Poetry By
C.B. Anderson
Published on: 11/25/2015
Afterthoughts Aforethought
I claim no faith beyond what I'm allowed To see when both my eyes are closed, and I Am free to turn my lenses Toward scrutable events, If I'm inclined. I've never been too proud To taste untested meals placed on credenzas Or be the first to die From quaffing wine reserved for sacraments. I dream that I'm awake when I'm asleep, And if I'm wakeful I begin to dream Of lives I haven't led, To my immense dismay. I seldom spend the nighttime counting sheep, For I have better things to do in bed, Like hoping to redeem My self-indulgent tendency to play Before my work is done. The bones and tendons I bear within me ache as though raw nerves Were all there was to them. Defective body-parts Impair my theoretic independence, And I have yet to find a stratagem Or natural herb that serves To clear my mind and curb its fits and starts.
Published on: 2/2/2016
Trained Fast to the Fast Track
He placed his coins in even stacks of ten And lined them in precisely ordered rows. He washed his hands, then washed them once again, Lest any uninvited pathogen Be carried by his fingers to his nose. He placed his coins in even stacks of ten, A prudent strategy for if and when They needed counting. Done, for now, with those, He washed his hands, then washed them once again And added half a gram of pure cayenne To portions near the area he chose To place his coins in— even stacks of ten Bear watching. Grace concluded with "Amen," He ate a meal with perfect ratios, Then washed his hands. He washed them once again And went directly to his paneled den To call his broker. At the Market's close He placed his coins in even stacks of ten, Then washed his hands and washed them once again.
Published on: 1/28/2016
Square One
The battered treetop and the driven wave Submit to every raging winter storm, But frightened human denizens behave As if the benefice of being warm Forever were their birthright. Sullen skies Are helpful in creating unity Among the pilgrims who, with lifted eyes, Seek neither pity nor immunity. A storm is like another virgin birth That sanctifies the youthful indiscretions Recounted in the lap of Mother Earth; She seems delighted by our true confessions. So let us now endorse sobriety Of purpose— never mind how much we've drunk— And pray we'll find the natural piety No unenlightened skeptic can debunk.
Published on: 1/26/2016
In Defense of Tongues
We require other organs, a sensory organization different from that which perceives only words as such, if we want to understand within the word the thought that another wishes to communicate. — Rudolf Steiner, from The Boundaries of Natural Science A tongue accused of tripping over words that then express by accident a truth may try to mount a spurious defense, adducing, say, a voiced array of surds transformed by colic or an aching tooth— an unintended sequence of events— whereby a "choice of trucks" becomes the "joys of drugs." Though Sigmund Freud was surely right when he averred that slips of tongue are wrought in hidden foundries, words turn into noise when they are chanted endlessly, the thought they carried disappearing like the light of serial undifferentiat- ed days. It stands to reason that all tongues should be forgiven their unmindful slips, and likewise for the hyperactive lungs, those rhythmic bellows pledged to regulate the void transactions issued from the lips of social creatures. All we know for sure is that a seventh sense exists, the means by which we comprehend the spoken sounds that reach our ears. On busy village greens we greet our brethren while we make our rounds, with little care for words if hearts are pure.
Published on: 1/23/2016
Critical Care
Because of shoes, one's feet grow pale and soft, And as a consequence I had to visit The doctor. Down the hall a patient coughed, Among the worst I'd ever heard. What is it? I thought. A hairball? Hacking up three packs A day? An outbreak of tuberculosis? As minutes passed, I started to relax, Too sleepy to complete my diagnosis.... When I awoke, the doctor had arrived. Apparently the patient two doors down Had overcome his crisis and survived. I raised my legs and watched the doctor frown While he looked closely at my blistered feet. "Your insteps have sustained a nasty burn From sun; your soles resemble roasted meat. You city people never seem to learn," He said. I'd spent the weekend at the beach, The hottest, brightest days so far this summer-— My first time out. Physicians love to preach, Their chance to let a patient know he's dumber Than they are. I was pissed. My feet were sore, But when the doctor searched a nearby shelf For soothing salve, I hobbled out the door And shouted back, "Physician, heal thyself!" Because of shoes, our feet grow soft and pale, But everything depends on where they take us. I'd rather walk through hell than go to jail For ordering a therapeutic fracas.
Published on: 1/20/2016
Uncensored and Uncensured
I, too, have had a dream: a vision in which the primacy of facts assures a measure of precision too seldom realized in acts of faith. I'm hoping for a place where all good deeds may go unpunished and honesty does not disgrace one's name; where no one is astonished by anything a human being expresses from the heart. Behold the politician disagreeing with party leadership, though told he shouldn't do it. Also note the unaffected novice writer condemned for articles she wrote because their tone was impolite— her design was only to unravel each twisted sequence of events. When freedom-loving people travel to parts unknown, they sleep in tents erected on the content of their character and not the color of anybody's skin. They love the texture of an honest dollar held jauntily between their fingers in sight of envious collec- tivists, and how its odor lingers, not quite politically correct.
Published on: 1/14/2016
Evening Approaches on the Fourth
... Here once the embattled farmers stood... — Ralph Waldo Emerson, from "Concord Hymn" Some large exfoliating tawny patches Of bark hang loosely from the river birch Which shades our patio, and they remind Us of the parchment signed Two centuries ago when State and Church Were one. A robin catches A caterpillar on the ground, and thus Seems fully fit and able to declare Its independence. While mosquitoes hover Like suitors round a lover, Aggressive squads of swifts patrol the air Above, defending us From reinforcements. Many kinds of flowers Close up at night, but we have planted others That open after dark: They summon moths As checkered tablecloths Might summon us, and like attentive mothers We watch them play for hours.
Published on: 1/8/2016
Same Old Story
For me, to read a novel is to feel discounted. Characters inside pretend I don't exist, as though I were less real than they are, never having to defend myself from some prolific author's wild imagination, beaten down by plots that leave a person helpless as a child in wartime. What do they know? There've been lots of times it seemed as if a loaded gun were pressed against my head, or prison mates decided on a whim to have their fun at my expense instead of lifting weights, which was their normal recreation. Yes, I'm quite familiar with scenarios in which the specter of extreme duress attends those vital questions no one knows the answers to. Much comfort there would be in learning an omniscient Author stood behind the scenes, whose mission was to see that endings always turned out for the good. You characters, ignore me if you must, but don't assume that your travails are worse, for though your spelled-out lives may gather dust, my own will find erasure in a hearse.
Published on: 1/5/2016
And Simple Truth Miscall'd Simplicity
The simple truth is that there is no simple truth. By fewer words a greater message is conveyed, The best martini will contain the least vermouth, And garlic's at the heart of every kosher dill. Whole thoughts flow ever outward on a ripe cascade Of fetid breath, and listeners should neither drown In them nor drown them out with airs of lesser skill But greater volume. Verity is like a song Auditioned from an auction block: It all comes down To how one feels about the singer, whether one Can separate the beauty from the beast. It's wrong To pick and choose, but, then again, it's right to be Selective; wholesale prejudice is blind and un- Productive, but discrimination is a virtue Employed to sift illusion from reality. The truth may bite, but it will almost never hurt you.
Published on: 1/1/2016
Antipodes
Nobody worries in the summer swelter unless some-other-body tells them to for reasons necessarily obscure, because it's common knowledge that the cure for tropic doldrums is the pas de deux which never fails to render timely shelter from any harm a couple stands to fear. This benison is sandwiched in between a slice of fondly kneaded leavened bread and wafer made from pounded bones of dead philosophers. The grass grows thick and green in privileged regions of a hemisphere— if not next door, then on the other side of Mother Earth— no more a matter for review by clerics in the Vatican or Mecca (Please, dear Lord, not that again!) than rounds of mild distress one must endure till every needless teardrop has been cried.
Published on: 12/22/2015
Depraved Indifference
One fancies that it's possible to be As disengaged an arbiter as Pontius Pilate, who washed his hands and failed to see Eventualities beyond his conscious Review; that many pleasant feelings would Arise from learning we were born to please Ourselves, intemperance the greatest good; Or that the tender caps of bended knees Should never dent the surface of the ground. But benefits of vagrant dreams are slight Compared to what pragmatic pilgrims found, Who dared to venture forward toward the light. When harbored thoughts resemble idle chatter The notion of a purpose doesn't matter.
Published on: 12/8/2015
Guru
The Master said I'd reached the final stage and it was time I came to terms with death. Attentive to his wisdom, I prepared to fast for forty days, to undergo whatever discipline might be required to kindle my enlightenment. One night in late July, he summoned me to sit beside him near the pond that occupied the northeast corner of his wilderness retreat in Minnesota. "Blest am I to sense your breath," I duly said, but he replied, "Let no mosquito pierce my skin." For half an hour I sat and slapped his back. "And did you feel their tiny deaths?" he asked at last. I shrugged and shook my head, afraid that I had failed a crucial test. "That's good," he said. "Then keep on doing what you're doing-- your concentration makes it possible for me to meditate." At once, I knew he'd taught me everything he had to teach.
Published on: 12/11/2015
Pneuma
Invisible, the air we breathed--when age Could be accounted by the fingers of A single hand— did not exist. Our gauge Of it came only when the need for glove And scarf bore witness to a solid wind That gave it texture we could feel despite What eyes told. Later, we were disciplined By Science, taught that even though the light Saw through it, it was real, a substance formed Of oxygen combined with other less Important elements, a fluid warmed By what we called the Sun. To our distress, As we've completely lost the benefit Of ignorance, the atmosphere we live In tests our diaphragms and won't acquit Itself the way we think it should. The give And take we orchestrate with labored lungs Now seems a symphony of wasted breath, For every sonal theme our tasteless tongues Project is flavored with a hint of death.
Published on: 12/18/2015
Platonic Ideals
When she arrived on campus, right away the culture of the institution took an unexpected turn— as though a ray of light had flashed from some forgotten book that formed the root of every discipline. For once, the women and the men agreed: her worth went deeper than her flawless skin and satisfied a long-neglected need. Her salient traits were the concinnity that dignified her words, her ample bust, her perfect legs, and the virginity she modestly admitted to. The lust to which most men would normally consign themselves was sublimated into pure aesthetic fondness for a graceful line, and women journeyed to a farther shore where jealousy and envy disappeared beneath a cleansing wave of confidence. The changes her engaging presence reared bespoke a numinous intelligence: She seemed to walk on clouds, and soon enough the souls she touched were walking on them too, until their daily lives became the stuff of dreams. Encounters they once struggled through were balmed by gracious cinctures of accord, their conscience now the holy apse where strains of newfound sacrament annulled the sword of Damocles. The media took pains to prearrange exclusive interviews, and not a day went by her telephone lay still. She was the center of the news, and when reporters cornered her alone and asked about her novel strategy to stem the modern tide, It's tactical, she'd say, a stroke to counter tragedy by doing what is truly practical.
Published on: 12/4/2015
While Ink Dries
Late in the afternoon, especially on Fridays, The amanuensis hums a secular tune And, equipped with a damp rag and a taper, tidies Up in the Master's workspace where his notes are strewn Along with pages of a weighty manuscript More than five years in the writing. A corn-straw broom Stands uselessly in a corner, its bristles tipped With clots of the settled dust that the entire room Is covered in— to sweep would send it all flying Everywhere and compromise the good work they'd done Earlier that day, which isn't dry yet. Lying Next to the inkstand is a long letter, begun But never finished, addressed to the Late Duchess, Who had commissioned a complete written account Of her family history, willing to spend as much as It took to get it done, no matter the amount. The poor old wealthy dowager suddenly died— In her sleep, may God rest her soul— with only six Or seven months-worth left of funding set aside To sustain the ongoing project. Politics Had no part to play in the arrangement, for she Was all but witless and wholly single-minded Regarding the tome she hoped was going to be Her abiding legacy— paying by the line did Not trouble her at all. But then, since the title Had been passed down to one of her distant cousins For whom accounts of his forebears were of no vital Importance, the Master was forced to ponder dozens Of schemes to secure and extend the generous terms Of his long-standing employment. It was not a thing— Though necessary— to be proud of, for the grim worms Had barely begun their feasting. In order to bring About a desirable change of heart and mind, The two of them, scholar and scribe, opened a Bible At last, in hope that they would be able to find Guidance there on methods for arousing tribal Conceits. Credit is due the amanuensis, Who bypassed the entirety of Matthew, Mark and Luke And brought a dissolute parvenu to his senses By reciting a passage from John for the new Duke: In the beginning was the Word... and the Word was God. Struck by the power a word holds, he gave them the nod.
Published on: 2/5/2013
At the Edge
If eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being. — Ralph Waldo Emerson It's said that when two biomes intersect Diversity is of the highest rank. The best examples of this edge-effect Occur in hedgerows separating fields Of hay or grain, and on the muddy bank Around a pond where standing water yields To higher ground. The ear was made for hearing And music is the sound that's most endearing. For birds above all else, such habitats Provide abundance worth a pretty song Or two: a naturalistic table that's A smorgasbord of insects, worms and seeds. Ten thousand generations can't be wrong About these special niches where their needs Are always met. When fruit just hangs a-wasting, Remember that the tongue was made for tasting. To eat and to be eaten is the way Of every living thing, however loath A denizen might be to see the day When it's the latter. Animals eat plants And animals; bacteria eat both As well—but only what the tireless ants Have left behind. The nose was made for smelling Bouquets of ripe decay in every dwelling. A creature's prime directive is to mate, To reproduce (presuming it has fed Already), lest it soon become too late To do so. Better that the parents die Before their cherished progeny are dead, For fertile children will have less to cry About than they. When sunny hopes are sinking, One wishes that the brain weren't made for thinking.
Published on: 2/7/2013
Featherweight
I found a wounded bird the other day. Its crumpled pinions, normally adept At keeping clear of branches, must have swept Some limb a gust of wind blew in the way Of where its flight was aimed. The grounded jay Was very fortunate I hadn't stepped Upon it near the shed in which I kept My gardening tools, and where I sometimes pray. Thank God, I'm not a fool. I would have wept If I had been so careless as to slay It. Even so, my angels were inept Or simply callous, failing to allay My grave concern: for later, while I slept, The bird gave up the ghost, to my dismay.
Published on: 2/8/2013
Fluid Measurement
A joke is seldom meant to kill, although The laughter's often quite infectious. Time Was never known for standing still, but slow Enough it goes if pain or boredom climb Aboard its juggernaut. Not funny, how Distress is capable of clogging up The days one hoped would overflow—which now Suggests a vital question: Is the cup Half full, or just half empty? Some will say The question spawns another one: And what Was such a cup once filled with, anyway? The answers float inside the scuttlebutt, Where brackish water seeps through leaky seams; This barge, a Noah's Ark of jetsam dreams.
Published on: 2/11/2013
The Road Home
There's a right way, and there are many wrong ways. There are dirt roads made for four-season travel And others not worth the bother. The highways Run proud above the landscape and unravel The many knotted routes that lead to home, To where the mailbox is. A driveway's paved With tarmacadam, gravel over loam That's been compressed, or copper pennies saved In gallon jugs—it doesn't matter, just So long as all the numerals nailed beside The door are visible. In God we trust, But friends and relatives have almost died While searching madly for the rural address Where someone they have missed for years still lives, Where they'll receive a blanket and a mattress, And also various restoratives. A home is where the heart is most relaxed, Tuned-in and pampered; where the bounty falls To those who give the most; where nothing's taxed That leads to pleasure down its creaky halls.
Published on: 2/12/2013
Danville, U.S.A.
Never always, but always again, The heavy hammer will descend Upon the passive terran anvil And smite the shoddy work of men Whom no fair judge would recommend. A would-be carpenter from Danville (Kentucky, Pennsylvania or Virginia… seems I can't recall Which one) who didn't own a level Attempted to repair a door That led through someone's kitchen wall To gardens just beyond. The devil, As often is the case, was in The detail. Doors which do not shut Completely, doors which do not open Unless they're tugged, have never been Considered up to standard. But, They do allow a ray of hope in: That artificial barriers Between the pantry and the soil Might be discarded altogether. In former times, the farriers Outside a smithy shed would toil All day in foul or clement weather So horses wouldn't come up lame, While farmers worked from dawn till dark To wrest a living from the acres The horses plowed. It's not the same For carpenters who like to park The trucks domestic automakers Have sold them on in driveways paved Like superhighways. What the slight Young journeyman informed his clients In Danville was that he had slaved For hours to hang the door aright, That carpentry is not a science.
Published on: 8/19/2010
Life Cycle
In every breath, a molecule or two That once had been inside the living lungs Of Alexander on his way To Persia. All the men his army slew Ascended in a sentient cloud Like those which gather here today, But now they loom without the gift of tongues, And crude translations aren't allowed. The clouds consist of transitory vapor, Substantial only during spells of rain - Though nearly solid when it pours. Obituaries, not of ink and paper, Of those who lived before the Flood Are graven on supernal shores; Departed patriarchs express no pain, No grievances of flesh and blood. Libations honoring the dead are sipped Or quaffed, according to the habit of The drinker. No one here recalls Who first composed an elegiac script, But everyone has heard the sound Of warnings whispered down the halls: Be careful not to squander all your love On what lies buried underground. Another drink, a dose of shelter from The ice storm bearing down; another dram To guard against the bitter cold As long-exposed extremities grow numb. Nobody gets to live forever, But some will live until they're old Enough to comprehend the diagram Outlining meaningful endeavor. Let glasses now be raised in glad thanksgiving For words imparted to the dead, For words that they, in turn, have said To doomed imbibers still among the living.
Published on: 8/19/2010
What Profits a Prophet
The bells of hell peal loudly in the night. For some, this is a sign the end is near; For others, that an age of sheer delight Is just beginning. No one goes to bed Until a normal morning makes it clear Again that no sublime apocalypse Has altered old routines. Isaiah said The Lord is merciful, but where's the proof Alleged historical relationships With deities are binding? All too often The regnant principals remain aloof Toward those who were created in their image, Just like the uncle in an open coffin Whose Mona Lisa smile is possibly A side-effect of donning angel plumage But who, for some strange reason, doesn't care To enlighten his grieving kin. Velleity Becomes the standing order de rigueur. Nobody's certain whether God is there Or not, and if required to make a choice, So few could tell what world-view they prefer, Which puts the game-piece squarely on square one. From heaven's faint destabilizing voice There comes a rash of open-ended words, The stuff of crossword puzzles twice begun But never finished. In the equipoise Between full dark and when the faithful birds Arise, there's not a hint of joyful noise.
Published on: 8/19/2010
Opportunities
For any swain grown tired of herding sheep There's always farming - sure, a rusty plow To till the ground, with Heaven just a leap Of faith away. It's quite apparent now That husbandry is not the right career For everyone, and farmers should allow Their sons and daughters leave to drift a year And maybe more before they're made to choose A lifelong job. It's easier to steer A proper course when guided by the clues A base of broad experience affords; They're wise to walk in many different shoes, Therefore, down roads provided by the lords Of commerce. Doing varied sorts of work Has value in itself and yields rewards Much greater than the check a payroll clerk Disburses every week as recompense For services performed. The sterling perk Which makes the labor make such perfect sense Is being certain - saved from being wrong - That places they decide to pitch their tents Are where they unequivocally belong.
Published on: 8/19/2010
Bereft
Come down from Heaven, Mother, to the shade prepared for you beneath the spreading boughs of trees raised up on our placentas. Rouse yourself from dreams you share with Him who made you what you were and are to us, and lade our empty cargo holds, if He allows it, with the treasure yonder mansions house - or simply sit and sip the lemonade. Our father would have said the same if he were here, but he has passed away as well. He claimed he would have spent eternity with you, if only you had gone to hell. We stand alone now, Mom, aggrieved to be the cheese - blame Dad, the farmer in the dell.
Published on: 8/19/2010
The Only Family You’ve Got
There are those who never question. Others shake their heads and wonder why. A small few begin with crying, including mothers who've already done it a time or two. So many wars, abroad and here at home - it seems as if the golden Promised Land is not the prize but just a plot of loam that's wagered on a lucky poker hand. Animal impulses, strangely human when the lights are out, generate a scent evoking old commands and illumine pathways where the intellect never went. The ones who disengage, pretending they do not take part in it, somehow manage to live a quiet life - until the day when they become collateral damage. The call for help that rises in the deep of night from lover to beloved bleeds into the white noise of worry; the seep of fond intentions only reaches weeds. It's not the kind of place you'd want to raise your kids; adults have a hard enough time as it is. Better to defect, to graze on lotus, to trace years in pantomime. Children are not just victims - they're the cause! The failure to grow out of old clothing is the reason for yards of bloody gauze, for disenchantment, and for the loathing. One important lesson all too often undersold is that the choice is never between a cradle and a new coffin, but between tomorrow and forever. Things work out, or they don't. The right to name its gods, to pick its battles and to wage its wars is childhood's highest law, the same that tames us, if and when we act our age.
Published on: 2/12/2016
Sheep in Sheep's Clothing Grazing the Bell Curve
Entrusting life to luck ensures That cold stochastic laws will drag You down. For lack of sinecures, Uneducated people lag Behind the rest, but not because They're stupid. They are simply blind To what a bit of effort does To elevate an average mind: Assembled in their own backyard, An arsenal of handy tools They negligently disregard. Inside the walls of public schools, The wool pulled over sleepy eyes Provides a boy with nothing better Than idle time to theorize On whether he should don a sweater When left outside to face the cold. The garb you wear defines your taste And shows your age. By now, you're old Enough to know that it's a waste Of precious time to put your stock In fashion statements. Life is more Than just a chance to stage the mock- Heroic gestures you'd deplore In any better circumstance. Nobody cares what clothes you wear When, unprepared to dance the dance, You cry that music isn't fair.
Published on: 2/6/2016
Character Sketches Drawn from Dark Archives
Unnecessary Toughness With all the courage he could muster He stood against his fierce attackers, but their assault was hollow bluster Because they lacked financial backers. Excessively Process-Oriented Though much admired for her tenacity In matters bearing on the goals she's set, She doesn't have a true capacity For understanding when her goals are met. Pound-Foolish A penny saved might be a penny earned, But nasty habits beg to be unlearned: He dined on kitchen scraps and lived in squalor, A lifestyle worth but pennies on the dollar. Lack of Concentration Black tea infused with bergamot Is widely known as Earl Grey. She drank some early and forgot This was her Lapsang Souchong day. Empty Hope Some jobs exist for which advanced degrees From universities are requisite. A middling student got down on his knees And prayed his prayers would be of benefit. Missing the Point She laughed because she thought a sense of humor Required that she must laugh at everything. She cried because she once had heard a rumor That raw emotion earns a wedding ring. Trying Too Hard In haste to bypass Purgatory, He goes to Hell instead of Heaven. Each mortal sin augments his story Line. Count them—there are more than seven. Fictive Artifacts The plan we settled on was artifice, So pure and simple that it assayed real. I wish I were not taking part in this, But in the end, you know, a deal's a deal.
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