Didn't get the memo

People less stressed?

I don't think the point

Is that there is less stress

In the AARP crowd.

But rather the stress

Bothers us less

Because we know

That stress, indeed, passes;

And that any life messes

Eventually get cleaned up.

Why worry? 

The homely here of Indiana

The homely here of Indiana,

Beaten, drowned, buffeted,

Labeled by some as country

Best seen from above--

You know, as the crow flies.

And on days like these

Even from above, you'd see

Only clouds, and more clouds.

And yet--

Some blustery front will blow

Those clouds away, soon,

Then look out the windows, frequent fliers:

Ah, the lovely green checkerboards

Fringed by full wind-rows

Laid on the grid of county road

And interstate.

And down below, the beauty's

In the details, so look close:

The pear, the dogwood, the lilac

The tulip, iris, peony,

Green on loan from 

Some Irish aerie, maybe:

The Midwest flatness a sudden canvas,

Cubism and Impressionism thrown together,

Unexpected art in a plain Hoosier gallery.

She's just not good enough for you

Who would make people happy?

Not even this announcement:

"Today, President Obama nominated

"Christ for the Supreme Court,

"Stating that the Savior's hands-on experience

"In judgmental situations

"Makes Him particularly well-suited

"To the nation's highest court."

Give it half an hour,

Let the talking heads loose:

"Christ for the court?

What kind of judge

Will He make?

He forgave everyone!

An elitist radical socialist!

A left activist!

An anti-military loon!"

O friends! Judge not,

That ye might be judged

By the right of heart.

Imma B Immigrated

If she raises her hand in greeting

To the poor, the tired, the multi-hued

In New York harbor--

In Arizona she whacks them

On the head.

"We won't judge you by your skin--

We'll just stop you, and card you,"

And perhaps, deport you.

Give up the mothers, the fathers,

Your yard man, your pool guy,

Your hotel maid, your nanny.

By bus, train, boat, or boot,

Just show them the door

Don't let it hit them on the way out.

And don't miss them when they're gone.

Throwing numbers at the wall

Take these numbers;
Hold them in your hands
Shake them up like Yahtzee dice,
Throw them at the wall;
See if they stick. Or bounce.
(Like a bad check.)
Digits fly by everywhere--
Miles on the odometer,
Minutes on the clock,
Line score at Wrigley Field.
Don't blink; you might miss
The roller coaster ride on
Wall Street. If some say
It's veering around Greece,
Others blame it on the rain.
Oh wait; I mean, bad typing.
Hey, Austin Powers? Was that million
...Or billion? Neither applies
To my 401(K)--not anymore.
They're all only numbers,
Thrown onto screen or spreadsheet,
Overhyped on CNBC and Bloomberg.
Honestly, more like a merry-go-round,
Without the merry.

A Black River Runs Through It. Again

Maybe you've seen the headwaters of this black river,

It's there in Prince Williams Sound,

Where dark puddles linger, decades later--

Here's where it began, with

Death and death and mess.

Floating booms can't restrain stupidity

and bad planning--

Nor can fire burn away carelessness.

If the bitch, Katrina, wreaked anarchy,

Howling for attention,

 Then here is a quiet, black anointing, insidious,

Slinking into the Gulf waters,

Threading through the delicate lace

Of estuary and delta,

Like a Dementor ready to 

Suck the life from us. Again.

Laughing at Letterman

David, you old Hoosier:
Every night you
Open your chest
And let us laugh at your heart.
What goes on in the green room
Doesn't stay there.
Behind even open hearts
Are closed doors. If winsome disclosure
Brings forgiveness,
Memory brings caution.
Our laughter, fed by empathy
(Indeed, we all screw up)
May turn quickly--
As quickly clicked
As a button on a remote.

May 4: I was going to write, but Neil Young did it better

Four dead in Ohio>>

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We're finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.

Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?

Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We're finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio. (Neil Young)

Pictures>>
Kent May 4 Center>>
Fire in the Heartland>>

Dooming history, one tweet at a time

Obama wrestles with growing stack of crises

While Michelle kickboxes with dandelions;

George Bush proclaimed while New Orleans drowned,

And Iraq collapsed upon itself.

Tweets today may be yesterday’s tomes,

Yet, books or pixels, it’s only time’s perspective

That gives fair judgment. I’ll wait,

And see how tomorrow’s news arrives.

Nashville -- no stranger to the rain

After all the songs about rain,

The rainy night, the rain on the roof,

The rain in your blue eyes--

Hey Nashville, remember

What Waylon said -- Storms never last;

Yet from Ft. Wayne experience,

The mud lingers for weeks.

Note to BP: Your oily avoidance roils my sense of responsibility

If, by chance, oil should spew from Earth's dark mantle

Without the intervention of God, or Jed Clampett--

Then, indeed, British Petroleum, sans Transocean, or not;

With your oily avoidance, or not;

This ecologic nightmare IS "your accident."


Yours in responsible drilling, C.