Poetry

Poetry

Ancient Mothers – Mary Getlein

In Search of Love – Jacob Pryor

Woodstock Revisited – L.E. Mintz

Mosaddegh at the Hague – Majid Naficy

Friday, January 16, 2009 – Roger Houston

Ancient Mothers

Long long ago, brothers and sisters, women were

in control. Religions were feminine. People

worshiped the magical powers of the

Earth –

It was Mother Earth, Father Sun

The Moon was at night

The Sun god Ra took a journey every day

but Hecate ruled at night

Women were associated with darkness

Along with the gift of birth

They also had the gift of death

They helped babies be born

They helped people die

They helped people get well with herbs

and knowledge

They were dark –

Men hated them and feared them

Warrior men came and killed most of the women

And it’s been like that ever since

The Mother is Divine

The Mother brings LIFE into the world

The Mother helps DEATH take your loved ones

The Spirit Guides are ready

Women are Divine –

Mother Earth and Father Sky

Six directions twirling always,

Concentrate on the center of your life

Pick up the fruit and sink your teeth into it

Drink the stream of JUICE and LIFE

Sink your teeth into Life and live

The Mother is Divine

– Mary Getlein

                                                 

In Search of Love

By Jacob Pryor

He spent a quarter of a century scheduled on shame,

And condescended to find himself at blame.

As a child, he crawled about the chilled floor

In search of love, sought in shadows, in sounds

Of autumn winds, and in golden lights x-raying air

As it shined through cracks of the oaken door.

But soon his search was in marked bounds

And was not free to devote time to things he found fair

Fawning grins and shocked frowns influenced his choices.

He found love by memorizing rules of heart,

Smile at that, bow to that and hate cripples.

Soon his morning fresh little rose dimples

Were replaced by a war-like frown.

Community required it to wear its laureled crown

And drink its intoxicating mead that wrapped

Prostitutes in patriotism and furs of queens.

And obvious fools became the great

Split between what he could think and know

And what he was forced to feel at the risk

Of a frown or something far worse.

                                                                   

Woodstock Revisited 

By L.E. Mintz

I hung as many coats as I could. I got paid per coat. A radio announcer’s voice echoed in the factory. The New York State Thruway closed… too much flower power clogging the arteries. I wasn’t worried. I didn’t need no stinkin’ New York State Thruway. We were using the Connecticut Turnpike. I left work, ran home packed a bag went outside. The van pulled up. I got in. We hit the road. We hit the drugs. Everyone simultaneously lit joints popped pills snorted coke. We giggled we sang we cried I peed out a window. We zigged ,we zagged across the state. Woodstock here we come. Traffic was light. We crossed a bridge to New York. Traffic was no longer light. We pulled on Route 17, the world’s biggest parking lot. A thirty five mile long line of cars standing still purring pungent reefer smoke pouring out in every direction half naked hippies girls with painted faces flowers long hair dancing across narrow streams of consciousness chased by half naked boys painted faces flowers even longer hair begging for their love. Acid heads floating across the backdrop, a magical mystery tour. The sky ominous dark storm clouds gathered lightening flashing primordial and apocalyptic, the dawn of time, the age of Aquarius. Oh yeah baby right up my alley.

Some hour floated by we exited Seventeen, snaked a winding country road looking for a place to hide in plain sight. We found an abandoned and broke house just down the road from a tiny grocery store, Kaplan’s, in the middle of nowhere three miles from the center of the universe. The store became my salvation, saved me from starvation. Exhausted I grabbed a box spring in an open air bedroom of the closed down house rolled out my bag laid down looked up dozed off awoke in someone else’s dream where it reeked of déjà vu went back to sleep slid into my own dream water skiing under a frozen lake.

                                           

Mosaddegh at the Hague

by Majid Naficy

If you go to the Netherlands

Visit The Hague court of Justice.

On a rainy night

Linger at its closed gate

And look through the iron rods:

There, in that lighted building

Across the rain-laden trees,

An old man stood

More than half a century ago.

He came from our homeland

To speak out against the oil cartels

Before the whole world.

He did not hold anyone hostage

And took only a few steps

To reach the podium.

Listen, listen

Even years after that bloody August (1)

One can still hear his voice.

He speaks in beautiful French:

“Mesdames et Messieurs!

Ladies and Gentlemen!”

September 24, 2005

1. On August 19, 1953 Mohammad Mosaddegh (1882-1967), the democratically-elected Iranian Prime Minister, was overthrown in a coup d’etat orchestrated by the American and British intelligence services, in collaboration with Kashani, a fundamentalist clergy and Zahedi, a Nazi-sympathizer general. They gave absolute power to the Shah who had fled the country a few days earlier. In 1951, Mosaddegh led the movement for nationalization of the Iranian oil industry, which was under the control of the British. In June 1952, he traveled to the Hague to defend Iran’s case in the International Court of Justice.

                                                         

00:33 Friday, January 16, 2009, parked in front of Beyond Baroque ….. The “open” sign burns orange in the night Down at Beyond Baroque. The neon light was left on just for us, CJ and me, Encouraging availability. But even more than this, Saint Philomene Perchance took pity, beacon light to shine It’s hearty welcome to our orphanage On wheels, in hopes to end the awful siege, If only for

one night. This heart of mine Concocts scenario, when in between The harsh realities; for now, this lee, Along our starboard side, is plain to see. A siren whispers, two sailors delight In warmth and invitation this cold night …..

Roger Houston (and CJWhitefang, Esquire)

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