from Crowdpleaser
COPYRIGHT 1992

PONG WITH HASH
The pensive Daddy-O, cool on the patio,            
        Stares at the silver moon
Blowin’ out a why?
But the silver moon laughs
        Dancin’ with the dipper spoon
Says, “Nobody’s gonna catch
The spirit in the sky.”

    What the hell does that mean?
 
Roll your depressions           
        Into a dark wooly blanket.
Take ‘em to the river
        And let ‘em slip right in.
I’m boppin’ on the wavelengtH
        Of a crazy new vibration
Of something so obvious
        It’s always ever been.

    Huh?

Is it sugar? Is it cocaine?        
        Is it a needle in your arm?
Is it a haiku or a sonnet?
        Or a pleasant little farm?

Can you taste it? Can you touch it?           
        Does it make you seem to glow?
Has it always been a part
        Of your inner-spinning soul?

               I   don’t know.

But the pensive Daddy-O, cool on the patio,
        Stares at the silver moon
Blowin’ out a why?
And the silver moon laughs
        Dancin’ with the dipper spoon
Says, “Nobody gonna catch … nobody’s gonna catch …
            Nobody’s gonna catch
            The spirit in the sky.”

     THE FATHER HAS FADED
     The Father has faded.
     What he was crapped out.
     Now under the altar
     The deacons roll the no come line
     Smackin' the cubes against the green cloth rood
     Bettin' that there ain't no salvation.
         The Father has faded

     And the Player's head has fallen.
     The last whispers off his promise-to lips,
     The faint vespers in his glory-be eyes,
     The could-be points of paradise
     As lastly he looked up
     Are gone.
         The Player's head has fallen.

     And the Word is spoken.
     Knocks on wood.
     Let's Evil in through the backdoor
     Where Daddy Joe Crow prayin'
         "Hard four!     
          No four!"
     Cops the action
     In the blue smoke light
     Of a hidden sanctuary.
            The Word is spoken,

     And while all the neighborhood boys
     Are dealin' down their dirty
            Oblivious to who?
     While all the neighborhood boys
     Are dealin' down their dirty
            The A Number One Kingpin
            Comes hoppin' off a boxcar.

     Now, has he come back maybe
  Judgement Day
     To double-cross the Daddy?

     Has he come back snappin'
     Like a rooster rappin'
            "Find me!
             You honey-come-eleven!"

     Has he come back blowin'
     Papa knows! Papa knows!
            “Papa knows
              You throw sevens every time!"
     Has he come back maybe?

     Preacher smiles.
     Evil grins.
     The rack pulls in the dice.
     A loaded pair drops.
     Now the Kingdom's got to come
     On Phony Bones!
               "TOSS THE DICE, DADDY!"


     “Father!   Father!   You know, we all need somethin'. You know half the time we don't know what we're doin'. You know, there are millions of us doubtful characters drifting in the shadow patched sunlight of a fragmented sky.
             “Father! Don't forget us! Don't let us go.
                  Don't forget  Joe.     Little Joe.
                  Little Joe!       LITTLE JOE!”


     The Word is spoken and the Spirit flies.
     A long finger comes out of the clouds,
     Smoothes an ash into the green felt.
         “A miracle!”   “The hard way!”
          “Double deuce!” cries the Crow
         Scratchin' up the dollars,
         Stuffin' 'em in his pants.

     Then Evil shouts, "Cops at the corner.
                   Run!"
     Fast blades cut the shadows.
     Blood pools on the green floor
               Lightning!
     Black alley dust!
               Vanishing moon!

     Preacher scats in a blues beat rush.
     Two, three boxcars roll away in red.
     Father hangs in the doorway
     And death coughs up his blood.

     Quickly, the Preacher grabs a passing ladder
     Climbs a few rungs.
     Sighs at the engine's tune
              hummin'
     Snake eyeeeeesssssssss.

     The Father has faded,
    And the player’s head has fallen.

NEW STUFF

FOR THE LONELY ONES
This is for the lonely ones,
The older ones,
Passed on now
Silenced by speeding time
Less significant than once before
Beleaguered by the goals they did not    achieve.
Consumed by the failures haunting their final hours,
The disappointments, the miscues, the wrongheadedness,
The attachment to what never was or ever would be.

This is for average folk manipulated by desires
Sold to them from the first cry of birth— the innocence of youth
Conditioned by institutions, religions, governments,
Commerce, and misguided leaders of the same.

This is for the heroic middle maintaining as best it can.
Sometimes far too far to the right attacking differences
Perceived as threats to the lifestyles
They have spent lifetimes building.

Sometimes far too far to the left ruthlessly unhinging tradition
Propagandizing an absolute view of a “should be” humanity,
Condemning the injustice of powers not aligned with their own.

This for the middle ground, the point of perspective
That sees error on both sides, that notes the hypocrisy
Of all rhetorical bombast and bias.

For those who can and do befriend an enemy
For attributes found befriend-able.

For those who decline to accept
Left or right puritanical thinking.

For those who seek and grant repentance,
Who forgive.

For scientific, observable truths
Collaborated by honest investigating minds.
 
For consensus beyond percentage point democracy.

For ideals that may be beyond mortal grasp,
For hopes that may be no more than mirage,

For virtues sung, painted, acted,
Cast, forged, danced, preached, doodled,
Belabored, bellowed, whispered,
Passed down in secrecy, etched on prison walls,
Voiced through the choking loop of a gallows’ rope,
Prayed for, toiled for, wept over,
And perserved.

For the possibility that existence
Is more than the cynical pursuit of material wealth.
For those who might some day give up their miserly ways
And spend freely their billions on the betterment of the earth.

For those of the far left and the far right
That might return to the golden mean
Compromising differences for the benefit of all.

For a self expanding revolution evolving
Into a million million individual souls
Enlightened to the prospect that all life can live together as One.

For those at risk of being silenced by speeding time
Standing and pronouncing  and singing and dancing
And drawing from the depths of history and knowledge
The dreams the older ones, the lonely ones, the silenced ones
Died for.
                            Copyright Marc Kelly Smith 2018

OTHER POEMS

SPEAKSTERS

All rise and bow and kneel
Another Spokesman of Mass Appeal
Has hopped atop the concert stage
To open up his Holy Rage.

“We shall all … or should all … or would all
Love ‘love’ if we could only
Free ourselves from too much freedom
And the uneasiness of ease.

“Please, examine your hearts!
Your fizziness is a problem.
Too many bubbles. Carbonation
Is the creation of the machinations

“Of pseudo love percolations that brew
Into hate defamation pointing a finger
At every population except its own
Backyard of not so many hard knocks

“As them who do the dish-washing
And the baby walking  
And the tree trimming.
Hey, how is it that you got time

“To be in the spotlight spinnin’
Groove after groove of poor me
When most folks I know
Who ain’t got time for what they need

“Drag their dumb souls along daily
In drab little circles of no time getting’ nowhere.
Not one minute
For capital A Art
 
“Unlike fashion-hip celebrities
From every ethnic dimension
On the screens selling ‘realness’
Products from stretch limousines.

“Hey, I guess, duplicity don’t just
Propagate from Capital Hill.
You fill your pockets
Pretty swell, don’t ya?

“But don’t get me wrong.
I’m as slick as all of ya
Throwin’ down the blah blah
For the bling bling

“Preachin’ to the choir,
Askin’ everyone to fill out
A pledge card cause I
Don’t want you to forget

“That a phat percentage
Of Tonight’s take
Goes to the Rainbow Word Out
Peace Tribe Foundation!

“For I am Ultimate Poetics,
Spokesman of Mass Appeal
Puttin’ it down
Authentic!”



OLD WHITE GUY WHITEY

She called me old
Which I am.
Got that way over time.
White I was born with,
If you can call it that.
Closer to mud I’d say
Red-white.
Brown in the summer.
Inky on the inside.
Bloody.

But she called me
White guy whitey
Twice.
Old to boot.
And then a third time.
Soon a fourth.
Everyone laughed.
It was funny.
Funny to be sitting there
Taking it.

Old white guy whitey.
A sugar cube in someone’s joke.
Responsible for a mountain of dark deeds.
Different, I guess, from all the other colors.