easy  
      with no strife

remembering the summer evening
I‘ve spent my life to seek

so wonderful …
      and mild …
            and meek ...

the daily media overkill
with the bad news of
     who killed whom and why
     which politicians and religious leaders
         believe in boundless self-aggrandizement
         endangering world peace and understanding
         do not believe in global warming
         treat people like the pawns in chess
         et cetera, et cetera

at times offers me almost irresistible temptations
to turn my back onto the world in sheer disgust
      retreat into my armchair, just with myself
      avoid involvement in the chaos, let life go by
      like muppets quipping from the balcony
      at a safe distance

yet my heart is bleeding

in my striving for a better world
I only have my words
and my belief they can inspire change
     when spoken clearly and with force

when I keep silent
I let others speak for me
in tongues that are not mine

now and again
I tend my heart
leave facts and figures behind
and enter the realm of feeling
where
   like in a primal ocean
float beings about to become
   not easy to classify
   almost before words

somewhat like a school
   of amorphous translucent jellyfish
   good vibes float towards
   a loved one
predatory shapes speed by
   to attack unfriendlies
bright orange-blue flowers
shine in the wake
   of good food and company
a bright red coral reef
   hovers like a loving kiss
tumultuous slashing of the waves
   feels strong and overwhelming
   in blue-lit foamy white

I float back to the surface
and
looking at the sky
   whose blue is as deceptive
   as that of the waters
I wait for my heart
to tell me
which one
to trust

       * *

now and again
I tend my heart
leave facts and figures behind
and enter the realm of feeling
where
   like in a primal ocean
float beings about to become
   not easy to classify
   almost before words

somewhat like a school
   of amorphous translucent jellyfish
   good vibes float towards
   a loved one
predatory shapes speed by
   to attack unfriendlies
bright orange-blue flowers
shine in the wake
   of good food and company
a bright red coral reef
   hovers like a loving kiss
tumultuous slashing of the waves
   feels strong and overwhelming
   in blue-lit foamy white

I float back to the surface
    and
looking at the sky
   whose blue is as deceptive
   as that of the waters
I wait for my heart
to tell me
which one
to trust

       * *

now and again
I tend my heart
leave facts and figures behind
   and enter the realm of feeling
where
   like in a primal ocean
float beings about to become
   not easy to classify
   almost before words

somewhat like a school
   of amorphous translucent jellyfish
   good vibes float towards
   a loved one
predatory shapes speed by
   to attack unfriendlies
bright orange-blue flowers
  shine in the wake
   of good food and company
a bright red coral reef
   hovers like a loving kiss
tumultuous slashing of the waves
   feels strong and overwhelming
   in blue-lit foamy white

I float back to the surface
   and
looking at the sky
   whose blue is as deceptive
   as that of the waters
I wait for my heart
   to tell me
which one
   to trust

       * *

tonight I saw a report
based on the congressional hearings
about events on January 6, 2021

a clear case of a ruthless mob
encouraged by a ruthless ex- president

who watched without recalling his mob
until the failure of his sedition became obvious

I also watched the original live reports
of the event oo CNN, MSNBC, etc

no difference

to all my fellow poets who were kind
enough to read my verse with the somewhat
forbidding title “not about you”
like it despite of it and
     more than that
elected it as Daily

as well to those
who sent nice messages
and greetings

I send warm thanks

you made my day

a sunny one
opened bright patches of blue sky
between wet clouds
and brought me better morning news
than any of my papers could provide

Merci once more

giving thanks
can be a very existential thing
as the legendary settlers in New England learned
when they arrived
   as illegal immigrants
and the natives
   though wary of their guns and swords
taught them to plant
   corn together with fish
and shared their harvest with them
   late in the year

giving thanks may be a very personal thing
whenever we travel far away
are given a friendly welcome
are fed and housed by the natives
and accepted into their families

giving thanks is a very human thing

it shows that we are aware
of the fragility of our life

that it always depends
on the kindness of strangers
who help us to survive
in their world

after all

we are aliens
in most parts of our globe

          * *

giving thanks
can be a very existential thing
as the legendary settlers in New England learned
when they arrived
   as illegal immigrants
and the natives
   though wary of their guns and swords
taught them to plant
   corn together with fish
and shared their harvest with them
   late in the year

giving thanks may be a very personal thing
whenever we travel far away
are given a friendly welcome
are fed and housed by the natives
and accepted into their families

giving thanks is a very human thing

it shows that we are aware
of the fragility of our life

that it always depends
on the kindness of strangers
who help us to survive
in their world

after all

we are aliens
in most parts of our globe

          * *

when you grow up
in a world where old is not useless
but means connected
to other times that made yours possible

then the weathered beams
     of an old mountain farmer’s house
          lived in for generations
give you a feeling of security and continuity

the solid doors of venerable city buildings
     signal achievement, comfort, safety
     knowledge and culture
     brought to you across the centuries

the crumbling arches of old castles
      remind you of your country’s history
      some of it glorious  some not
      for better or worse

even your faded family photographs
      can make you wonder
      suggesting all the generations
      that passed so you can have
      that special feeling

Having just climbed
  through ages
up what seemed an endless flight
of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs
I step out
right into the wind's brute force
   instinctively
my arms grasp for a hold
fearful lest I blend suddenly
with the white horses
and the fields of the Camargue
far down below

Wedged safely
in a nook of stone
a hefty tourist
leans out wide between the walls
toward the setting sun

her summer skirt is blown waisthigh
revealing
unexpectedly delicate lace
above sturdy thighs

her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral

A little later
she walks past me
clothes gathered
level gaze calm  
and self-assured

and leaves me wondering
whether the mighty abbot
on his solitary tower
and his exclusive brotherhood of men
had ever understood
the wind that blew
and still blows
through two feet of stone
  like they were silk
and thrills a woman
to her bone

* * *
                                                              ­                        © Walter W. Hoelbling

Having just climbed
      through ages
up what seemed an endless flight
of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs
I step out
right into the wind's brute force
     instinctively
my arms grasp for a hold
    fearful lest I blend suddenly
    with the white horses
    and the fields of the Camargue
    far down below

Wedged safely
in a nook of stone
a hefty tourist
leans out wide between the walls
toward the setting sun

her summer skirt is blown waisthigh
revealing
unexpectedly delicate lace
above sturdy thighs

her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral

A little later
she walks past me
clothes gathered
level gaze calm  
and self-assured

and leaves me wondering
whether the mighty abbot
    on his solitary tower
and his exclusive brotherhood of men
had ever understood
the wind that blew
    and still blows
through two feet of stone
  like they were silk
and thrills a woman
to her bone

      * * *
                                                              ­                        © Walter W. Hoelbling

sometime it is
in the act of writing
that we create the sense
of what we want to say

as if the process of articulation
    when we are fishing for the proper words
is generating meaning
inventing itself in its own genesis

leaving the poet amazed

sometimes even the readers

has been appreciated
      over centuries
proven by epigrams and haikus

but the technology
      of our time
has made it mandatory
to express yourself
     in as few words as possible

in order to save
      space & time
on smartphone screens
throughout the world

no matter how transmogrified
     thinking may have become
by this enforced simplicity

complexity of thought
has gotten out of fashion
and even nations‘ leaders
have fallen back
on simple black & white
intentionally abusing
the KISS principle

taking care
of all
the things
we happily buy and pay for
can take
all our time
and make us
   unaware
the people we love
may be left
to take care of
themselves

wake up early
    turn on the radio
    listen to the early morning news
dozing off again for a while
     listening to the longer morning news
doing some wake-up exercises
grind coffee  & prepare my morning smoothie
have breakfast while reading newspapers
     do obligatory things
fix lunch
     while listening to the mid-day news
have a nap
     do obligatory things
check emails, viber, whatsapp & such
visit the hellopoetry site
have a merienda
    while listening to the evening news
do more obligatory things
enjoy a gin&tonic, or some such
communicate with our loved ones
     watching the late news
play a few card games on the pc
     for relaxation
     watch the midnight news
fall into bed
wrapped in the comfortable daily monotony
to be repeated tomorrow
and tomorrow   and tomorrow   and tomorrow…

it sure was the crux of the world
that nobody thought they were heard
so they shouted much louder
to drown out the other
noise about which nobody cared

the days go by in pleasant routine
only occasional disturbances
     with grandkids  unexpected visitors
     the mailman ringing at the door
          because the letter would not fit the box
     the neighbor asking for a favor gladly granted
     someone who wants to sell some things

the days go by
      preparing meals  go shopping
      splitting the firewood
      running the wash
      checking the email
      go swimming and do AquaFit
      occasionally have a lunch with friends

the days go by

and I occasionally wonder
about the undesired goal of passing all that time
as days go by

when a bunch of  old Senate men
and some intimidated women
voted to heave

     an accused ******
     and proven liar with an alcohol problem
     given to irascible outbursts, fits of self-pity
     and insulting comments on women

into a lifelong seat on the highest court in the nation
     against voluminous evidence of his lacking qualifications
the statue of the Goddess of Justice
     whom a former attorney general
      had all covered up in blue cloth
dropped her sword and scales
tore off her blindfold
and covered her naked ******* in shame

encroached upon
throughout the centuries
by human fear seeking
protection near some venerable shape
you stand
aloof
   silently balancing
   symmetrical circles
   of roots and crown

patienly oblivious of parks
and buildings made by those
who vainly walk in awe
to grasp the mystery
   in touch, in picture, meditation
of otherness unmoved

plantlife millenial

          * *

of legendary origin
encroached upon
throughout the centuries
by human fear
   seeking protection
   near some venerable shape

you stand

aloof

   silently balancing
   symmetrical circles
   of roots and crown

patiently oblivious of parks
and buildings made by those
who vainly walk in awe
to grasp the mystery
   in touch, in picture, meditation
   of otherness unmoved

plantlife millenial

From the hodge porridge
of their country lust,
their local life in Illinois,
where all their acres look
like a sprouting broom factory,
they name just ten years now
that she has been his habit;
as again tonight he'll say
honey bunch let's go
and she will not say how there
must be more to living
than this brief bright bridge
of the raucous bed or even
the slow braille touch of him
like a heavy god grown light,
that old pantomime of love
that she wants although
it leaves her still alone,
built back again at last,
mind's apart from him, living
her own self in her own words
and hating the sweat of the house
they keep when they finally lie
each in separate dreams
and then how she watches him,
still strong in the blowzy bag
of his usual sleep while
her young years bungle past
their same marriage bed
and she wishes him *******, or poet,
or even lonely, or sometimes,
better, my lover, dead.

Frau Doktor,
Mama Brundig,
take out your contacts,
remove your wig.
I write for you.
I entertain.
But frogs come out
of the sky like rain.

Frogs arrive
With an ugly fury.
You are my judge.
You are my jury.

My guilts are what
we catalogue.
I’ll take a knife
and chop up frog.

Frog has not nerves.
Frog is as old as a cockroach.
Frog is my father’s genitals.
Frog is a malformed doorknob.
Frog is a soft bag of green.

The moon will not have him.
The sun wants to shut off
like a light bulb.
At the sight of him
the stone washes itself in a tub.
The crow thinks he’s an apple
and drops a worm in.
At the feel of frog
the touch-me-nots explode
like electric slugs.
Slime will have him.
Slime has made him a house.

Mr. Poison
is at my bed.
He wants my sausage.
He wants my bread.

Mama Brundig,
he wants my beer.
He wants my Christ
for a souvenir.

Frog has boil disease
and a bellyful of parasites.
He says: Kiss me. Kiss me.
And the ground soils itself.

Why
should a certain
quite adorable princess
be walking in her garden
at such a time
and toss her golden ball
up like a bubble
and drop it into the well?
It was ordained.
Just as the fates deal out
the plague with a tarot card.
Just as the Supreme Being drills
holes in our skulls to let
the Boston Symphony through.

But I digress.
A loss has taken place.
The ball has sunk like a cast-iron ***
into the bottom of the well.

Lost, she said,
my moon, my butter calf,
my yellow moth, my Hindu hare.
Obviously it was more than a ball.
***** such as these are not
for sale in Au Bon Marché.
I took the moon, she said,
between my teeth
and now it is gone
and I am lost forever.
A thief had robbed by day.

Suddenly the well grew
thick and boiling
and a frog appeared.
His eyes bulged like two peas
and his body was trussed into place.
Do not be afraid, Princess,
he said, I am not a vagabond,
a cattle farmer, a shepherd,
a doorkeeper, a postman
or a laborer.
I come to you as a tradesman.
I have something to sell.
Your ball, he said,
for just three things.
Let me eat from your plate.
Let me drink from your cup.
Let me sleep in your bed.
She thought, Old Waddler,
those three you will never do,
but she made the promises
with hopes for her ball once more.
He brought it up in his mouth
like a tricky old dog
and she ran back to the castle
leaving the frog quite alone.

That evening at dinner time
a knock was heard on the castle door
and a voice demanded:
King’s youngest daughter,
let me in. You promised;
now open to me.
I have left the skunk cabbage
and the eels to live with you.
The kind then heard her promise
and forced her to comply.

The frog first sat on her lap.
He was as awful as an undertaker.
Next he was at her plate
looking over her bacon
and calves’ liver.
We will eat in tandem,
he said gleefully.
Her fork trembled
as if a small machine
had entered her.
He sat upon the liver
and partook like a gourmet.
The princess choked
as if she were eating a puppy.
From her cup he drank.
It wasn’t exactly hygienic.
From her cup she drank
as if it were Socrates’ hemlock.

Next came the bed.
The silky royal bed.
Ah! The penultimate hour!
There was the pillow
with the princess breathing
and there was the sinuous frog
riding up and down beside her.
I have been lost in a river
of shut doors, he said,
and I have made my way over
the wet stones to live with you.
She woke up aghast.
I suffer for birds and fireflies
but not frogs, she said,
and threw him across the room.
Kaboom!

Like a genie coming out of a samovar,
a handsome prince arose in the
corner of her bedroom.
He had kind eyes and hands
and was a friend of sorrow.
Thus they were married.
After all he had compromised her.

He hired a night watchman
so that no one could enter the chamber
and he had the well
boarded over so that
never again would she lose her ball,
that moon, that Krishna hair,
that blind poppy, that innocent globe,
that madonna womb.

I joined this site last year in March
and have found many voices since
that kindly welcomed what I wrote
with ‘likes’ and comments
even messages

thank you, my friends

I was a short-time member of some other sites
and from my past experience I have to say
that hp is the liveliest of all I’ve visited

even if there at times are posts that sound mean-spirited
and the occasional invasions of silly trolls
    make you aware that on the internet nothing is safe
    from the shenanigans of some frustrated idiots

in sum
    and in comparison with other sites
given its size and its diversity
hp is doing fairly well

to keep exchange of voices and ideas
    benevolent advice    constructive criticism
    helpful encouragement of younger members
    and sometimes simply kind remarks
alive    and spread the urge of writing poetry
    that helps us to articulate our loves and fears

to keep alive this spirit of creative art
is  our formidable work in progress
in which we all should lovingly play our part

In spite of all the learn'd have said;
I still my old opinion keep,
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands --
The Indian, when from life releas'd
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares gain the joyous feast.

His imag'd birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way.
No fraud upon the dead commit --
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace,
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a older race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far -- projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires
The children of the forest play'd!

There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase array'd,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.

all those people
do not know you

you do not
want to know them either

who wants to care
about strangers

it has become
the daily accessory
hated and loved alike
sign of bad times
and limited mobility

by some
   equanimously accepted
   as yet another fashion piece
for others
   a threatening symbol
   of prescribed orders from above
for many
   just a necessary nuisance
    that will go away in time

we certainly need to change
our reflexes upon the sight
of persons masked

    before Corona
         at least in our latitudes
    masks were a sign of robbers and bandits

    now it’s the good guys who wear them
    the bad guys who don’t
    and … how can we be sure of that?

a real challenge to find out
just from the movement of the eyebrows
whether you face a friend
or not

the howto
             is a mighty force
             it tells us
                with authority
             how to
             best navigate the world
             appropriate to the occasion
            
             from love to cars to finances
             it guides us
                to the proper steps
            
             and yet
             it somehow fails
             to say  
             why
                if we follow the directions
             we feel like children
             rather than adults
            
             why
                when all wisdom
                has been eagerly applied
             we still don't know
     why
                 our hands and feet
                 are tied

when nothing seems to matter
joy or disaster
    same difference

you may want
to double-check
your priorities

thinking of times
when walking for a mile
took you into a different world
climbing a hill
    through clinging underbrush
filled you with apprehension
of what might be awaiting you
beyond the crest

then
to slowly open up
the pages of a book
was always more
than just a ritual of escape

the not so casual touch
    of a girl’s hard breast
    a boy’s lean hand
upon your shoulder
sent shudders down your spine
of inarticulate hot expectations
and brought wild images to you
at night
in lusting isolation

to keep this core
   the sense of awe
   of wonder and excitement
alive in you against the waves of many years
is not an easy feat
   yet worth the while

it makes you see
    when many just walk by
life’s gracious beauty of small moments

                        * * * *

it’s simply awesome
how much energy
is spent to document
the newness of the news
    no matter how repetitive
    may be the words of the reporters

the hype needs to be built
no matter whether right or stilted
driven by fear the topic might be wilted
a minute later

and half an hour later
you hear the same with minor variations
adorned with various speculations
so that the viewers may get the illusion
it’s NEW – though it is old,
    and just repetitive

an endless loop of hyped-up trivialities
     of who did what and when and why
     maybe with whom   or not
makes you aware that even new banalities
rarely include what really matters
to the majority of people on this globe

factual or fake
terse or sensationalist
trying to be as objective as possible
shamelessly partisan and polemic

or simply hate speech
esoteric remedies for all problems
cat videos and personal snapshots
on asocial networks

whether we believe it or not
it is difficult to avoid it
in our great age
of real-time digital information

the abundance of unreliables
is almost legendary    
     like hearsay in the Middle Ages
     when wandering minstrels
     spread the tidings
        more or less

a challenge to all people with brains
not yet oversaturated with daily trivia

to decide what to believe

doublecheck

do follow-ups

there now is a graduate from Yale
who lies boldly
               getting red and then pale
when asked about girls
and high school beer swirls
he swears he never drank too much ale

our lives are fraught with numbers

so many fractions of a second faster in a race  
most wins on record   best jury votes
highest flight   deepest dive   most goals
meters of rising sea levels
millions of refugees   and more displaced
tens of thousands  honor killings
thousands of deaths with Ebola  
millions of Zika virus victims next year
billions of deficit or profit in import/export
    or the stock exchange
votes in elections    or for beauty queens

polls    tweets   virtual friends  & followers
likes on the social media    on hellopoetry

we have been taught to measure our status
our importance   and the significance of our lives
in clicks of other peoples’ digital devices

even our time has been reduced to numbers
the digital has long replaced the comprehensive
instead of the round dial that shows 12 hours
    suggesting the duration of a normal day
we have a punctual display  without the whole
the cyclical has lost against the linear

0101010101010101010101010101010101
we all look forward to our numbered future
no past  and very little present

our hands on smart phones    homes    TVs
    pushing a button makes things move
    swishing a screen displays the world

over all that we easily forget
that we ourselves have been reduced to numbers
    of customers for businesses
    of voters for the politicians
    of workers for the corporations
    of citizens for our nations
digital quantities we have become

and if we take a global view
we are part of the seven billion plus
that currently inhabit our earth


all of which do expect their individuality
be honored  and their dignity respected

numbers don’t  honor individuality
they simply count the units
items  or people  are for them the same

it’s left to us to find a way
that leaves the numbers in their place
yet guarantees us dignity
as individual members of the human race

some people have with dominance
possession  power and control
looks like a rather desperate reaction
to the widely known
     but mostly unacknowledged fact
that we are unable to control our lives
and live them as we have imagined