New poem
by Jon Rappoport
August 16, 2015
Note: When a poet turns things upside down and inside out, the word “crazy” is usually applied to him. It’s not a bad word in that context, but suppose he’s moving the furniture around and making things better. What an idea.
spring afternoon in New York
music, café
plates of hot steaming food coming out of the dark
hats keep coming
blue hats, old hats, widebrim hats, caps of sailors in their roominghouses
hats of drudgery made out of wool
crowns shaped like ladles and silk top hats soaked with adrenaline
it’s raining kidneys in central park and mysterious waiters in tuxedos are walking to my table delivering poems in triangular Atlantean script
In the muscular streets of the new city the citizens are faded pictures
I’m waiting for God to sign his document of resignation and mean it this time
This is a city made sure by propagandists
every investigation dead-ended in rotting flowers
The wind is on the land
the rain is on the land
breaking the invisible door
and taking us into an underground
…more than angels in closets
sand in the pistol of an oyster
wet leafs on the ferry deck
she is promising me her life
round and round with wooden horses
we keep making the trip back and forth
grinding away all promises until we’re all that’s left
the two of us naked and alone on the bright ship passing under a Bridge
Christ was a poem, Buddha was a poem, there were ventricle poems drifting out of blood poems made out of anthracite
salami sandwich poems
Once knew an old carni who made the universe disappear for five minutes
this happens you just need to be alert to it
magicians are walking around dressed like Brooklyn bagmen
stave off the wind, keep your face turned sideways
Jon Rappoport
The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.
Outside the Reality Machine 
“I’m waiting for God to sign his document of resignation and mean it this time” -Rapper Man
I like it…good line.
Speaking of bastards…
DAY INTO NIGHT AND NIGHT BECOMES DAY
Theirs a new priest in town
I guess the old one got all used up…
Three feral cats moved in and two of them are from Siam
They eat sardines and rice for breakfast
Good way to start the day, wouldn’t ya say
Sardines for breakfast
Sort of a self-imposed space
Took a walk the other night and saw the town fox
A sprite young fella with black boots
When I asked him “What you up to man”
He said “Lookin for three cats…what chew up to man”
I verbatim… “Goin for a walk in the moonlight sly”
“But there is no moon tonight” was the slys reply
Around the corner and then Railroad street
Up way up… high, four great owls
And a wonder
Swish and swosh and push you of the edge, and you fall.
Of a very large five storied concrete box
And glide and slide through wet night air
Till one reaches the ground on a feather
“Did you lose something?…”
“Are you lost?…”
“No!…I have’nt lost anything”
“Were are you?”
“I can hear your voice” and then
Quietly back around and the dark side of town
North side of the tracks
I saw three snakes the other day too
One was in the process of hiding a frog…
I said to the frog “Do you have any last words I can give you family”
He croaked “We consume, and are consumed. It’s a vicious circle.”
And then the snake made him disappear
The wind came up and the fox came back
And the moon did not come out and play
And around the bend and the Nunnery
The three on the lawn at play
And sardined faces
And the rice in the bowl
An the water in the bucket full
And thought to myself…
Day into night, and night becomes day.
Holy shite! You 2 have game. This is some advanced flowing here. Truthfully. I also read it only using the first line of each stanza and it worked for both pieces. Any combination worked. Strength in the details like a hologram. Certainly favor this area of the site.
Goody, goody gumdrops! So much choice. You blow my mind.
I always thought that the poems were made of verses, rhymes and rhythm with lines about the same length.
I’m no poetry expert, That’s for sure. But whatever happened to the old poems? I guess I must be outdated on poetry.
Maybe I’m just French…lol… and I do not understand the meaning of your poem, and neither of Michael’s poem. There are so many subjects an angles in your poetry, that I lose myself.
Or, maybe I am just old fashion or conservative or out of line here, but I still believe that if you divide your thoughts, you divide your forces. A bit like sparse raindrops falling on a vast territory, have not the force of a local rain storm. I could be wrong, I must be wrong, I hope I’m wrong.
Still, it is intriguing! A text, a post, or whatever else writing, can now be considered a poem! I need explanation here.
Please do help!
@ Q
“Maybe I’m just French…lol… and I do not understand the meaning of your poem” -‘the little french girl’
A french woman who does not know poetry..wtf
If I had a nickel for every poem I have spoken to a french girl.
A poem for you que…see it like a sketch. Its inspired by your lines from your comment.
MY STAIRS
I still believe that if you divide your thoughts; you divide your forces.
A bit like sparse raindrops falling on a vast territory,
Have not the force of a local rain storm.
I could be wrong…
I must be wrong!..I hope I’m wrong?
Goody-goody-gumdrops!
Running through the raindrops…sparse as they may be.
I arrive and look up…
The large set of stairs stare back at me, all green and covered with moss.
It has become a living thing.
always feel uneasy walking on it, as if I am causing it some discomfort.
pain…
Its big enough to bear my weight and then some;
But still I walk softly up it, to my front door.
Not wanting to crush any of the tiny plants under my feet.
I reach for the handle and open the door and enter the other side.
Immediately they are yakking and pestering me about one thing or another.
“What-his-name left us on friday and here he is wandering around, wondering why he is here.”
He asks me “How long will I be here!”. I say “I don’t know…till you figure it out maybe”.
Two older gals with their habits and that smell of lavender.
Mother Superior, that nasty bitch always slamming my doors.
And who I’ve told a thousand times. Keep it quiet;
I own this place, this is my home.
It gets crowded sometimes.
I escape to a room, close a door; only to find someone lost from some time before,
some long time ago, confused and frustrated.
Lonely… and not knowing what to do.
I talk to them for a little while, then they feel better.
I move on…
This house is big,
Rooms-within-rooms and a hundred windows.
I meet a small boy from a long time ago
He quietly follows.
And when I find my favorite place to rest…he sits down by my feet.
And I recognize who he is; I think he has always been here.
I think he will always be here.
I pick up the guitar…and I begin to play.
Goody-goody-gum-drops…running through the raindrops.
Sparse as they maybe.
Okay Michael, WTF, I’ll try one inspired by your last poem:
THIS OLD CONVENT
Memories of a long forgotten past life
Never kill or injure living things
Insects, plants, grass, flowers
Not even with a sketching palette knife.
For their worlds are a blessing.
That holds our planet together.
Oops, I’m still entangle with rhymes and rythms. I’m stuck .
So, I better stop here, go to sleep and just try to travel to North Saskatchewan to see what is going out there in this old convent.
Here is the bizarre résumé of my dreams last night:
Ouch! This is a haunted ghost home. A lot of work for you to do there.
First, gotta make peace with that nasty bitch mother superior, who once
was your stepmother.
And that lost soul wandering around, not conscious that he had died,
will never figure it out by himself. He will need your guiding.
Just talking to him won’t do it. He needs instructions.
The small boy sitting at your feet, was once a cherished grandson or a son, (not sure which, but i’ll go for a son) that ran away from his parents as a teenager, to never to be seen again.
He since had numerous lives. A very old soul.
In this incarnation, he wants your protection. For he knows, that you also know that things are getting darker and that the Goody- goody- gumdrops… running through the sparse raindrops song, is about to end soon for the storm it is a-coming.
Pick-up the guitar one more time.
Bob Dylan – A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall (New York Town Hall 1963)
@
Nah your reading too much into it, its just a poem. I’m playing with words and ideas, shapes, time.
Telling you a story.
Here another…
POEM TOO
You and me trying to use words.
Rhythm and rime…and,
english words.
English is the language of a slave.
Shackles the mind, shackles the soul…unless,
you know how to pick the locks.
Picking locks is an art that requires a dictionary…to stand on; it gets you off your feet.
Picking locks is a tiring occupation, you have to stand in one place for long periods of time, picking, picking…picking the words.
Words are shapes that sometimes are shaped with a sharp pair of scissors.
That was good all the action words started with S, of course I don’t think scissors had anything to do with it.
Words can be a tyranny, they put things into your head, and then you can’t get them out. You believe them…the words… and misunderstand them…they can last a lifetime in there, sitting in the dark waiting for you to come along and remember how they were spoken. How you heard them.
They put things in your mouth, and they have sound and taste.
Emotions have sound.
Ideas have taste.
I keep trying to remember; a word is like a line to a sketch.
“Nah your reading too much into it, its just a poem. I’m playing with words and ideas, shapes, time.
Telling you a story”. (Michael)
——————————–
Touché! I’ve always been stuck between a strong analysing mind and a strong creative mind. They seem to be inseparable. One always follows the other, no matter which one was leading at the time.
Either I create… and then I analyse what I’ve created.
Or, I analyse a text and then I create a new reality around it.
I don’t seem to be able to get rid of that dual dilemma.
I read your poem as if it was a true story. Went to bed and my mind analysed the situation and came out with a creative new reality.
It’s not really a battle in between both faculties, it’s more like each faculty comes to the rescue of the other one.
I must be crazy or something!
But like Waylon Jenning’s song says: “I’ve always been crazy, but it’s kept me from going insane”…lol
Post-Scriptum as usual:
And YES, words can be a pain in the you know what. Their analytic sense and their creative sense… Oh boy!
I studied astrology for a long time. I do not believe in predictions, since we always have our free will. But as far as personality or talents or medical diseases are concerned, it is quite accurate.
I’m a Libra with a Leo ascendant:
– Libra, the scales who are always weighting things… hard to make up its mind, my greatest dilemma. But a great sign for artists. Since Mars is also in Libra, the sign of justice, I like debating on any subject.
– Leo gives me a lot of passion just about everything.
– I have Mercury and Jupiter in Virgo: Analyzing too much is my problem.
– My Moon is in Pisces… too much imagination.
– Venus in Scorpio… I like the underground, everything that is hidden fascinates me. the afterlife, the cosmos, etc.
Medically speaking, I had both fragilities of the Libra and Leo.
– Libra: Once had a kidney stone
– Leo: Injured my back.
That’s about it from the medical side, everything else seems to be fine… so far