Tag Archives: Economics

“Garlands”

“Garlands”

Garlands for the banner told defy the headlines;
Bold and garish is the wording of a string
Of odd events plaited to the public’s taste; they sing
A song of six of this and sevens in the press. Deadlines
Met, the galleys in, the thing is put to bed;
And on the morrow, there before the eyes
Of all the world the circumstance disguised, the size,
The age, the details, all that is the stuff of legend.
But in the main–’the writ now fosillised–
No further reason to take note of what just took place.
Reporters gone, the guests at rest, and where in fact
There is no dust, the characters retrace their tracks
To that sweet moment when the nomial in the clause is quietly replaced;
The truth? They merely stop to stare
at something more in keeping
With the latest word than justifies the sabbatical
that glorifies what they’re seeking.

“The Streets of Montréal”

montreal-street-homes-snow

“The Streets of Montréal”

The streets of Montréal are empty now.
The neighbouring labouring winter lingers as the bus stops sigh.
Procrastination signs in odd displays of petulance at what must come south
From colder, darker Hudson nights as ice rusts earlier every year in forests; as if reminding us of reasons for early thaw. North from sales
In Southern giveaways the multi-fronts wave greetings from so many hills away;
Flight lanes set by geese suggest a conscious prodigeous delay
As newscasts and conspiracy reports have some little to say of chemtrails
As heckling sunspots’ hour to hour display for weather wearied eyes
Not at all concerned with what’s for dinner but everything to gain as teams
Of salvage crews prey along New England’s ocean shores. Reams
Of information on the cable news hours’ finely honed cyclones surface lies
And cries of what’s in Gaia’s oven and what on earth is all that’s going down
As BP Oil’s politicians in shameless self-promotion make their
usual strident claims that bolster bookies and talk show hosts placing bets
on just exactly when, not if the Mississippi rises next
and what, not whom coastline levies drown.

sun-corona-mass-ejection

“Reticent”

Hoover

President Herbert Hoover [1874-1964]

“Reticent”

Reticent; yes, with you still gone and fading posters piled,
I snag a moment’s thread while you tire of lightning rods—
What? Gentle greens, you say? Acidic teardrops cool your face, pods
Of bloated croaking frogs still lowing legless in their noxious streams on miles
Of floating bleachers scrutinise Inaugural prizes
sought by cheerless choral crows
Who flirt with impunity together; tireless efforts, distractions from
All pious convocation, their shamans–mystic petrels–entertain the sum
Of ancient lines of seers, their nests left unprotected still and breathing shallow
There against the charcoal sky in absolute denial of the obscene call
To let the bulls stand tall–who remembers who we were before descent?
And you wonder why I ask, “Who pays the rent?”
You see nothing between, you and me and Humpty Dumpty on the wall.
“Life is life and Obama smiles,”you say, and nothing in between refines
The thin red line behind that smile and Hoover’s curse in 1929.

President Barack Hussein Obama II [1961 - ]

“I Am Nothing”

nothing

“I Am Nothing”

I am nothing if not noted in a book
Of reckoning, some slight record of me here and there
Upraised, even sought by souls whose care
And wizened regard I long ago forsook
To seek my own blank pages, to underwrite
A leaf or two, distributing diamonds in my hand
To places I had never been. To seed lands,
Harvest images, draw scented waters of praise sealed tight
In time within a vial or significance, a  light
Container sufficient to carry on nightly walks
Through streets which run throughout my history, chalk
Lines on sidewalks and in the sands drawn as vague rites
In hegira with fellow travellers through dim-lit dusks,
Hejaz of endless dawns to come, some bull in ever-present musth.

“Simplify the Matter”

Clothes

“Simplify the Matter”

Simplify the matter, choose the either, consult the ether, pick one,
Be, and it will be! An avizandum is no match for public exhibition
And yet the journey never really satisfies an abyss of timely erudition
Further than a fortnight nor the rule of planets beyond their single sun.
And if the moon’s the object in the search,
Winter’s clouds will override the story—
If they speak at all in apostrophes of midnight glory—
While the appetite’s for fear, what then must follow the zenith? Dirty shirts
And all the king’s fine laundry’s better left
Unwashed if the pawn rejects the lint of ragged pockets as socks
Are so easily separated, so inevitably lost forever. High tech stocks
And clever use of futures are stuff of much the same in strategies in what’s bereft
Of patience or detachment and verisimilitude when the trend in toys is moot in leisure time exacerbates no small wonder in shrinking;
Ships and stocks are never stronger than the thought of either sinking.

“It’s Pathetic”

dollar1

“It’s Pathetic”

It’s pathetic in the classic sense, egregious waste
To spend a world on what he thinks he is. He tastes,
But finds no flavour, sees the page, but in his haste
He reads and cannot spell. The crooked line is chaste
Enough to him and more or less he owns the knack to be
Perceived as top dog at the corner street arcade
Before divisions in the stable force his hand. He raids
His lifetime’s fortune fortified and buttressed by animosities
To what existed well before all witnesses to the crime had stepped aside.
His way’s engraved on every schoolyard jungle gym and sandbox slide.
It does not fall to him to raise objection, cop a plea, to cease or to resist
A new-mint shiny dime or shoot the moon’s deposits in the skies.
Addiction’s child plays the labyrinth of paradox, dilemma, and enigma’s lists
Of what’s been overlooked and what misfortune’s kissed–
“O WORLD, I cannot hold thee close enough!”* And so he must.
He’ll play that card until the bar is closed, until his dollar’s been reduced to rust.

* …from “God’s World” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

“What’s Come”

Wall Street1

“What’s Come”

What’s come in mornings comes close to closing arguments;
Some last gasp within the nation, curtains falling in classrooms,
And business hours’ closings in no more than yields of mushrooms.
Gather and surmise. They’ll keep their old appointments
While remodelling corners in the life they’ve led and jettison
Decisions for one more season. Comes the afternoon, the summer’s
Yield to autumn months and they’ll be nothing left of slumber,
Running forays to the pawn shop to hedge their summers’ reticence
To part with memories and souvenirs supporting others in the kingdom,
Nameless, ever-present in the shadows just outside the door. The ransom
Paid, they’ll free themselves of all those years and spend the ransacked
Pensions of working man in one last tax. There’s more and then some
To consider in the settling of accounts, and they’ll be off to see the Wizard
While the world back home in Kansas is blanketed in months of one long blizzard.

…painting by Katelyn Alain…

“They Spiral Out of Control”

lovers_r2_c7

“They Spiral Out of Control”

They spiral out of control from coffers spun from circuit spools;
Images of speed spin webs of egregious debt beyond the means
Of organic opulence in public nothings; obscenities gleam,
Gratuities scream for leverage and credit in psalmistries of fools
And idol vendors’ biases. They feed on repetitious runes
And civic machinations, seizures of domain and sovereignty alike, slide
Markets and the rule of law in rubrics rank in rows of 1′s and 0′s. Abide
Beyond the codex then and close the open yaw. Computer litanies in rooms
Are daily sabotaged by Trojans soaked in scripts that rake the silvered sliver
Signals on the mountain noting slightest change to encourage evanescence.
Prolixity is the key to programmes obsolete and in arrears in advance,
Entitlements among the fêted calves and levied bank accounts
and corporations that deliver
All night long at half the cost of virtual holocausts
and ritual endlessness in angst in single souls:
They’ll not abate this side of cancer,
nor speculate beyond what they’ve been sold.

“Statistics Stylised”

obama2

“Statistics Stylised”

Statistics stylised and lionized, lordly compositions
Thoughts, ideas, concepts parboiled—
Spices added after cooking—nothing foiled
In the preparation, superstitions
In a pantheon of presidential glances
At the nightly tea leaves and signs of growth
At noon just beyond the summer solstice.  Strophe
And antistrophe aligned, astronomical finances
Support strength and free volition
But to the point, the mark, the target of both censure and attack;
Surely, hamartia strives with hybris in the legal track
From first impressions of a patriot to golden memories in remission,
Seconds in the gravitas of syllables of regret; Obama will succeed
Where Persephone failed: after all, he ate but two or three black seeds.

“Conspiracy”

Eye3

“Conspiracy”

Conspiracy there is to think; it rains again today.
Summer’s here and’s gone and here and disappeared once again.
Nothing settles in for long, and commitments dissipate.
And who, then, doubts there’s been a change?

Dollars fluctuate and markets soar and no one’s sane
Enough to shed the price of gold; and in the pack―Queen of Spades
Or Jack of Diamonds―are priceless pawns and easy gain

And loss to fools with pedigrees to match the season’s rain.
Fire’s in the West; flood’s, the East; and as for the chatelaine,
The fevers never cease in the station of the gravy train.
And who, then, doubts there’s been a change?

Eye4