art music poetry

My Dad's Gravely (by Andy Derryberry)

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I walk around my Dad’s Gravely
To smell the action
The intent
The purpose

It lingers though he isn’t there.
The tractor had been neglected
For a while
Too hard anymore

At the cemetery the grass was overgrown
A friend without being asked
Mowed around the gravestone
To make it right for the last pass.

In his time, the cemetery was never uncut
The Gravely ran hour on hour
The trimmers mounted up
Over the years.

I resurrected the old Gravely
It having a lot life left in it
That Daddy couldn’t tap
Toward the end.

When my Mom died,
Daddy asked
What will we do
Now?

I couldn’t think
But I did say
I don’t know
But I guess it’s ours to do.

And so it is as I walk around Daddy’s Gravely
To smell the action
The intent
The purpose

Presidential power and the war ghosts

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We say we are at war. Our President demands extraordinary powers due only to a President at war which is defined as “a conflict carried on by force of arms, as between nations or between parties within a nation”

The Taliban was the government of Afganistan. We went to war against Afganistan. Anybody we picked up in the desert is simply a prisoner of war. These people didn’t do 9-11, the 9-11 guys were Saudi.
Sadaam was the leader of Iraq. We went to war with the government of Iraq. Anybody we picked up in the desert is simply a prisoner of war. These people didn’t do 9-11, the 9-11 guys were Saudi.

We won those wars against the nations of Afganistan and Iraq. Those nations are no longer ruled by the Taliban and Sadaam. Who are we at war with now? According to us, the governments of Iraq and Afganistan are now run by friendly people who were elected by democracies. The governments of Iraq and Afganistan are our pals so we aren’t at war with nations.
We are at war with an old man in a cave, a criminal who plotted to fly airplanes into buildings. This is a crime in New York. It’s a crime anywhere. He’s a criminal without a nation. We are denying the people of the state of New York due process while we house and feed one mastermind of 9-11 in Guantanamo. By denying the prisoners the right of due process we are denying the people of New York the opportunity to bring the criminals to justice. We are denying the people of New York the healing which could come with justice. Shouldn’t the police in Pakistan be seeking Bin Laden for extradition to New York to stand trial for premedited murder?
Crimes have been commited by individuals, not acts of war.
Who is our enemy? Our president demands extraordinary powers because of a constant state of war. Bin Laden is an old man in a cave. He’s a convenient ghost.
With whom are we at war? Al Qaeda, a group of criminals? These guys are crooks. We didn’t send the military after Al Capone. We sent the police.

***

abortion poem by h. e. hasben

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You win.
I concede.
You say it’s murder.
You win.
I concede.
Make it illegal.
I’ll carry a sign.
It’s first degree murder
for the young lady
and
the doctor.
They conspired to kill this
person.
They planned a violent death
for this person,
together.
It’s first degree murder.
No less.
It’s the gas chamber,
no less.
We said it was a full human being.
We didn’t say it was a partial human being.
I would hope that, if
a young lady and a doctor
conspired to murder me,
you would deliver the proper justice
for first degree murder.
We do like justice so much.
Justice has been outsourced to profit
makers who need to show growth.
So first degree murder for the
young lady, her sister,
and her boyfriend who
drove her there.
Anything less than the gas chamber
devalues the
fetus to
something less than a full human
being and we
lose our initial argument that it’s a person.
It is often the wrong choice,
but it’s either choice
or first degree
murder.

***

All the Summer Nights poem by David Michael Jackson

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Just a quest,
wasn’t it?
We were caught,
it seems,
in that painting which
captured the moment,
in that touch of the hand,
that kiss, yes surely in that
kiss.
The moonlight has become passe’
it seems.
Vanity.
All the summer nights were
there in the touch of
a tiny hand.
Oh the folly of destiny

***

Hummingbirds and Butterflies, poem by Joe Testa

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I am poison.

Alcohol, turbulence, anxiety
and self doubt, burning my soul
for decades.

Taking life hard
and making it harder.

She is love.

Natural in beauty and peace,
her essence effortlessly defines
her life.

She is hummingbirds and
butterflies.

And she is a savior, thirty
years in the making.

My shell has been cracked and
her love has seeped in, allowing
for hope, happiness and inspiration.

Precious gifts so long overlooked.

The power of gentle beauty,
underestimated, is delicately expressed.

Hummingbirds and butterflies.

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