Circles Within Circles
Social contract. Constitution. Exanding consciousness. Laws. Causes and Effects. Consequences. Accountability. Responsibility. What's it all about, anyway? Just circles within circles?
Blank Pages
Here on the table lies a book with a lock of baby hair.
It`s special to me because I keep my pictures of Jenny there.
Picture albums always seemed to me to be a bore,
But I look at this album...
Often...
Because Jenny isn`t here any more.
Look...here she is just hours old in the hospital room
And here she is at eight months old teething on the broom
This one was taken at the beach - I think she was two and a half...
When the water came between her toes, I remember how she laughed!
So brave in a new dress her first day of school
And here in the Grand Canyon with Clyde the clumsiest mule
Turning pages...here at seven, home with chicken pox
At eight she`s a fashion model with sloppy oversized socks
The first day of junior high...see the dress she`s wearing here?
Didn`t see it on her again the whole year!
This one here...at age fifteen she had just been told
That all her hard work - finally - the honor roll
In this picture, she`s washing the car, hoping to borrow the keys...
She`ll think of something I need at the store, then.
Ah, Mom....please?????
No more pages to turn - all the rest are blank
The rest of her life was an open book, waiting to be filled
But last night she was hit by someone driving drunk.
Last night our Jenny was killed.
s.m.chisam
Brave New World
If you have read Huxley's Brave New World you will know where this comes from.
if you haven't, it's similar to the type of thing in Farenheit 451 and Orwell's
1984....
Sixty years of progress
since Huxley's grim predictions
and of course we all agree
we have a Brave New World.
One's got to play the game, you know...
Alphas in gray pinstriped suits
control from behind gray granite walls
with their conservative gray emotions...
talking when there's nothing to say,
writing when there's something to sell.
Turn on any channel.
Read the covers at the check out stand.
Be the best that you can be.
� � � � �Take Sominex tonight and sleep;
� � � � �what secrets do the doctors keep?
� � � � �genetically coded hidden facts
� � � � �held with drops of sealing wax.
Betas of the royal hue
keep the books and keep in line
artists, scientists and engineers.
They control the game......
Tests are tweaked, results hidden
History is being rewritten
Until no one can understand it now.
� � � � �To play the game keep to your station.
� � � � �Stand in line to get your ration.
� � � � �Don't stand alone - it's not cool.
� � � � �If you show passion you're a fool.
Sensuous Green Gammas
with 900 number access
(and of course a web page)
cavort in lush environments
devoid of flies and mosquitos,
fertile but producing nothing,
It's better than "real" sex,
not to mention love.
� � � � �In fact, please don't.
We did away with it years ago -
Can't have people touching each other -
� � � � �not with their bodies
� � � � �� � � � �not with their minds
� � � � �� � � � �� � � � �not with their souls.
� � � � �Roses are red, violets are blue
� � � � �Don't be depressed; take a pill or two.
� � � � �Create your own druggie. It's not abuse.
� � � � �Isn't this stuff for us all to use?
What the world needs now is love, sweet love.
---Isn't it all around us? (so they say)
Khaki-clad Deltas engage in group hugs
but can't sustain eye contact
with just one significant other person
for just one significant minute.
---Too much Muzac in the air...
the funeral march of the Romantics.
� � � � �Don't paint like Van Gogh - we can't have tears;
� � � � �Nor even El Greco - we're avoiding fears.
� � � � �Paint a quick nothing with an absence of thought
� � � � �and emotion. It will surely be bought.
O brave new world that has such people in it....
� � � � �The very thought depresses my soul.
Epsilons in black dig the ditches for our coffins,
pick our tomatoes, fill our prison cells.
It's one of those things we try to ignore
like God
and death
and despair.
� � � � �One pill makes you larger
� � � � �and one pill makes you small.
� � � � �If we take them all we can smile and say,
� � � � �"I am no one at all."
Sixty years of progress
since Huxley's grim predictions
and of course we all agree
� � � � �� � � � �Everyone is happy now.
� � � � �� � � � �� � � � �----- aren't we?
s.m.chisam
Bridges
Whether built of ancient stone
� between mist-enshrouded hills,
or a brittle platform
� � suspended precariously
�� over a heart-stopping chasm...
a steel cabled wonder spanning a sparkling bay,
or maybe just a stretching tree,
� � felled long ago to cross a stream...
each bridge has a unique spirit to it,
� � and a timelessness it shares with its brethren.
A pass below, a span above, they make a way beyond.
Arched solid backs or swaying hands,
� � or web-works in the sky.
Like children,
� once they're here with us,
� it feels they've always been.
Bridges join our memories of other times and places,
of journeys, and of feelings, and of old familiar faces.
Not all bridges can be seen,
� � some link not lands but people,
and with handclasp, smile, or embrace arise
� � solid backs, swaying hands, or web-works in the sky.
Started by s.m.chisam 1989 finished with Alen of Baymoo 1996
Cirque de Soleil
Darkness
one light
then another
then many lights
all different
one person
then another
then many people
all different
moving
exchanging
telling the story
living dreams
dreaming lives
movements choreographed
twisting, turning colors of life
emotions shared
surprises
excitement
realizations of truth
in the story
in the people
in oneself
...and Quidam walks by, holding an umbrella
Cirque de Soleil
s.m.chisam---October 1996
Cosmos
First Dream - the heavens
The Stars---
Fly me there. I want to touch the stars. I want to hold them
In shaking hands, amazed at their beauty.
The Sun---
Fly me there. I want to feel its heat But not get burned
Only in dreams Can that happen
I have been burned
Badly.
The Moon---
Fly me there On the night of the full moon
And let me drink Celestial cordials
With the man in the moon
As he pulls me along his path.
Second Dream - the oceans
waves like heartbeats pounding the shores of my soul
Third Dream - the Deserts
Sometimes the wind blows The sand in your eyes
And you can't see Your way
Fourth Dream - the Forests
Dark paths to walk Branches reach out To touch me
Roots reach up To trip me And make me fall
Until I just let it be
and become one with the woods
Fifth Dream - the Animals
Animals all over
Some with gentle eyes--Some with fangs--Some with claws
Predators--Some with gentle eyes
Animals all
But then the dream changes
And the moon shines
illuminating the waves
or the sands
or the glen
or wherever I am
and I find someone with gentle eyes
waiting for me.
Sixth Dream - Man
Man can build or destroy
or even destroy what he has built
as easily as I can recycle this dreambook
and he does
every day and every night
what hurts is when
he destroys what he didn't build
like the animals
or the forests
or the deserts
or the oceans
or the heavens
or me.
s.m.chisam--1/4/96
Crop of Fools
Every generation there's a new crop of fools.
Their inventions are better and bigger and greater
Than anything anyone has ever seen.
Too hurried for adequate testing,
They pollute soil, water, air.
Forgetting (or ignoring) that Nature's penalties
For negligence are high.
They take risks
To beat the universe
But Nature's laws prevail
And the fish die.
Then the birds die.
Then a human or two
In a Third World country.
Then maybe
Someone in a First World Country.
Then they pay attention,
But thinking themselves
More clever than Nature,
They persevere in their pursuits.
Ignoring all of Nature's warnings,
They push their "improvements",
Getting further into debt with Nature...
Until She collects.
s.m.chisam--1990
Early Morning Riverside
Each morning I run beside the river,
this river in the city of the angels
with its concrete graffiti banks.
The damp smells and water sounds
remind me of home...
not home here...
Home,
where the arroyo cuts through digger pines
and pinons, cutting its own way...
where a rooster we named Coronel
brought the sun up
each day all by himself...
where we didn1t need a noisy street cleaner
because our street was dirt...
where our houses were right on the street,
not insulated behind
manicured green lawns...
home, where everyone was the same.
By the arroyo in the morning
you could hear the village wake up,
hear people say, 3Buenas dias, muchachos,2
and call each other by name.
We knew when a stranger came to our village
because even the air would feel different.
Here in this sprawling concrete-and-asphalt
city of the world, everyone seems to be a stranger.
I am a stranger, and white eyes look at me
with suspicion as I run beside the river.
Responsibilities cut short my run, and
as I turn from the river
the sun wheezes up through the brown smudge sky,
and I hear this city waking up, but
not with roosters and birds and friendly voices.
Street cleaners whirr, trash trucks grind,
house doors slam, cars start their day with an angry roar
like prehistoric beasts.
City buses spewing dragon smoke
rumble down asphalt passageways
delivering their victims
to their daily drudge.
On the other side of town
away from the graffiti of the river,
white feet ease into plush slippers...
even they are waking,
insulated by manicured lawns
and thick brick walls.
their metal beasts purr
as they slink seductively from their cozy dens,
Coming forth through wrought-iron gates
to conquer the new day.
They mark their territory
with the smell of new leather...
They refuse to see me
as their beasts roar past,
drowning out the rhythms
of my running feet,
yet in some ways I pity them
and wonder
if they1ve ever known the freedom
of running
by an arroyo...
early morning riverside.
s.m.chisam
Spring 1993
I Love America
I love her green rolling hills and her sultry summers,
Her snow-capped mountain peaks and dry desert valleys,
Her quiet low tidal pools and high granite headlands.
I love her sky-scrapered cities and bright neon lights,
Her acres of ranchland and star-filled skies,
Her postal stamp suburbs and even her malls.
I love her people.
I love the way they think, all differently.
I love the way they look, all differently.
I love the way that keeps America what she is.
I love all these things, but most of all
I love her deep green forests and white sparkling waterfalls,
Her black-tailed deer and great blue herons
Her undiscovered small lakes and canyons,
And paths I have yet to walk.
And, yes, I cry when the flag goes by
And when they sing Oh beautiful for spacious skies,
And when I am proud of her,
And when I am not.
s.m.chisam 98
Listen to the Silence
Listen to the scratching
Of quill on parchment
Framing a life
The birth of a new nation
Where all men are created equal
And they are endowed by their Creator
With everything but
The ability to
Listen to these whispers.
Listen to the chains
In the hold of a ship
And the anguished wail
Of a strong black warrior
As his brother dies chained beside him
Lying in his own excrement
A nation within a nation
Possession, repression.
Listen to the silence.
Listen to the shuffle
Of bleeding red feet
Of the few who survive
A trail of tears
From the barren red clay of Georgia
To the barren hills
Of Indian Territory
Stolen birthright
The air resounds
With the brittle crack
Of treaties breaking
And rifles shooting
A People without a land
Possession, repression.
Listen to the silence.
Listen to the hands
Of the helpers of men
Denied the quill
Being dainty and diminutive
Scrape knuckles on washboard
Docile and pure
Calloused and red
While a chorus of voices
Hearty and male
Boast of talents
That shape the new land
And deny them
To half the race
Possession, repression
Listen to the silence.
Listen to the scratching
Of quill on parchment
Framing a life
For posterity -
The birth of a nation
Where all men are created equal --
Unless they are
Black
Or Red
Or Female
Or.....
Inspired by Howard Zinn's book - "People's History of the United States"
s.m.chisam1993
Little Shoppe of Horrors
In this Little Shoppe of Horrors,
You will find what scares, what bores,
From a politician's speech,
To a goal beyond your reach.
Should you want to stop and touch,
Please refrain from doing too much,
For some old skeleton bones
Are much better left alone.
Some fear high society;
Some get test anxiety.
Some fear heights or gruesome sights or flashing lights.
I fear presidential lies
I fear bombs in freedom's skies,
I fear those who try to take away our rights.
I fear people who are bigots
As they turn on the spigots
Of prejudice and ignorance and hate.
And, if while the world is turning,
No one is really learning,
Then I.....I fear the world's fate.
Well, these are whitened bones
Perhaps better left alone,
Yet they rattle in the closets and the drawers.
So, feel free to look around,
But never go underground
To the basement of the Little Shoppe of Horrors.
9/23/98 s.m.chisam
No Glass Slipper
Someday, my prints will come;
Maybe I'll scan 'em some.
If they're better than Roto-Rooter,
I'll put 'em on my computer,
Then place them on the Net.
That's if I don't forget.
You can look at them there,
And see my golden hair,
My eyes of sparkling blue,
That smile and smile for you,
My fairy dusted gown,
And jewel-encrusted crown.
When midnight comes and goes,
Then see my warted nose,
My sagging panty hose,
My size 12 twinkle toes,
My flour sack fashion dress,
And hair that's such a mess!
But, hey, until that time,
It won't cost you a dime,
And it is worth my time,
To write this weird ol' rhyme,
To tell you champagne dippers
That I don't like glass slippers!
So come on by the house;
Just disregard the mouse.
We'll have some pumpkin pie,
And laugh as time goes by...
No fairies anywhere,
No tight glass shoes to wear.
There is no princess here;
It's only me, I fear.
And yet, that's not so bad --
I could be Galahad
When Guinevere was hot
About Sir Lancelot.
I could be some old witch
Who had a toady twitch,
And who would wave her switch
And leave you in a ditch.
I could be...anything,
But my own song I sing.
I march to my own drum,
And I will be the sum
Of me and all of you,
Sometimes without a clue---
Like getting the song right--
This one was Snow White's!
99 S.M.Chisam
The Old Oak
Ah, yes
the children, the grandchildren
of course it is only in my best interests
that I be uprooted
yet...
how can they want me to leave the place
where I have stood tall
for so many years
and then again
maybe I don't stand so tall any more
I have shrunk a bit,
and lean down with age
but then again...
am I not
the beginning
of the veritable forest
in which they stand?
were it not for the acorns
I dropped over the years,
and the acorns those trees then dropped, and....
ah well, some don1t see it that way, I guess
Here I stand
withered and gray
the old lichen dripping from my twisted limbs
can they not see
the initials carved in my bark?
Can they not see
the shade I give to any who seek it?
Can they not see?
written 5/16/89/rev 1-97
Think leprechauns are happy little creatures? Read this tale of old!
Shanachie
His gentle lilt and expressive brow
Draw the children near
And they come together at his knee
To listen, for it is here
Perched on the ancient garden wall
That he spins the tales of old
And they learn of their Celtic homeland
Till the night is growing cold.
Then he shakes a beard as gray as the stone
And as wispy as the lichen there
And runs thin, bony fingers
Through his thinning silver hair.
Younger hands entwine with his
As their voices ask for more
Of the tales he tells
Of the little folk
And all the days before.
"Not now, me lads," he whispers.
"Not now, me lassies, too.
Not till we're safe inside the house
With night overcomin' the gloom.
Be quiet as ye enter
And tiptoe across the floor
So the little folk don't see you
Till you're safe behind my door."
The cottage is filled with laughter
And the smell of broth on the fire
As the lads and lassies gather
From every end of the shire.
There is a child on every seat
And quite a few on the floor,
Ready to hear the story.
Then Shanachie bolts the door
And opens the trunk where his treasure's hid
And tells how he found the gold
In a pot he discovered at the rainbow's end
Where he was given all he could hold.
Then the shutters shriek like a banshee wail
And the creaking door splits asunder,
The wind knocks over the old tin pail
And the leprechauns come to plunder.
For their legends tell of a treasure hidden
In a lonely house by the moor
Where the peat burns bright on an Autumn night
And Shanachie bolts the door.
He has reason to fear, this old man does,
For he was beguiled by the gold.
He wasn't given any at all,
And what he has - he stole.
So, afraid for his life and nagged by his wife,
He lures the children in,
Thinking their bonny innocence
Will save him from his sin,
But he's underestimated the wrath
Of the ones from whom he's stolen,
And he doesn�t know that the price is high
If he wants to keep their gold.
The children's cries match his pleading lies
As the little folk start their killing,
For the leprechauns know his blackened soul...
To give up the gold he's not willing.
So they take instead from each fair head
A scalp full of golden hair
And track their mud through pools of blood
As they retreat to their lair.
..............
As the years unfold, a strange tale is told
Of the last lonely house by the moor
Where, its said, a Shanachie once lived
Who stole the leprechaun's gold.
They say he must have traveled far
And he must have traveled wide,
Never returning to the house on the moor
To face the horror inside.
They say if you pass the moor at night
Just the other side of the knoll
You might hear in the silver light
A sound that will chill your soul.
'Tis the wail of the lads and lassies
Wantin' to go home
But their home is where the leprechauns left 'em
Under the peat and the loam.
...............
I heard one day across the way
A take by a man named Farley.
I never knew if it was true
Or the result of too much barley.
He said that one night in the waning light
He'd drunk too much of the brew
And followed the path across the moor
To see if the legend was true.
He heard the cries in the Autumn night
The sound of the children weepin'
But his mind was on the cottage
And the treasure it could be keepin'.
He thought about Shanachie
And the leprechauns he had mocked,
But when he tried the cottage door...
.............................it was unlocked.
So he tried to push it open
(The cottage was vacant, you see.)
But something seemed to be pushing back
And he couldn't get it free.
So he went around to the side and found
A window he could pry.
He braced it open with a dry old branch
And then he slipped inside.
There he found, to his surprise,
A treasure chest on the floor
(And the wails of the lads and lassies
Echoed in from the moors.)
Not really expecting anything,
The top of it Farley raised
And treasure enough to ransom a king
Met his unbelieving gaze.
Why would Shanachie go off and leave
A treasure such as this?
He was starting to fill his pockets
When he heard an ominous hiss.
He turned around and there was a snake.
Was this a leprechaun's bluff?
He thought St. Patrick had driven them out,
But this one looked real enough.
The reptile darted; he couldn't retreat
So he ran across the floor
And tripped on something hard and white
That he hadn't seen before.
His blood turned to ice as he saw the stains
Of gore on the cold stone floor
And cold, white, brittle human bones
Holding back the cottage door.
s.m.chisam--March
The Want Ads
July 1776
Wanted: Politians with some land and ethics
willing to protect the rights
of landowners
and discriminate against
Negroes, Indians and Women.
Prefer no war mongers.
April 1868
Wanted: Politicians with some connections and
Money or heroic past
willing to protect business interests.
Must know how to sidestep issues
On Negroes, Indians and Women.
April 1968
Wanted: Politicians with lots of connections
And lots of money.
Heroism not a prerequisite.
Must be willing to protect Bug Business,
figure out the war
and keep the Flower Children happy.
Must know how to distract voters
away from such controversial issues as
Blacks, Native Americans and Women.
November 1992
Wanted: Politicians with no connections
and no contributions from Big Business.
Heroes accepted.
We specialize in black horses
and candidates who are not sure they are running.
Must be able to sling mud while side stepping issues.
Once in office, must be able to balance budget, economic and environmental issues,
and please all the people all the time.
African Americans, Native Americans and Women may apply.
November 2000
Wanted: Honest applicants for political positions serving the public.
All Blacks, Indians and Women please apply.
Trenches
Johnny dug trenches in the sandy loam
To protect him from the gathering gloom
Of the enemy1s hand
Acoss No-Man1s land
In that righteous war so far from home.
Thunder and lightning filled him with dread
As he ate his meals and counted the dead
As they lay fallow
In the dreadful shallow
Treches while shells shrieked over his head.
His shell lies in the trenches now
Where the rich green grass and the epitaphs grow
There in Every-Man1s land
In the rich, dark sand
Fighting the slow trench warfare the worms all know.
s.m.chisam
Yellow Ribbons
Yellow ribbons proudly fluttering
From flagpoles, from fences, from trees
Saying "Yes, we support our troops"
"Please bring them home safely."
In a perfect little house
On a perfect little street
In a perfect little town
In America
Sits a mother and a father,
Waiting for news of their son.
Instead of the mail carrier`s light steps,
Their blood turns to ice as
A uniform ascends the steps
And,beginning with the words,
"We regret to inform you..."
Shatters their perfect little world
Now, in that perfect little town,
On that perfect little street,
Hang hundreds of yellow ribbons
And one black wreath.
s.m.chisam
When the Cemetery Speaks
When the cemetery speaks
the living should listen
for I know all the tales
of those who visit
and those who stay
and I know the town
for I1ve seen the changes
for good and for bad
So if you1re living, listen.
it1s too late for the dead.
s.m.chisam 1993
Copyright s.m.chisam