Tag Archives: Economy

“They’d Rather Not Say”

Elephant-in-the-Room-Harrison

“They’d Rather Not Say”

They’d rather not say the words just now: plough it under. Seeds are sown,
Stranded, left behind, perhaps a new game but certified survival
And uncertainty are symbiotic, guaranteed to last and last; revival
Promised, eternity denied and they’ll have you know
These obstacles, these meretricious ulcers grow
In time and we all know their names. Denial
Only feeds the bonfire while the trial’s
Milked for mileage: drum roll,
Please! Applause! Announce the latest bon mot
To bounce some sweet new version of what seems viable
As a phatic public nod to possibilities, probabilities, and pliable
Hopes for the working man; to the sturgeon, roe; to the cock, his crow.
The rhetoric is endless, the president’s truth “to be determined…soon!”
Elections come and go, of course,…but there’s that elephant in the room…

THE_RED_ELEPHANT

“Kenesis”

“Kenesis”

Kinesis for
The many who remain to wait
Silently for some benign constriction in the state
Of things, some sinister situation in the molten core
Of what it is they hope that God forgets to do or say.
Oh, yes. There are the borders to defend,
Concessions, lights within the processed prisms bend
And warp–so many suns are strong–schemes to calculate
With nests to build and chicks to feed,
but come the harvest, guests, the gathering
And celebration, the stories to be sold across the newsstands of the land,
The hands all sit here waiting with the others in the band
And ask themselves why grace and bounty seem so much like common tragedy
When in the once desired brilliance of the promised summer’s yield
The time for satisfaction never comes and the crop’s left in the field.

“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

“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

“Demonstratives”

Anglo

“Demonstratives”

Demonstratives, egregious adjectives salute me on the street.
The “while” of all my hours. The ëgo you may say gains admittance to my ear
And raises spectres in the gathering rusts of any fiscal year
Of clouds and storms, the noxious winters on all fronts. Anxious fleets
Of bankrupt publicans working seas of mitigating spreadsheets―
“Procrastination,” someone mentions, “just keep talking,”―old debates
Clabber easily where genocide of currencies are sanctioned, openly; discrete
Parleys-in-Council. Morganatic masses melt to puddles in polar streets
While doctors spin from pulpits, “Foul! No matter what our fate!”
And we’ll all drown as when emerging from an ancient a Celtic haze,
Roman rhetoric melding to Norman lists of deficits put to page
Point for point their goals around the glory of taxes and invasion in the late
Night nauseating prattle of the screen. But no place to hide in the latter days
Of bold correction in the Saxon markets, fickle futures that simply fade away.

“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…

“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.

“So Goliath the Proportions”

A Catalogue

“So Goliath the Proportions”

So Goliath the proportions, so small the stone
That in the hands of a single upstart
Derail the plan, the science and the art.
Just so, the protocol of all within the home
And in the workplace, and in the greater
And lesser notes of the finest filigree
Or within the bowels of a diamond. Tree rings
Record a tale of atavistic misfits and golden satyrs.
Centuries, as well sign the same glad tune
And as the planet warms and swarms of pundits chant
A melody of surest knowledge, the icebergs rant
And bellow as they roll like rune
Stones in the seas neglecting reassurances
That the truth is one and not expressed in nuances.

Calving1

“They Move So Well”

“They Move So Well”

They move so well, they troll; they stroll
From this side of wagers to the other,
“Done!” and back again, smother
Goosesteps with mother’s deep affection, roll
The wholes in one and on a paper napkin map
Contingent strategies in sporting bars of habit and choice
Their viscosities of taste and controversy, simulated voices
Registering rapt concern from teleprompters
for whom it may concern that takes the rap
When leaders do not function as they should.
If what’s within the box is not ajar,
It will be soon, adagios of alarm
As phantoms masked in mortgages, just as whales, must surface
By the waters of eternal Babylon to their height in purpose.