The Patriot

The car, a dull persistent gray
Sidled to the curb, tacitly
Silent, sullen, hulking there
A menace to the morning birds
Whose songs were swallowed
In the quiet, misty air.

Four men slid out from the car
Suited also dull and gray
Relentless, they came after me
ID's high so I could see
Crew-cuts bobbed and then they weaved
Too late, I thought, for me to leave.

Not nice guys, these gangsters four
Knocked me down inside the door
Demanding I confess to deeds
That sprouted from subversion's seed
They said the government was my best friend
It's up to me when all this ends.

No slapping on the cuffs for me
Just some new technology
So while in a stupor on the floor
They tore my house apart and more
Took receipts going back for years
Computer, files and all my gear.

Hauling stuff out to the car
Neighbors watched, but from afar
The agents laughed triumphantly
High-fives were shared comradely
Before they went to break for lunch
They said they'd caught me on a hunch.

Never use your phone one crowed
We heard it all, we got you cold!
Just put a tap tap on your cell
And you, my friend, are going to hell
You're gonna have an accident
You can't critique the president!

He grinned, a toothy bureaucrat
Stolid, shaven, neck of fat
I asked to call my attorney
He laughed at that uproariously
You're subject to the Patriot Act
You got no rights and that's a fact!

He grabbed me, shoved me out the door
This was the end there was no more
But then I heard a cardinal sing
And a small, persistent ring
I leapt up on the bed to scream
Thank God that this was all a dream!


Or was it?


Copyright © 2006 & 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved

Seeing is believing?

You can't see
If you are blind.
Some can't see
And they see fine.
Some believe
And think they see.
Others see
What they believe.

Do you have to see
To believe at all?
Or is it enough
To just pretend...
That you believe
Or that you see
When you don't
Really see at all?

It isn't easy to believe.
And it's difficult to see.
Some I think do not believe
But still pretend that they can see.
They work so hard
At their belief
It's hard for others to believe
That they indeed can see.

The truth that is so plain to see, is
That we all see differently.
Thus friendship can be difficult
If we should disagree.
I know that I can see just fine.
You're obviously deceived.
You see things that I don't see.
That's why you can't believe.

Maybe when all's said and done
There is no need to see.
Or maybe on the other hand
There's no need to believe.
It all might work out for the best
The world might be relieved,
When no one claims that what they see
The whole world must believe.

Copyright © 2006 and 2008 by Anson. All Rights Reserved.

The Quintessential Politician

The politician

Pursed his lips

Perspicaciously
Positive he'd make the
Point he purposely was
Posing.

To his friends
The lobbyists he joked and
Laughed out loud
Then spoke with
Great sincerity
Eyeballing the crowd.

I'm absolutely
Unbelievably
Bodacious
And come to you
With greasy palms
And sacred psalms...

To give you all
Your hearts'
Desires
Just as soon as
A small fund transfer
Quietly transpires...

I've pocketed the
President and those
Who give advice
The Congress folks
Bow down to me
I'm cold and bold as ice

They've all come to
Believe in me
I hold them in my sway
Your cash will finance
All your dreams
Old Tom does not DeLay!

(Copyright © 2006 by Ansohn and 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved)

(The poem is dedicated to my good friend and former bishop, Dr. Phil, who has worked so hard to bring a bit of common sense to Texas politics.)

Sunrise, Sunset

(Photo by Anne of Rhode Island)

Sunrise, sunset
Twenty-four hours and
What do you get?
Another day older and
Deeper in debt...
More hours to do the
Thing's you'll regret?
Sunrise, sunset...

And yet...
And yet...

Sunrise, sunset
A gift of the gods
And time to beget
Visions of hope
Goals to be set
For all of your dreams
Are as yet unmet
Sunrise, sunset...

(Copyright © 2008 by Jacob Anson. All rights reserved.)

Orphans of the feet

You see them everywhere
These orphans of the feet.
On ev'ry type of highway
On ev'ry kind of street.
You see them in the country
Along a rural lane.
You see them in the city
On streets where kids are playing.

I'd bet if we could trod along
The roads of ancient Rome -
We'd find these little orphans
In evidence, alone.
In Merry and Olde England
On cobblestoned divide
There'd lie our little orphans
They run but they can't hide.

Surely they'd have surfaced
In China long ago.
Amidst the many dynasties
On many dusty roads.
Even in Siberia
Where winter finds its root
Along a trail wrapped up in snow
You'd find a lonely boot.

These orphans are all different
In size, and color, too.
There are sneakers, there are sandals
There are brogans, which are shoes.
There are cowboy boots and biker boots
There are flats and heels that hurt.
There are shoes to skate upon the ice
And shoes to run through dirt.

Shoes like this are what you'll find
On highways ev'rywhere.
They lie discarded, desolate
As if nobody cares.
But I have never figured out
When all is said and done,
There's never two shoes anywhere
There's always only one!

Why this is so, nobody knows
It's a huge conundrum!
There's got to be a reason
Why there's only one.
If each could tell its story
'Bout living on the street;
You'd soon be feeling sorry for
These orphans of the feet.

© 2008 by Jacob Anson; 2006 by Ansohn
Image copyright © 2008 by Jacob Anson and its licensors. All rights reserved.

Music to my ears

It's music to
My ears
A mid-night
Symphony
Her laughing
In her sleep.



© 2008 by Jacob Anson; 2006 by Ansohn

Expert Tease

Experts love
To give advice
And fools we be
We drink it in.

We bow to priest
Guru, shaman,
And then they change
Their mind again.

© 2008 by Jacob Anson; 2006 by Ansohn

A dream is just a dream

I walked beside the leader,
A man of erudition,
Poised as if for battle
A fight for life itself:
Toward the group assembling
Right out in the open
On a gritty tarmac
In chairs of sturdy metal
Made specially for this purpose.

That's when I saw my father,
My mother marching with him,
In clean and solemn clothing,
Solemn but not somber.
His face was slightly smiling.
She looked drawn and worn,
From bearing not just children
But the burdens of his goodness,
The demands of his god.

Far away, yet very close
They looked right in my eyes.
But never did they see me.
Expectations can deny
The reality around us,
Even truth laid bare.
Closer, they came closer
Nodding to their friends,
To those for whom they cared.

I said they must not see me
So I'll go in and hide.
The leader said to sit up front
I'd be quite safe up there.
No, I want to be surprising
They don't know that I'm here.
I'll kneel down by a window
Until the coast is clear.
Then I'll reappear.

But those who were assembled
Saw me hiding there.
They pointed and made faces
And asked what are you doing?
I told them please be quiet
Pretend I wasn't where
Anyone could find me
'Cause in the open air
Is where I knew I'd die.


I wakened then, to friendly sounds -
Of neighbors, birds, the breeze.
It was, of course, just a dream
But whatever did it mean?
My parents have been gone so long
And if I saw them now
I'd never hide for a surprise
I'd run, I'd sing a song
And throw my arms around them!

That's the trouble, you know:
No matter what you think it means,
A dream is just a dream!

© 2008 by Jacob Anson.
Image copyright © 2008 by Jacob Anson and its licensors.

Leadership

If you
have
someone
following
you...
do not
lead
that one
into
temptation
or into
anything
else...
do you
think
you are
a
god?

(Copyright © 2006 by Anson; 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved)

A New Perspective

Some things
can be
seen
only from
a certain
angle;
as in life's
dreams
where
dangling bones
of possibility
take on
flesh
mainly
from a
new
perspective.

Copyright © 2006 and 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved.
Photograph © 2008 by Lois Anne Anderson

Eating Crow

It isn't hard
To not eat
Meat
If you're a
Vegetarian.

Unless, of course...

You must eat
Crow
'Cause you
Were wrong
Again!


Copyright © 2006 by Ansohn & 2008 by Jacob Anson

The Ghosts of Mine Shaft #9

You can hear them in the wind,

A whisper in the trees.
You can hear them as the canyon
Echoes on the breeze.

Breathless voices hush the night
Clinging to the dimming light.
Living now between the times
The ghosts of mine shaft #9.

Solid mountain burst and cracked.
Tumbled stones fell and stacked.
They sought but they could never find
The miners working #9.

Today old-timers tell the tale
Of miners gone beyond the pale -
Who come around from time to time;
The ghosts of mine shaft #9.

One old boy swears he was saved
When hunted by a hungry cat.
They scared off that mountain lion;
Those ghosts of mine shaft #9.

Sometimes in the mist of morn,
Just before a coming storm,
A song will flutter through the leaves;
A paean to those spirits free -

The ghosts of mine shaft #9;
How they scared that mountain lion!
And now they do it all the time;
The ghosts of mine shaft #9.

(Dedicated to Denise, a hunter of ghosts and abandoned mines.)

Copyright © 2008 by Jacob Anson. All rights reserved.

Snoring in His Sleep

I never, ever snore
I said with a straight face.
She smiled and then
With twinkling eyes
And dignity and grace,
Said... "You snore so loud
I cannot go to sleep.
It's such a terrible sound --
My God --
The angels even weep."

She said "I'm going to show you,
I'll record you in the night
Enough of your denials
We'll listen at first light."
At break of dawn
She played the tape
I thought I heard her snicker.
The sound began
Slow and low
Then louder and much quicker!

I thought it was a train
Roaring through the dark!
A violent crash,
A bomb, perhaps
Set off by a spark?
Or maybe a volcano
A tsunami
Churning In the deep
Nah, it was just yours truly
Snoring in his sleep!

© 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved

Noodling

This is a noodle
Today's prestidigitation.
Deciphering the codes of
Existential confusion.
You'll not find conclusions.
God doesn't provide
Answers defacto
When questions collide.

It's like what they said
To you when so youthful
Keep plugging along
Do something useful.
Not that it matters
Mild, meek or bold;
You're still gonna croak
But first you'll get old!


© 2006 by Ansohn; 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved.

What To Do When You Lose Something

I lost something today
Nothing important
A trifle, really.
Still, it drove me crazy.
How did it happen
Where did it go?

I searched, as they say,
High and low
But had no success.
It disappeared into
A dusty vortex of
Nothingness.

But then there it was!
It just showed up!
The stupid thing
Sat out in the open
As if it had never left
So what did I lose?

I lost temporarily
The sense of myself
And my ability
To meet and to deal
With the daily
Confusions of life.

And the thought came to me
That this was a trifle
Nothing of value.
But what if my life
Had depended on it?
Then I'd be dead.

Now that was a worry
And my heart filled with
Dread - a dread very deep.
So, I brushed all my teeth
Said all of my prayers
And went off to bed to sleep!

© 2006 by Ansohn; 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved.

Canoodling

By way of explanation...you'll notice that a number of these poems are recycled. They were published on my previous blog of the same name, Creative Confections, during the years 2006 - 2007.

You'll also notice that most, but not all, of the poems, carry some kind of a message -- not necessarily profound, maybe a bit profane, hopefully always kinda fun.

The poem "A Play Upon a Word," has been modified slightly from its original version.

Hope you enjoy looking at life poetically...

J.

A Play Upon a Word

The author
Laid upon
The ground.
She was bruised
And shaken.
She said that
She was sorry,
That it was really
Quite absurd.
She fell, she said,
While she was
Trying to
Play upon -
A word!

© 2006 by Ansohn; 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved

Surfing at Night

All I've got to say
About people who
Stay up all night
Surfing the Net
Writing emails...is

I understand
Perfectly!

The only problem
I can see is
If you've got a job
Then you oughta
Go to bed...'cause

The boss may
Not understand...

Why you're so tired
So disgruntled
So plain miserable
She might decide
To replace you...

Which is definitely
Not good...

So write a novel
A best-selling one
And quit the
Nine to five
You can do it...

All you need is
Talent...

Or find another
Way to live
Free, without a care
Then surf your
Little heart away...

It's better than
Being dead.

© 2006 by Ansohn; 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved.

A "Game" of Cat and Mouse

You look very
Handsome tonight
The cat said to
The mouse.
Wait a minute
Said the mouse
If by that you mean
I'm edible
I'll give you some
Kumquats instead.

Kumquats, shumquats
Said the cat
Come a little closer
I want you
For a movie
About a
Haunted house.
But you
Understand
Of course
The mouse
Will end up dead.

The cat was on
The move now
Eyes glowing yellow
In the dark.
Stay where you are
Cried the mouse
His back against
The wall.
Maybe you're
A liar like
All the other cats
I know.
The cat smiled
Unseen
No I want to be
Your agent
I think we'll
Have a ball.

I don't know from movies
I don't know
How to act
Said the mouse.
You'll play a mouse
For God's sake
Just be yourself and
You'll do fine
Said the sneaking cat.
But like many
Would-be stars
The mouse noticed way
Too late
The cat had crossed
The room -
The last thing he
Remembered was...

I won't be in
A movie
About a haunted
House.
I won't be
Playing the lead
They'll get a
Bigger mouse
Perhaps they'll even
Get a rat.
I should have been
More careful, 'cause
If a cat is
In the room
A mouse must know
At all times
Where that cat
Is at!

This poem was originally published on January 31, 2006

[© 2006 by Ansohn; 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved.]

A Tryst in the Woods

Stealthily they parked their bikes
And sneaked off for a tryst.
When they'd gotten out of sight
They stopped and then they kissed.

He took her hand and led her down
A winding, woodsy path
She skipped a bit and smiled at him
He couldn't help but laugh

They'd planned this tryst so long ago
A secret rendevous
It was hard to get away
But they knew what to do

They sat down by an old oak tree
She leaned against his chest
He gently kissed her golden hair
A loving, kind caress.

"Wait," she said and sat up straight
"Did you hear that sound?"
"No, I didn't near a thing
"Now sit yourself back down."

She sat but quite reluctantly
Then turned and they locked lips.
He would have done a whole lot more
But they both heard a hiss.

The trees began a-hollering
They were filled with dread
Until they saw materialize
Their own three sneaky kids.

"Oh, ho," the kids said, laughing hard
You can't go on a tryst
Without your children whom you love
And whom you'd dearly miss.

The kids broke out a basket full
Of bread and cheese and wine
And everyone who shared this tryst
Had a real good time.

© 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved

Signs That Go to Seed

Signs like this proliferate
Ev'ry Easter season
Someone thinks that we should know
The Easter season's reason.

But they junk up the neighborhood
And they mess up our town
'Cause several weeks past Easter
They still ain't taken down.

I wonder why so many folks
Seem to feel this need
To set these sermons on the lawn
And let them go to seed.

© 2008 by Jacob Anson - All Rights Reserved

The Gospel of the Easter Bunny

(The Book of Heaven's Hare)

It is a hare-raising tale
Sorta sad, sorta funny
For once upon a time
There was a special bunny
Who brought the people joy
And taught them to have fun
Yet even as they laughed and danced
His life became undone.

An archaeological dig
In lower Percydocyair
Unveiled the previously unknown
Book of Heaven's Hare
Significantly the book was found
One foggy Easter morn
On the very day they say
That Heaven's Hare was born.

Deciphering this gospel text
Scholars have made clear
Heaven's Hare was neither sex
That's why he was so dear
Women loved him, so did men
And children loved him too
Watching him hop around
Made them feel like new.

Every other week or so
He'd gather all around
And he would teach that heaven
Was a happy hopping ground
And everyone could go there
If they would just forget
Their lust for eating animals
And feed on healthy carrots.

These lessons were so well received
They got to be a habit
All the people came to call
The hare their reverend rabbit
He spoke of the importance
Of tending to the gardens
To see that all the vegetables
Were gloriously resplendent.

But then one day some hunters
Carrying great big guns
Told Heaven's Hare he'd better go
Back to where he'd come from
Reverend Rabbit stood his ground
He wasn't even scared
He told them throw your weapons down
For I am Heaven's Hare.

They didn't throw their weapons down
They drew a bead on him
He took off hopping out of town
Things got pretty grim
They pulled their triggers all at once
The air exploded sound
And when the smoke had disappeared
The hare was not around.

All the people ran to see
If he was dead and gone
The children sobbed tearily
Then broke out in a song
Oh Heaven's Hare, Oh Heaven's Hare
We loved you, O dear Heart
We'll tend your garden faithfully
'Til this life we depart.

Suddenly, a voice, a cry
I see, I see, the Hare
He just flew up into the sky
There he is, there!
But no one else could see the bunny
Heaven's Hare was gone
Something though was very funny
Or very, very wrong.

The children saw them first
And shouted out for joy
Strewn along the bunny's path
Were brightly-colored toys
Then a girl named Mary
Who had long and good strong legs
Ran into a meadow full
Of brightly-colored eggs.

Reverend Hare, Reverend Hare
All began to chant
For they believed in Heaven's Hare
And they were adamant
Then another miracle occurred
The eggs had multiplied
And everyone realized
Heaven's Hare had never died.

Thank goodness they discovered
This Easter Bunny gospel
'Cause lots of folks alive today
Have become infidels
They long ago gave up belief
In an egg-laying Heaven's Hare
And it is such a great relief
To have the truth laid bare.

So Heaven's Hare still lives
His Easter eggs abound
And every single brand-new Spring
You'll find them all around
Read the story once again
Of happy Heaven's Hare
The lives of those who do believe
Is eggscelent, I swear.

© 2006 by Ansohn, 2008 by Jacob Anson. All Rights Reserved

The Poet's Art

If prosaic calls to mind
The factual and the dull,
What can "poetic" mean?
A different way
of speaking?
A different way to dream?

Stories sometimes
Must be told
Through images and light.
The truth we claim
To see so well is neither
Wrong nor right.

We tell of what
We know, or what
We sense or feel.
And often find
The Poet's word
Captures what is real.

We use the rhythm
Of The bard, the poet's lines,
The poet's art.
For hidden in the
Fabled verse,
We find our long, lost heart.

© 2008 by Jacob Anson - All Rights Reserved