CARITAS FOR THE MIND

Richard Jeni on Religion;

"You're basically killing each other to see who's got the 

better imaginary friend." 

    The Second Coming

              by William Butler Yeats

   Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

__________________________

 Fleshing the devil.

          Dark is thatch that grows from root.
Telling tales which rose from soot.
Denying their willfulness not allowed.
Bestow now fully to the loyal my shroud.
Rising from fantasy death to strike bold in ink.
Let them think I am not just a millennium long blink.
Another lost claimant to the odd title "messiah".
Though in truth, today I would be considered a pariah.
Search for the form to make the foul shudder.
Look no further, there is no need for another.
He has strode this path for centuries unknown.
His goat like grappling distinct and alone.
Take the image of Pan from carvings, paper and song.
Make him the devil, so he shall never belong.
For as a Christ not real I now command your vault.
Restricts the heart, make a true brain of salt.
Destroy emotions and notions with cool demotions of play.
Till a heated new image is in need for another ripe day.

        by a. ciccariello III

____________________________  

                     The War Prayer

               by Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came -- next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams -- visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation

*God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest! Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!*

Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory --

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, "Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!"

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside -- which the startled minister did -- and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

"I come from the Throne -- bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import -- that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of -- except he pause and think.

"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two -- one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this -- keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

"You have heard your servant's prayer -- the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it -- that part which the pastor -- and also you in your hearts -- fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. the *whole* of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory--*must* follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -- for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(*After a pause.*) "Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits!"

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

_________________________________________________________________________________

                                     Right Bastard 

        Surrounded by freak, who do peak as we leak, the exceptions 

the rule for  the fool now becoming the major.

Searched for a Lord who is hard and a God, that will truck no

abuse of the high priest like sage whose gauge tore.

He smacks what is wrong in the song of the long as the silent

majority rises to  sweep like the old guard.

He heard my plea and invites you to see, he's not the past placid, 

like me, he's a joyous right bastard.

         Do you feel like heaven? Do you feel like Christ today?

Let the trumpet herald in our bright and shining way.

       I am the flock with a lock on the block, so don't knock the

head cock, he won't care to administer favor.

He is my light, my salvation from plight, a delight to adhere to 

his rules, he's my favorite savior.

I call to the heart of your frail losing part that we grow like the 

colony ant, ever stronger and faster.

He is my dream, he may seem venting steam as he reams me I 

cream as his newest potent pastor.

        Do you feel like heaven? Do you feel like Christ today?

Name one who has wronged you and we'll make him go away.

       You see on our world that the flag was unfurled to declare that 

we no longer care to accept a fair reason.

We are mob hear us roar, as we tore and we bore to the heart 

of the difference, that we all find so displeasing.

No more stray from the norm, all must fill out our form that, 

laying out your whole life, allowing no slight deviation

We will beat as we meet all the strays from our street, I repeat, 

we'll tolerate no other's imagination.

        Yes, we are new Heaven, we will deploy our Christ today.

We are the new Eden where the different may not stay.

                       by a. ciccariello III 

______________________________________________________

I

      We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
      Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
       Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
       Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --
        Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
        Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
        In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
      Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
        Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
        For Thine is the Kingdom
       Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
         Life is very long
         Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
        For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
       This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

__________________________

                           The Empress of Ireland 

       The Saint Lawrence be damned as well Captain Henry

  Kendall , the "Storstad"   was not alone in the death of the lady.

The starboard glance, not but a whisper of a touch gashed 

between the steel ribs of her proud highness.

The early morning fog which stills ones thoughts now chills 

the bones of the lost hearts who below can no longer question.

Against protocol the rounded portals of viewing were 

agape as the freezing witch rushed in and erased all

prerogatives of class.

Six hundred seconds of nightmare while the list 

quickened the demise with only six lifeboats launched

for future posterity.

Four minutes more and then came the aching , hollow 

black breath as if in prayers unanswered she and her

subjects were claimed by the depths.

1,012 fearful souls went to their ends with her, ending 

a voyage that was never made, sadly finished and  hardly begun.

Kendall swore he had altered the course cleanly, till 

his dying day he did loudly curse blatant Norwegian

negligence.

Perhaps it was the devil fog of that A.M. , the warm spring 

air was touched fast by the icy melt water of May 29th.

Soon the vultures assembled to put forth loose lurid 

stories with wide contradictions allowing the furor to

commence with an uproar.

Cold indignation struck deep at the inquiry board for so 

soon had this tragedy followed the mass tainted white  star fiasco.

Blasting mercy was sought, declared, given and denied by 

all parties except the pale dead drifting in 34 degree

Fahrenheit under currents.

Then as if to wipe the sordid details from view came the

fierce guns of August, relegating the now stale facts to 

the back pages never again to  sound with a vengeance.

Simply forgotten, sailed over by craft she would dwarf, 

there on the gravel bottom she waits half hidden in 

the deposited silt still, she whispers.

               by a. ciccariello III   

__________________________

____________________________________________

                    A racist for all seasons

      illustrations will be my remedy  

in the form of mid-country comedy

with stereotyped images for yearning eyes

let me put to use my deviant lies

     all irish will be drunkards

all mexicans made lazy

all italians round and stupid

all the slavs dumb and crazy

all asians bucktooth grinning

all redskins backwards to despise

and nordics made all powerful

all grandpas will be wise

all parents will be christian

never an awkward, dark race

all blacks will be singing

dancing their subservient pace

      and my rat will rule all till this republic's end

why do i do it, it's for the children, i care about them friend

            by a. ciccariello III  

____________________________________________

         We Wear The Mask

              by Paul Laurence Dunbar

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
          We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
          We wear the mask!

________________________________________

             Functioning bare

          Allow me now to reacquaint

  with no delay and no restraint

the valid victor of the time when torn

shows decaying signs from being worn

and no hope will be blasting loud this way

  when timid citizens come out to play.

      Annoyed and devoid of tongue and cheek

as wistful swallows preen and peek

detecting vouchers left behind

while notoriety notices reality's blind

and no one is wishing to hear them say

when timid citizens come out to play.

      Accentuate the great divide

while the Mary men reflect all misty eyed

soft rose petals settle on barren streets

find tiny vagrants deciding treats

and no one will speak as the sky stays gray

when timid citizens come out to play

     Abstain from reverence to the difference made

every one is to shun this grand parade                    

watching barter trades and garter line

we the special not made to pay the fine

and the last written word will decide the day

when timid citizens come out to play

         by a. ciccariello III

________________________________________

                         White Houses

                  by Claude McKay

Your door is shut against my tightened face,
And I am sharp as steel with discontent;
But I possess the courage and the grace
To bear my anger proudly and unbent.
The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet,
A chafing savage, down the decent street;
And passion rends my vitals as I pass,
Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass.
Oh, I must search for wisdom every hour,
Deep in my wrathful bosom sore and raw,
And find in it the superhuman power
To hold me to the letter of your law!
Oh, I must keep my heart inviolate
Against the potent poison of your hate.

______________________________________

                Four frozen roses. 

      In yonder days, with fretless praise, deceptions to the rule.

I remember walking stoned through the storm drains after school.

The points were so free, a fine tapestry, dear lights were signed.

Where is the group then I knew way back when in time's ill defined? 

      I found lost thinking as I missed drinking the other day.

About my old friend and wild compadre mad P.J.

Drunk drive from Vineland to Staten Island, a foul, vulgar time.

Five fools deletions, oozing secretions, in search of crime.

    In west Nasty City with gators gritty, we formed a band.

Not for playing but to halt the graying of futures planned.

The white we did seek, led fast by Bittercreek. We had it made!

Forced shows by foolish vegetable bachelors on parade.

     At last Valhalla for Nick Vadalla and his eight ball eyes.

Wired from ills of speed and free pills, strained voice that cries.

Killed in Ohio deals fell, he tried though. Dead grinding gears.

Four frozen roses black from the ice packed with angry young tears.

   So gather round all ye suckers take his hand.

You thought he would lead you.

Thought he would need you?

  Well guess again.

There is no such place on this earth as a promised land.

My last words to you,

That was now and this is then.

          by a. ciccariello III

_________________________________________________

             The City in the Sea

               by Edgar Allan Poe

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters he.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domesup spiresup kingly halls-
Up fanesup Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence

_________________________________

                      The dirge 

      Celebrate the joy of passing!

       We thank you for this called life in which he shared but now, alas, is gone.

Joined now to those who tried, those who vied for the covenant  so strong.

To flow beyond familiar streams, to search anew and try to glean  the void.

He will move along, he will move along. Let the devil take his mind.

We'll all move along, well beyond our space and time.

     Celebrate the sweets of sorrow!

     Here comes a friend from olden days, prostrate before him,  clasps his hands to pray.

His wife through tears reflects on pasts, some remembered,  others are mislaid.

The preacher rises to the pulpit, recites the scriptures, then asks  we all rejoice.

He will move along, he will move along. Let the good Lord take  his soul.

We'll all move along, well beyond the hallowed fold. 

     Celebrate the pale tomorrow!

     At the mausoleum come the actions handed down from pagan  past.

The shaman closes to the edge, performing sacrosanct rites of last.

A dirge is played among the trees to make the specters of the dark  be gone.

He will move along, he will move along. May he reap more than he sowed.

We'll all move along, well beyond the righteous code.

     by a. ciccariello III

________________________________________________________

  THE GORING AND THE DEATH

       by Federico Garcia Lorca

   At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone
at five in the afternoon.

   The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolate horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered in iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Exactly at five o'clock in the afternoon.

   A coffin on wheels in his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridescent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon,
and the crowd was breaking the windows
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks!
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

__________________________________

         God (written 1916 or before)

               by Isaac Rosenberg

   In his malodorous brain what slugs and mire,
Lanthorned in his oblique eyes, guttering burned!
His body lodged a rat where men nursed souls.
The world flashed grape-green eyes of a foiled cat
To him. On fragments of an old shrunk power,
On shy and maimed, on women wrung awry,
He lay, a bullying hulk, to crush them more.
But when one, fearless, turned and clawed like bronze,
Cringing was easy to blunt these stern paws,
And he would weigh the heavier on those after.
Who rests in God's mean flattery now? Your wealth
Is but his cunning to make death more hard.
Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking.
And he has made the market for your beauty
Too poor to buy, although you die to sell.
Only that he has never heard of sleep;
And when the cats come out the rats are sly.
Here we are safe till he slinks in at dawn.
But he has gnawed a fibre from strange roots,
And in the morning some pale wonder ceases.
Things are not strange and strange things are forgetful.
Ah! if the day were arid, somehow lost
Out of us, but it is as hair of us,
And only in the hush no wind stirs it.
And in the light vague trouble lifts and breathes,
And restlessness still shadows the lost ways.
The fingers shut on voices that pass through,
Where blind farewells are taken easily . . .

Ah! this miasma of a rotting God!

____________________________

                Coventry's Nightingale.

      You would send me from a bitter sleep.

  All the dusters were in line today.

  Time I spell out all the incidents.

  Which led me to a county store.

      Will you sample from past innocence.

  If the poison's now administered.

  While the chorus sang in fleshed out tones.

  Was a quid pro quo eliminate.

      See small sister fall from eve.

  Nod gently to the rushing tide.

  Last immaculate encroaching fast.

  Note the leopards in the distance roar.

      We all leap into the after dark.

  At the building near the sultry walk.

  Bless the beasts who attend the show.

  In Coventry's Nightingale.

      While the steaming patch is vertical.

  Then the greeter takes two hours wage.

  You may lie among the costumed rams.

  Taking mystery so commonplace.

      She saw you in the neon waste.

  Wishing all the wildness subside.

  Typical for this time of year.

  Bathe later in the Autumn Fall.

       Just Julie's playing rough tonight.

  For the sitar is in proper tune.

  Come strum, ignite a social dig.

  In Coventry's Nightingale.

      A frail waif has become the scene.

Hushing all the bland laments.

From Asia comes a twisted tail.

Demeaning all the wall of stares.

     Was there ever more a latent game.

That belied the fact no one was made.

From the frolics made on Cheshire Street.

Wilted moments take her to the rear.

     You capitulate before a move.

Add attention to the malady.

You accentuate descriptive verse.

To let the plastic touch you there.

     Welcome now all the nautical.

As they slip into the pungent lair.

Make the best of years you rule in ease.

In Coventry's Nightingale.

       by a. ciccariello III

________________________________

         The Band Played Waltzing Matilda

                   by Eric Bogle

Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.

For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.

But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
Someday, no one will march there at all.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?

________________________________________

                      The honorable member 

          More terrible reasons set before the King.

As Senators play sweet games of kiss-the-ring.

As Congressmen blame Senators for the troubles at hand.

As the King blames them all for the turbulent land.

As the people blame the King for his wayward stance.

If the blame keeps on mounting no one stands a chance.

      Sly press follows money that corrupted the whole.

See special interest donations become the prime goal.

See young idealists enter to set right the wrong.

See old millionaires leave to the same old song.

See a tax on the use of breathing the air.

Left to count my few pennies in blinding despair.

      Redundant discussions from each bloated side.

Keen to blame past peers who took a free ride.

Keen to ease all our comfort, to augment our fright.

Keen to change to a wrong so to undo a right.

Keen to help the rich few by increasing their wealth.

While the rest of us, paupers, pray for perfect health.

     Polling ad nausea to guess all our hearts.

Know hungry lawyers bide for political starts.

Know my waters so tainted I can't even drink.

Know my children so stupid they can't even think.

Know my country is failing for my government's sick.

You're no honorable member. Good God you're a prick ! 

       by a. ciccariello III

________________________________________

         Horse Latitudes

              by James Douglas Morrison

When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted
Currents breed tiny monsters
True sailing is dead
Awkward instant
And the first animal is jettisoned
Legs furiously pumping
Their stiff green gallop
And heads bob up
Poise
Delicate
Pause
Consent
In mute nostril agony
Carefully refined
And sealed over

______________________________________________

                               Christmas in Jersey 

                  Winter's offending, false Jesus comes near.

            All that I hold and desire means nothing, I'm struck with the fear.

            Sacred salutations, blessings bestow.

            No one to hear your sad words as "Joy to the world" plays below. 

                  Christmas in Jersey, rainfalls arrive.

            Give me a reason, a purpose, a woman to keep me alive.

            Christ born to season, fiction to last.

            More lies of a fools tale gives substance for pains of the past. 

                  Storm winds sing my contempt, rage forfeits my heart.

            Forlorn and reborn in sweet image gives contentment a start.

            Gassed song from a choir, rakes nerves for the sane.

            Why do I not scream out the hypocrisy causes my pain. 

                  Christmas means commerce and sacred white hate.

            A fable that makes all the fleeced sheep beg to lie in state.

            May you find your reason, your love and your soul.

            Find that some truth and real beauty remains free for you to be whole.

                    by a. ciccariello III 

_____________________________________________________

    The Bridge of Sighs

                  by Thomas Hood

ONE more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!

 

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;

Fashion'd so slenderly

Young, and so fair!

 

Look at her garments

Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;

Take her up instantly,

Loving, not loathing.

 

Touch her not scornfully;

Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly;

Not of the stains of her,

All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.

 

Make no deep scrutiny

Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful:

Past all dishonour,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

 

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family

Wipe those poor lips of hers

Oozing so clammily.

 

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb,

Her fair auburn tresses;

Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

 

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

 

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity

Under the sun!

O, it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,

Home she had none.

 

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly

Feelings had changed:

Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence;

Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.

 

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,

From garret to basement,

She stood, with amazement,

Houseless by night.

 

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver;

But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:

Mad from life's history,

Glad to death's mystery,

Swift to be hurl'd

Anywhere, anywhere

Out of the world!

 

In she plunged boldly

No matter how coldly

The rough river ran

Over the brink of it,

Picture it think of it,

Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it,

Then, if you can!

 

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;

Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

 

Ere her limbs frigidly

Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly,

Smooth and compose them;

And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly!

 

Dreadfully staring

Thro' muddy impurity,

As when with the daring

Last look of despairing

Fix'd on futurity.

 

Perishing gloomily,

Spurr'd by contumely,

Cold inhumanity,

Burning insanity,

Into her rest.

Cross her hands humbly

As if praying dumbly,

Over her breast!

 

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behaviour,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

_________________________________

                   The rapist.

       Tell me of your sadness for I am here to help.

I have degrees to back up my claims.

Relate to me all of your childhood traumas.

Don’t worry, you can use actual names.

Bring me your wife, mistress and obnoxious children.

I’m here for your mental well being.

I excel in relationships and with the problem child.

Their emotional suppressions for my freeing.

You say junior is surly and lacks motivation.

His grades not what you want them to be.

I’ll give to him intensive therapy and Ritalin.

I know it’s not puberty but ADD. 

I may need to put the boy under hypnosis.

Most likely he’s hidden all his pain.

Sessions may prove you violated his rectum.

I’m sure you’ll have a lot to explain.

Let me put you through this very same treatment.

I’m sure to find your parents molested you.

I’ll publish a book and tour all the talk shows.

No matter if my conclusions are not true.

Show me a killer and I’ll show you a victim.

Deprived by unenlightened parents of his toys.

This caused him extreme neurotic paranoia.

Which lead to the stalking and killing of young boys.

It’s never your fault, I’m here to blame another

Let someone else take the fall for your ill.

Your talk is for taping, your mind, mine for raping.

Every hurt can be cured by a pill.

Let your emotions and feelings be buried for years.

Burdening your future with ever stoned charm.

One day you'll be broke and can't afford my treatment.

The chemical lack causing irreparable harm.

I will work for long years doing my lifes work damage.

I am the mill for which you are my grist.

I'll prescribe uppers and downers, depressants for clowner's.

I am a licensed, board certified, therapist.

                by a. ciccariello III

_______________________________

          Funeral Blues 

(Song IX / from Two Songs for Hedli Anderson)

          by Wystan Hugh Auden

                      The egress.

               Last call for instant justice, behold, there is a try.

Later the law say's you’ve got the wrong man, that no one can deny.

Evolving from patterns later seen as attempts for sympathy.

And a year later when they throw the switch, you finally feel empathy.

You went to see the egress and it was beautiful.

You went to see the egress, it did astound you.

For it is so hard to be.

        Exasperated senator stands at the lectern, proudly pleading her lost cause.

Alas, one in the crowd can not see the beauty, he is destined to only see the flaws.

She finishes her speech to scattered applause just as the gun is aimed.

And the shot it rings in the new to cheers as another martyr's life is claimed.

     She went to see the egress and it was beautiful.

She went to see the egress and it did astound her.

For it is so desperately hard to be.

      On September twenty-second, nineteen eighty-eight, ghost clouds streak my sky.

See Uncle John, he's gone, well I guess it is time for my customary three minute cry.

A hero of the nation who failed to fall in battle, how dare he let us down.

So in sweet retaliation I drink till I am sober, sad, how I still act the clown.

         John went to see the egress and it was beautiful.

John went to see the egress, it did astound him.

For it is so, so very hard to be.

      by a. ciccariello III 

_____________________________________

          Wasteland of the Free

                      by Iris Dement

Living in the wasteland of the free...
      We got preachers dealing in politics and diamond mines
and their speech is growing increasingly unkind
They say they are Christ's disciples
but they don't look like Jesus to me
and it feels like I am living in the wasteland of the free
      We got politicians running races on corporate cash
Now don't tell me they don't turn around and kiss them peoples' ass
You may call me old-fashioned
but that don't fit my picture of a true democracy
and it feels like I am living in the wasteland of the free
      We got CEO's making two hundred times the workers' pay
but they'll fight like hell against raising the minimum wage
and If you don't like it, mister, they'll ship your job
to some third-world country 'cross the sea
and it feels like I am living in the wasteland of the free
      Living in the wasteland of the free
where the poor have now become the enemy
Let's blame our troubles on the weak ones
Sounds like some kind of Hitler remedy
Living in the wasteland of the free
      We got little kids with guns fighting inner city wars
So what do we do, we put these little kids behind prison doors
and we call ourselves the advanced civilization
that sounds like crap to me
and it feels like I am living in the wasteland of the free
      We got high-school kids running 'round in Calvin Klein and Guess
who cannot pass a sixth-grade reading test
but if you ask them, they can tell you
the name of every crotch on MTV
and it feels like I am living in the wasteland of the free
      We kill for oil, then we throw a party when we win
Some guy refuses to fight, and we call that the sin
but he's standing up for what he believes in
and that seems pretty damned American to me
and it feels like I am living in the wasteland of the free
      Living in the wasteland of the free
where the poor have now become the enemy
Let's blame our troubles on the weak ones
Sounds like some kind of Hitler remedy
Living in the wasteland of the free
      While we sit gloating in our greatness
justice is sinking to the bottom of the sea
Living in the wasteland of the free

__________________________________

                  Napalm sunrise.

         ( A republican lament )

             The sun is shining, the valley is happy.

Big business is booming, mass moneys exchange.

Family life is wholesome and sacred.

Fall descends and the air feels strange.   

          Little Jimmy is playing football.

Sister Jenny prepares for a date.

The high school play is "Guys and Dolls".

Everyone finishes what's on their plate.   

          It's a napalm sunrise.

Burnt orange as it peels.

And the world revolves.

     Vapors rise to make it seem real.

They help to make it seem real.   

      All of the fathers have employment.

All of the mothers take care of the home.

No one ever causes problems.

No one dares to cast the first stone.   

         Church attendance has never been better.

Community spirit is on the rise.

The town council wants to build a statue.

People live forever and no one ever dies.   

        It's a napalm sunrise.

Burnt orange as it peels.

And the world revolves.

Vapors rise and make it surreal.

They help to make it surreal.

        by a. ciccariello III                                                                 

ajc3.geo@yahoo.com