Selections of Poetry by Duane Robert Pierson

The Indictment: Poetry Most Critical

1

Whisper
Mutter
Utter

it cannot be
it must not be
a scorched earth
nothing lives but me

Walk in the meadow
where the green grass grew
Wade the brook where a heron fished
Join to chant a mantra
Awaken things in fretful sleep
Let the dreamer’s breath
cleanse this slimy scene
Do we hear a gasp?
No! No! No!
It is the eruptive roar
of volcanic indignation
of agonizing souls
because because
all ended sterile
and quite quite dead

17

Extinct
Pollute
Defile

where humankind has led
forty percent of ocean dead
the very earth rots
capitalism forges ahead

They say it is all a lie
the filth in the sky
Species generated through the eons
gone in a but a blink
No need for them to exist
as their utility is vague at best
All has evolved into an untidy mess
The humongous human race
needs the entire vast universe
to be its niche and not enough
achieving plentitude and magnitude
Reproducers amble evermore
punching out replicas galore
To have plenty is too many
The gag is that the precious one
singular with intelligence
caches all the ignorance

33

Wound
Disable
Dispose

never say no
to a valiant hero
unless wounded and useless
away they must go

Within the super patriot's eye
warriors are everlasting
Paradigms of perfection
Icons of infallibility
A bullet does not know
to seek out only the weak
Shattered bodies reminders
they are not perfect
Invincibility does not rule
Another mythos torn asunder
Get them out of sight
Forget to pay the bill

85

Hubris
Extinct
Soulless

an endangered specie
makes some queasy
but letting it go
is really quite easy

The last of the ugly little creatures
Evolved out of the primordial ooze
at the very beginning of it all
Let it go, it lacks utility
Preserving it will be a bother
The necktie throated homo sapiens
dismiss with haughty disgust
anything hindering human progress
Diversity of species naught but a slogan
Insufferable callous arrogance
clothed in deep-rooted ignorance
Conceit most intransigent
They speak of wonder and miracles
and slay the natural with avarice

When My Feet Quit Dancing

Adfectio

Clear the mind
Synapses shorted
Sweep it clean
Close all portals
No thoughts allowed
Clarity is white
It is nothing
A blank sheet

But they will not stop
They drop in like snakes
through crevices in a cave
where they twist about
hissing and threatening,
tormenting my tranquility

Think good thoughts
in bright sunshine
They flutter about,
momentarily
butterflies and bluebirds,
‘til they are swept away
by a black wind
forcing the door.

Calliope Gone

My muse departed.
Calliope walked deftly away
hand in hand with Erato and Euterpe
trailing a hound, seed of Laelaps,
relentless pursuer of the Teumessian fox,
leaving me naught but pallid languor,
jumbled piles of words that cannot bind,
inspiration a fluttering vacant word.

What woe have you executed,
you who treated me with reticence,
oft tasting of cold contempt?
All of nature now mechanic,
you have swept these drafty rooms,
reposed fields, and snow burdened woods
of every trace of lyricism.

The cruelty is in the emptiness.
Listen for her in the wind sounds,
look for her in the rustling leaves,
find only impassive dullness
where once dwelt mischievous brilliance.
To be left adrift and exposed
in a world shorn of her touch
is to suffer a fickle brutal fate
as when bored annoyed Zeus turned
poor Laelaps and the fox to granite.

Scattered Ashes

Where a tumbling brook
is time’s metronome
and the night sky glows
of shattered diamonds,
into the firmament
seeps my blood,
nutrient to the grass,
up into the ether
goes my breath
atomizing on a breeze,
to fall with the dew.
Songbirds drink of me
A stag absorbs my substance
The wood thrush sings my dirge

A Theory of Time

The ocean speaks to me
in ancient tongues.
I listen in the evening
as it whispers
a mournful tale.
It sends messages
on waves that Nelson sailed.
Within a spiral shell
I hear the very words
that Jason spoke.
The rhythm played by waves
breaking on granite beckons
with ceaseless constancy.
A sea bird warns,
search not the horizon
for infinity

Field of Wild Flowers with Girl

Eyes of Cornflower Blue

Long ago a girl and me
walked an old field.
We photographed
Centaurea cyanus,
the blue cornflower.
I forget her name,
yet the flower was in her eyes,
a complement to flaxen beauty.

Idealism fueled by longing,
we attempted as lovers wont
to capture fleeting moments,
to freeze time within a lens.
Each year the flower returns.
She is a memory.
Eyes of cornflower blue
in the hot summer sun.

Girls in Summer Dresses

A girl in a summer dress
turns hot into cool,
sweat into sweet,
steam to chilled mist.

She stirs a breeze
in the hot still air.
Deep in my mind
smoldering coals fire
a sensory eruption.

She walks as a cloud
of seraphic passion.
She moves like a ripple
among lily pads
on a Monet pond,
calm as a pink explosion.

Punctuated Equilibrium

The woman is primal,
emblematic to never ending
evolution in motion,
nature’s unceasing etude,
an atonal melody,
logic and emotion in counterpoint.
Symbolize the genus avis,
beauty preened to attract,
an ancient costly ritual.
Alexandrite prey eyes
gently dart about,
timid, smiling,
noting and luring,
masking wily sagaciousness.
The body but a decoy
where predacious hawks soar
seeking an easy feast.
To taste salty flesh,
they plunge and crash
amidst a wispy residue
of beautiful plumage.
The flesh has flitted away
~ to Shana

A Swift Dissolve

The ray of sunshine reflected
off the car’s rear window
when I thought there was no sun.
When next I looked
the window reflected a clear sky,
not perfectly blank,
there was a small white cloud.
I think of you
when I see that sparkling fire
shining deep within your eye,
when comforting clarity
permeates our life.
In the morning there was frost
chilling the air,
dulling the window,
nullifying the sun catcher.
I looked for the sparkle,
the warming fire,
but you had turned away.

Frogs, Dogs, and Eclogues

Cutting Hay

Enjoyable labor
is mowing hay.
We had a lost field
within the western woodlot.
On a summer morn I approached,
scythe over my shoulder
down an old wagon road.
With blade peened and honed
to a barber’s razor sharpness
I began my rhythmic walk.
Mowing is a graceful process.
Arms slowly swinging
the scythe side to side,
its heel skimming the ground,
the toe riding an inch above
I walked the field’s length
to the beat of nature’s soft sounds
and the quiet whispering swish,
the curved blade effortlessly cutting.

At the end of each row
I pause and lean upon
the sweat polished wooden snath
taking from my belt the whetstone,
stropping the blade,
honing it back to perfection.
Savoring the aroma of fresh cut grass
I look back at the neat row
of cut timothy drying in the sun.
Noontime I recline in the shade
beside the stone fence wall
enjoying lunch from my pail,
watching bluebirds and their friends
feast on insects hopping in the stubble.
In the evening after an acre cut
I walk home with the satisfaction
a dancer finds in pleasant labor.

The Pumpkin Girl

Working the farmers’ market.
Soap her earthy cosmetic,
clean country air for perfume,
pheromones fueling ardor’s fire.
Hands that pull vegetables
from the ground scrubbed
with the virtue of hard work.

Office women and shop girls
groomed to perfection,
weighted with consciousness,
pass the pumpkin girl,
meteors in empty space.
We take the hair tied back,
the sun blushed cheeks,
innocent sparkling farm girl eyes.
Recycled baggy clothes
hiding a centerfold’s body,
labor sculpted lean and hard.
Her smile awakens
the granite ancient seated
atop the nearby monument.

She has secrets to share
with those who might care -
the comfort of simplicity,
the smell of clean fertile earth,
the delight of seeds sprouting into life.
No need to improve on nature,
plain is as beautiful as need be.
Her rooster crows before sunrise
to declare a new better day.

Amidst bouquets of autumn flowers,
piles of fruits and vegetables,
the old men’s jazz band plays
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine -
please don’t take my sunshine away.”
Children dance with feet possessed,
like water drops on a hot griddle.
The pumpkin girl sparkles
in the crisp sun kissed air.

Saturday Night
on a Summer Lake

Upon the old wooden dock
we listen to a band,
tunes drifting across the water
the same year after year,
gentle lapping waves
keeping a steady beat.
The theme a movie score,
wistfully romantic
for slow swaying couples
upon a polished dance floor.
Sleepy rustling marsh grass
upon the near shore
hums a melody from the past,
one that lulled dancing feet
now long at sleep.

A Thread from Argos

Whence comes the ire?
It’s seeded in the sorrow.
Amidst Penelope’s vile suitors
a faithful cur alone
recognizes returned Odysseus.
A caress would expose,
thus not to be proferred.
As his master wept
faithful ancient Argos
died of broken heart.

Argos down from Olympus,
our dog descended hence.
Sorrow and anger never abate
amongst vengeful deities.
Their thundering rage persists.
Angered by a dark storm,
her angry bark and growl
warns the gods to desist,
to not again deny love’s stroke.

She reacts
seizing a lightning bolt in her teeth.
She shakes that storm
like a vile varmint
Shook it until the dark became light
until the wet fell upon the ground
as sparkling drops of dew.
With dusk these convert
into twinkling fireflies,
a chastened storm
ascends to the heavens.

When Young Men Die

The Horror of it All

Weaving purple violets into her hair,
she whispered to her brave warrior
seductive comforting words of peace.
she pleaded her most sincere belief
that poetry of love will conquer any heart.

His old enemy brought her gifts,
a pair of doves in alabaster white,
declaring them guardians of peace,
gentle tokens of love straight from his heart.
His pledge of sincerity sparkling like ice slivers.

She watched the doves glide over
her beloved blood red windflowers
as she slipped on the cloak of serenity.
Her soft words convinced her brave warrior
to cast aside his sword and embrace his enemy.

Strong arms wrapped around the old foe
as the dagger slipped into a brave man’s breast.
Her virgin blood mixed with that of the anemone
as weeping she prepared a hungry man’s meal
of peace doves cooked in a pie.

Coming to Terms

Back in the US of A
Didn’t expect no glory
Not a lot of swagger
Just a grunt home from Nam
to apple pie and Mom.

I passed the acid test
Stood tall with this nation’s best.
Didn’t expect a band
nor a welcome hand

Looking tight and sharp
with crewcut head.
I sought out the old gang
hoping to cop some poontang.

We found some girls
but to my surprise
they craved longhaired hippy freaks
and assorted other geeks.

All the chicks getting balled
by freaky stoned dudes
with hair all over their face
- a goddamned disgrace.

It didn’t take me long to see
that the lovin was for free.
The best way to get a piece
was to up and march for peace.

Threw away my medals and my brass
Grew my hair down to my ass
Sported a magnificent ‘tache
Wore a peace sign upon my chest
and gave those lovin babes my best.

Tragedy So Deep

One shattered body
One simple life draining wound
Take a war full of tiny incidents
and great campaigns
One is to a million is to ten million
Vile executions
Mutilation rendering explosions
Futility of reason against martial force
Lives switched off by random buttons
Blind passion amok
Sing lusty songs of glory,
transmute them to miserable dirges
Tragedy so deep
A universe of hurt beyond knowledgeable pain
Take all the blood and body parts,
the broken hearts and destroyed souls
and throw them into a vat
Drench with survivors’ tears
Stir all into mortal concrete
and erect an obelisk
that marks each drop of lost happiness
each missing progeny
each destroyed bit of brilliant promise
All the good snuffed out
Molecules all
Forming a monument to the colossal folly
of our deadly species

Force Majeure

The Sheepscot pure and clean,
a river perfect
down from the mountains
meets the tidal flow.
A green place where a boy
walks through marsh grass,
where an osprey soars
searching for a kill.

The boy to another land.
The wind blows brown
in a land where heat
is a dragon’s breath.
He walks as a target,
keen eyed sniper’s prey,
a life squandered.
A mother’s child
in another man’s war.
The mother waits
where the river flows
cold, clear and perfect
meeting the salty sea.

Ode to Freida

Canto IV

The Shack

We survived in a shack
on our ramshackle farm
as father built the big house.
Our lives testament to the detritus
of the great depression.
Some nights we would hear sirens,
put out the lights
pull down black out curtains
and hide in the dark
Frieda would lie next to me on the bed
holding me as we waited
for the bombs or the all clear.
We would hear a distant plane
flying through the night sky.
Like a chick under a hen
I would move tight against her
asking if it were a Nazi or a Jap.
She would whisper no,
that those people were far far away
and could not bother us.
I sort of knew that
and was even disappointed
but I was happy for the entire thing
as it brought my mother next to me.

On Christmas morning
we had no real toys
as all materials were
necessary for the war.
No need for toys when people need killing.
I opened a present
wrapped in last season’s paper,
a toy revolver
made of pressed saw dust painted black.

Frieda told me that when the war was over
I would get an electric train and a rubber ball.
Then the pleasure of pleasures-
she unwrapped a new book
and I lay in her lap
as she read to me.

Canto V

The Schoolhouse

A white clapboard one room schoolhouse
Miles from everything
No electricity
Water from an outside hand pump
Boy and girl privies
A machine sound would disrupt
nature’s buzzing and chirping
and the chatter of us children.
An airplane passes over.
We run outside and stare in awe,
checking whether it be friend or foe.
We dreamed of war
Talked of war
And studied war.
The bookmobile comes
and we take out books on war.
Across the road
a farmer plowed with his horses
as we worked our victory gardens.
Each morning we would stand
around the flagpole and salute,
pledge allegiance,
and sing patriotic songs.

Then it was Christmas,
the school’s evening party.
Frieda played carols on the old upright
Parents and children sang along
Through the large windows
snow flurries made white specks in the night.
And as we sang
we felt some cozy comfort
hoping that throughout
the war torn world
others too sang and hoped for peace.
Warmth came from the corner coal stove
The gas lamps gave off an amber glow
that made her blond hair gold.
She looked, played, and sang like a goddess.
A little boy could be no more proud.

Canto VII

Lurking Oedipus

Oedipus,
Stand back you old fool
Stay out of this
It isn’t about you
This is about a boy
and a child mother,
salty residue in the mind
stirring foggy
reminiscence of sensual things.

It sticks with me
through the decades
the brushes with lust
being singed by passion,
the sounds and scents
atmospheric vibrations
transmitted human to human.

I am issue
from impassioned loins,
back seat coupling
between a sixteen year old girl
and a young man.
Ah, the details one would like to know
about the fury of creation,
about a girl on fire
enjoying the flames,
forces that eventually converted
a kind and gentle man’s brown eyes
to be green with rage.

Little boys pick up the scent
crawling for safety
under their mothers’ dresses.
They find seeds of desire
in the sweaty warmth
of a mother’s comforting embrace.
The mother unaware
that acrid pheromones
embed and inflame the brain,
that the little boy
absorbs lessons
from casual nakedness

All of this I got from the girl woman,
her whispering with girl friends
about men and forbidden things
as they rolled down skirts,
buttoned blouses,
and hurriedly removed lipstick
before entering the house.
It was her assuming,
unknowing and unseeing.

Upon the boy
male strangers bestow affection
seeking a key to the girl woman’s heart,
a passage way to her charms.
The boy relishes proud conceit
in the comforting knowledge
that he alone possesses the affection
sought by cloying leering seducers

Always I would end up with her,
us alone on the ride home,
content that I had what they wanted.
Sitting on the seat of the old Ford as she drove
I would look up at her
seeing something firm yet soft,
a boundless spirit that pulled like a magnet,
a girl woman
with blonde hair like a golden cloud
smiling blue eyes in which I swam,
appearance straight from star casting
in a World War II era movie.
I was as content as a male can be
when with a woman he loves.

On Reviving a Lost Revolution

The Maelstrom

Once there was but silence
gently broken by the purr
of humble life and nature’s friction.
We walked through the centuries
to and from the fields,
our mind a blank slate
hearing only
a wood thrush’s song in a forest glade,
the stock munching grain,
our mate’s nagging love.
Our fears of the great unknowns
assuaged by a cleric’s unbending words.

Today words pelt us
like hailstones.
We are assailed with
swirling explosive information.
No place to recede,
to find respite,
free from relentless images
and obdurate certainties.

We once dwelled in aural ambiance
within a melodic mist comprised
of microscopic drops of sound,
our sensory impulses soothingly massaged.
Now the honey of simple sweet pleasantry
has turned to sticky oppressive tar.
Victims of sensory excess,
in our ears a cacophony.
Our eyes fill with graceless imagery,
our frazzled minds rot,
hopelessly dysphoric.

The Feast of the Lemures

A venture beyond feasting
into the dominion of reign.
These malevolent ghosts,
yea malignant spirits,
thrive among us.
Larvæ unbound
devoted to inflicting injury
and mortal destruction.

This era a gigantic banquet.
Simply to appease the ghost of
poor angry abused Remus
we host the tyrant Laissez-faire,
cajole gurgling evangelicals and
gorgons of selfishness and avarice,
embrace patrons of ignorance
exploiters of the saintly muses,
and despoilers of the gentle graces.
Stupidity and arrogance
swing in hypnotic embrace
to a tune played by a Maenad
upon Orpheus’ trampled lyre.

They lurked, these Lemura
within sheltering thicketed fringes
of a free trusting society,
seducing forgetful minds,
awaiting opportunity
and a door that will not shut.

Simulacra

Do not look for reality
It is no where to be found
It is hidden in the profligate flotsam
piled upon us deluded souls within
our market manipulated existence.
If we should come upon it
our mind will not recognize it.
We are inured to truth
for truth is relative to facts,
themselves false manifestations.
Purveyors of simulation immobilize
our brains with pleasant stimuli.
We shuffle about in a stupor
of narcotic materialism
ogling the inane, fancying gloss,
blind ducks swimming in puddled water
thinking it a splendid lake.
Purchasers of gossamer trinkets,
revelers in mindless mediocrity
swamped in consumerism,
entertained by trash,
vanity a certified virtue,
a portentous population
of empty rattling husks
in a postmodern existence,
intellect without offspring
sterile in its very composition
aborting original formation.
It matters only that your reality is
a speck of insignificant cosmic dust
destined to drift upon infinity’s stream.