Mind Fields: Poetry & SuchPosted: November 18, 2022 | |
Ideas Like Never Before
Boulder breakers and charcoal makers
wait for something they don’t know what
just breaking rocks to earn a penny, rocks to pave
gravel roads that go away. Anywhere
is better than poor in Africa, Asia, America, the poor are broken just like the stones they break.
Ending poverty is the work of a civilization. If we can’t end poverty anywhere in the world, we are not a civilization
What to Believe
These days I can’t believe anything. A lie
hovers overhead day and night. All the competing agendas clash
and the books, videos, news, none remain without a stink
of mendacity. The liars hold the highest offices. They control
information. Their tech is the latest but
their lies are old, ancient, lies told by tyrants to the innocents.
Those who are brave defy their terror and protest. In Iran,
the women are sick with disgust at control by tottering old men wearing white fezzes and large skullcaps. Liars! I can’t
hold enough outrage! I see things daily
I never expected to see, ever. People are murdered by lies.
It was said, “A lie is both murder and suicide in the world of the spirit.” Mostly these days it’s murder. The suicides will have to wait
to write their notes. The supply of pencils, pens and paper
has been interdicted by the Lie Police.
Will Truth set us free? Perhaps in the Kingdom of God, but here
Truth has been split asunder and reality can’t be recognized by anyone but other liars, and those are so far lost from Truth that they would not know it
IF IT BIT THEM IN THE ASS.
Saving What’s Left
“It’s broken.” My grandson stands over his red fire truck. The wheels have come off. The boy’s lower lip thrusts out and I can see that his heart is broken too. If I tell him that it’s just a toy, he won’t be comforted. This was the only truck in his world and now his grief will carry him to a child’s little hades, for just a minute. What is a minute to a three year old? It may as well be forever. For the duration of that minute all hell breaks loose and his tears and rage fill the room till all the grown-ups flee. Except me. I’m the baby sitter. I know how he feels.
The world is broken, our world. And it was we who broke it, stuffed it, neglected it, tore its roots out. Has it come to this? My grief for a broken world carries me to my own hades, my underworld of sorrow where what has been done cannot be undone until we have atoned like ancient Jews on Yom Kippur.? What punishment do we receive if we fail to atone? Regret, more like: oh the regret we have yet to feel as the land sinks and the seas rise. Our earth is frangible, it can be waylaid like the victims of highway robbery. “Hands up, planet!” The men in dark suits are digging holes. “Can’t you see we’re busy here? Go away with your storms. We know how to deal with your kind!”
They’re only doing their jobs, they’re following orders.
“Take them away”, croaks the man in the suit and tie. “Take them away and hide them in the deepest mines.” ]
It’s broken. Can it be fixed? The next generations are tasked with this inhuman mess. They will have to be strong beyond what we know. They will have to develop themselves in unforeseen ways to have the stamina to work within the broken systems on the derelict highways. Armageddon will be indefinitely postponed. It already happened and we missed it. We were busy fighting. The next apocalypse will hit us before we’re ready. That is the nature of things. We have only the promise in Luke and Mark and John, Christians before Christianity, who learned that the lilies of the field will always be in their raiment, even if it is only in heaven.
Arthur Rosch is a novelist, musician, photographer and poet. His works are funny, memorable and often compelling. One reviewer said “He’s wicked and feisty, but when he gets you by the guts, he never lets go.” Listeners to his music have compared him to Frank Zappa, Tom Waits, Randy Newman or Mose Allison. These comparisons are flattering but deceptive. Rosch is a stylist, a complete original. His material ranges from sly wit to gripping political commentary.
Arthur was born in the heart of Illinois and grew up in the western suburbs of St. Louis. In his teens he discovered his creative potential while hoping to please a girl. Though she left the scene, Arthur’s creativity stayed behind. In his early twenties he moved to San Francisco and took part in the thriving arts scene. His first literary sale was to Playboy Magazine. The piece went on to receive Playboy’s “Best Story of the Year” award. Arthur also has writing credits in Exquisite Corpse, Shutterbug, eDigital, and Cat Fancy Magazine. He has written five novels, a memoir and a large collection of poetry. His autobiographical novel, Confessions Of An Honest Man won the Honorable Mention award from Writer’s Digest in 2016.
More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com
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