Wandering Sweeney

Hands.

2009-11-19T22:07:00.000-08:00

These hands,
these bonnie bairn's hands,
they wave and wobble, greedy
for the life they have, newgifted;
eager for the heady brush
of Mammy's cheek, soft as love,
and the strength of Da's chin,
weekend wiry.

These hands,
these ready Man's hands,
they grip, grasp, grapple;
leading always in work and rest,
cradling the green coffee-cup,
swinging a hammer from
day's dawning to whistle's howl,
to make his hearth strong
for kith and kin.

These hands,
these worn grandfather's hands
they have seen the ending of many years,
drawn down to the west, descending
in waves off the mountains.
They touch now the hands
of the son's newbrought son,
and give him the old
dragonheaded fiddle,
that has been played all down
the long years past.

Death and culture.

2009-06-26T17:07:00.000-07:00

Michael Jackson (the singer / "King of Pop" ) died yesterday. Two other celebrities also died within in a few days of this: Ed McMahon and Farrah Fawcett. There has been a massive outpouring of tribute and remembering and nostalgia for these people. People are shocked, saddened, etc.

Myself? I feel nothing.

Am I truly that much of a cold bastard? Maybe, maybe not. But at times like this, when a celebrity, or other publicized figure dies, suddenly or not, I just can't bring myself to care. It may be because that so far, save for Heath Ledger, none of these personalities have been from MY generation.

But I want to know.... why are we mourning these public people so? They have not really done anything to truly deserve such a memoriam ... they have not cured cancer, discovered the very building blocks of life, saved people from horrific death .... they have merely entertained. They have been the performers in our own little circus, while we munched on our modern-day bread, and contentedly laughed, cried, etc along with them. They were celebrities, heroes of our modern myths. Heroes are not supposed to die, and so maybe that is why we mourn these people so... when we are suddenly reminded of an Ultimate reality - Death.

My final question is why do we mourn these dead people as a culture so? Where is the cultural grief and memorials for those who die making a difference, the soldiers, the policemen (and women), the firemen? Where is the memorials for people torn apart, killed, left to die by tyrants the world over, from national dictators to petty despots of villages in deep Africa?

Why do we, this culture, mourn our fake heroes as one, when our real heroes lie mouldering in the dirt, only remembered by those close to them - family, friends?

Why?

sg&sdg

abschweifen

2009-06-23T11:47:00.000-07:00

Don’t wander too far,

little one, from your

wee world of pocket-

phones, pursehounds,

and bug-eye glasses. Don’t

wander so far you cannot

return to worship your

flat plastic god in concrete

temples, standing high as

watch towers to keep, guard

against that old world walled

out until grass unknown

grows in the potholes

and the butterflower

loses its grey shell

into the unkind park

of men. Don’t leave the

black webstrands to

drive down deep

tracks of dusty shale,

and be swallowed alive.

For the world you have

bound, beaten, and

buggered to make that

pretty picture under

your MySpace giggles,

still sits on the edge

of your civilized world,

Hungry.

twa pomes.

2008-02-04T01:02:00.000-08:00

Easter
Day-dropped dew ringing the shout,
the thorn-crown red-weeping,
and the sad-glad news of dogwood
timber holding the man.
Today,
life begins.

The wee white cat.
I fear you, wee white cat,
footpad of the night, and more so
than your sablecoat brother.
Which hollow hill did you sneak from,
to munch on mortal mice?
You jump away from the car speeding —
do you fear the weight or the iron
that makes it?

Let Us Talk of Goosebumps...

2008-01-22T17:47:00.000-08:00

.... and no, I'm npot talking about the tv show we used to watch when we were kids - the wee little things that we get when something powerful happens, when the magic of the moment for good or ill, is released in our bodies, when the hair raises and we shiver.

It happens with films sometimes. When something happens onscreen, and you are caught up in the moment so much that you get ... goosebumpses, precious.

It's happened for me twice.

The first was when I first saw The Fellowship of the Ring on opening day. When Gandalf stood before the Balrog and smote the bridge in utter defiance of the deep-demon of Melkor, no heed for himself, and shouted, YOU SHALL NOT PASS! — I got goosebumps.

The second happened recently, when I went to go see Cloverfield, which by the way, I recommend highly. Preceeding the film was something I have been waiting a good long time to see — the teaser for the Star Trek film. Yes, I know. So geeky. Stuff it...

And OMG. When the camera pans up over the saucer section, you see NCC - 1701 (no bloody A, B, C, D, or E) and you hear Leonard Nimoy doing the old, famous, Space, the Final Frontier ... I had chills, goosebumps, and yes, a mad attack of stark raving fanboyism. I didn't stand up in the theatre and start screaming my head off like a girl seeing the Beatles for the first time back in the 60's, but I cam mighty close.

I am now filled with hope again for this venerable franchise, after the horror of Enterprise.

So, if you like Star Trek, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy, go watch Cloverfield and shout for the Enterprise. And stay, and watch a bleedin' good movie.

Live Long and Prosper.

Memoriarum

2008-01-14T01:07:00.001-08:00

memories of us staring up together,
diamond-dappled velvet
reaching above,
calm embracing air
filled by the dry scent
of fir needles, pine sap,
whisper-quiet owl wings,
bringing more restless summers –
sun pouring orange through smoke
only to glint back in rainbows
rippling from river-rills,
smokey sweet-sour taste
of barbeque on my tongue,
your summerleaf-green eyes
laughing back at me,
winking like a mischievous brounie,
caught dipping in the whisky.

I see long nights with decks of cards,
sitting far in the back of a old bus,
watching the long miles roll away
to see the city on the bay
and the long gold thread
spread between land and land,
see the mix of water falling and rain,
pool under waterfall, fern-shrouded,
exhilaration to tired boys, the thrill
of leather balls soaring away,
whacked out by hickory wood,
rusty smell of shoes running dust-paths.

memories re-kenned
by eldritch eyes
sing summer’s hymn,
as harvest-sweet hair
and the berry-taste of your lips
make more.