The Poetry Of J.P.

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Tracing that Long Path

Our lives pass like cherry blossoms,
snapped from hurried branch to ripened fruit.
We flit from first to fledged to finished,
put out to ash one hundred years an instant.
A truth we scarcely want to envision,
yet death and quantum mechanics will have it.

In human want and vanity we make
the cosmos roll into a ball and laugh,
as if our hundred was even a flash
to its endless procession of cold stars.
It’s like to ants a rose would bloom eternal.

Do not ask the cosmos or pyramids
of the atoms that went into their form,
or the rose of the ants that flit across its back:
for the pyramids would not even know
of sciences written in scales of man.

The seasons changing keys set fruit to fall
from mindful sagging branch to brutal dust
below. The ants divert their sacred path
to sweets divinely delivered on high,
like man attributing meaning to change.

Is it just we who contemplate the ants,
the Sagan starstuff, the music vast?

©JPV

What Talent We Once Had

What talent we once had
What vengeance we once took
what labor we once made

There was once wondrous music here,
more than empty words and rhythms
a magic now so elusive
we long for the old American Pie,
before the music truly died.

Remember Lenon and his words,
how he sang so eloquently
‘that your still fucking peasants
as far as I can see,’
and dream of a time when Dylan
begged to not ‘block up the halls,’
or when ‘the words of prophets echoed
in song and not just the subway walls.

What talent we once had;
what music we have lost to greed.
The Tools and Rage Against The Machine
now drifting off to sleep
with what vengeance we once had
and the labor we once had made
to keep our freedom to think.

Hero

He’s nobody’s hero,
the man that wakes at dawn,
bagger that packs your bags
’till swoll’ with groceries.

Not a chiseled statue
or actor made the same,
who takes his role as reality.
He’s nobody’s hero,
Nor does he want to be.

He wants to feed his family
and live out his life with glee,
but he must be a hero
and face the daily plague,
because there is no tomorrow
without the risks of today.

Lullaby

We are living in Orwell’s mind,
while Huxley sings his lullaby—
a vacation, a new motorcycle,
nevermind, never mind
the bridges collapsing as you ride.

Build Back Better

Do not believe bankers, princes,
or governments; for all their wealth,
glittering gold, and grasping at control,
they haven’t ended suffering
or slowed the march of scolding sun
through Earth’s newest closing curtain call.

There are folks so evil
they would stranglehold a child
or dangle slogans like carrots,
while building a better A-bomb.

We have reached the threshold
where backs can bear no more,
but beware the man who says he’ll fix it
by adding just one more boulder
to the masses as we build back better than before.

Please Don’t Send Flowers

He passed away today—
or was it days ago,
I have not the strength to tell.
Anymore, the rose’s petal’s say
what my words could never:
don’t send me more flowers—
please don’t affix a card to the lilies,
because I have relived his death
with each wilting lily
and cried more often then a rose in molt.

Two Truths

Oh, Khafre would you tell the truth?
Was it you who removed Anubis
from the rough paws that soothed the world
when all lost souls would need the weighing scale.
Oh, Khafre how does your heart weigh today;
would you still chisel at the Jackal’s face
and try yourself in the Hall of Two Truths?
Oh, Khafre centuries erode the hips,
faceless Anubis cannot welcome the dead,
nor can the modern historian’s pen.
Today, the lies threaten more than the head,
as corrupt historians make case to government
and threaten our ability to see
and be made wise to the sleeping of truth
that’s been since Anubis’s nose was lost
to man’s ageless need to make himself God
or something like it within his lil’ field.

Guidance Systems

Divisions unite us:
The righteous verses all
who dare to dream on false idol
or care to see such figures
flung with giggles into the sea.

And this is it,
we build fences from boards
that look each like the last,
never deviating
and ignoring the cracks,

And there is not one group
who has not developed in this way.
Divisions unite us,
and the heathen’s give cause for change.
Build a better bomb to beckon our cause!
Computers and silicon chips
are just an afterthought
of guidance systems bettering their odd.

When All The World

From the doves that pepper the somber sky
to the slate that ashens the dappled day
everything is grey
and dusty like remembering
a sigh or drab iron when all the world
sees a silvery lining of hope.

You Have To Do More Than Dream

We have engaged in a silence
so profound, it approaches stupidity;
proceeded in this manor until spent,
continued in our heads off-key,
as if in the ignoring and humming
there would be some relent,
as if the pain in our wee heads
would go away simply by dreaming it.

Both Sides

They came, they saw,
and they conquered;
we stayed and witnessed,
and they abused us.

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