Odin’s Revelation – The Hanged Man

Odindiscoveringrunes

 

His Quest to master Ecstasy
and gain Valhalla’s apogee
drove Odin’s cryptic sacrifice
by hanging on the famed world tree.

He spent nine days near his demise
so he could glean the runes, grow wise.
The words revealed life’s paradox —
a man reborn can conquer vice.

Without an act, thought opens locks;
by changing view, new fortune knocks.
While being still, a path appears
and tosses loss upon the rocks.

His mind had shed his former fears
by seeing life in sets of tiers
to know all life is joined, adheres
to other life as earth to spheres.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 02.11.15. All Rights Reserved

The Dirt People

A Dust Bowl farmer digs out a fence post to keep it from being buried under drifting sand in Cimarron County, Okla., in 1936. © Arthur Rothstein/ Library of Congress from NPR

A Dust Bowl farmer digs out a fence post to keep it from being buried under drifting sand in Cimarron County, Okla., in 1936.
© Arthur Rothstein/ Library of Congress from NPR

They were people of the dirt
life hung on a loosened nail,
barbed-wire lay like promises broken.
all their lives — all they knew.
Their kids, offshoots
of the mandrake root,
full of it – dirt, dirt, more dirt.

They farmed it such a long time.
What came from it, not even green words,
mosquitoes, heat, and lung disease.
A bit of water carried in pails,
poured by sunburned hands
to coax the sands.

Dirt
drifted by wind,
spilled on tables,
filled window sills,
stuffed the furniture.
— dirt
In the sugar bowls and salt shakers;
on the playing cards;
on the paper dolls, gritty when cutting out;
caked on marbles in the circle;
creasing the cigar treasure box
— dirt
where the children played hollow eyed
living rusted lives in crusted disappointment.

Later the peanuts pushed out of the cracks;
melons grew, then split by heat
they ate their hearts.
Wind roared, sand pelted, snakes rattled
and all the spirit did was blow.

They were the people of the dirt.
They moved from one place to another.
The dirtiest was the dug-out–
living there, not clean
but at last cool; they eked out a living
from a little rain or making repairs in town.
Yet ever they moved on — until typhoid
caught them up and burials weighed them down.

Only dreaming of clean
cut from pages of a magazine:
running water, indoor plumbing
china, silver, a crystalline vision,
instead of dirt
between those pages, they’d find
a place to stop,
a place to learn,
and time to read.

Posted for my article on Beat Poetry @dVersePoets
The after-effects of the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl as well as having come through WWII greatly influenced and affected the Beat Poets. Many blues songs which spoke about pain, loneliness, poverty, and loss filled their poems. I chose to present this period of my maternal family. This isn’t quite a protest poem but in a way it is. This was a government caused catastrophe. The poor farmers had been paid to plant the same crops without rotating year after year with government subsidies. Ignorance and greed again caused this horror of the 1930s.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 10/13/113

The Fool

Fool/Jester – Common Domain

The fool, in motley dress – making jibes, faking falls,
what need drives this fool to rule the center stage?
Veiled hubris parades conceits, emptiness and loss.
Zeal fuels a fire to wear the belled cap of the age.

What need drives this fool to rule the center stage?
Walking the tight-wire between smirks and smiles across
the lights;  fuels fires to wear the belled cap of the age,
disguised in the light, plucking laughter from the dark.

Tongue wedged beneath his cheek with couched satire, embossed
by winks and turns, prevents King and Court’s stinging rage,
he shifts, then re-appears with scythe and totenkopf.
Covert grin when asking who gets to turn the page.

By winks and turns, he scorns King and Court’s stinging rage.
Veiled hubris parades conceits, emptiness and loss.
Twisting grins when asking who’s last on the stage —
Turns ’round, motley jester–making jibes, faking falls!

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 2012 July * All Rights Reserved

* At times The Fool would transform into a cloak of death – and point out that Death gets the last laugh.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 2012 July * All Rights Reserved * A Pantoum

ORDINARY

Ordinary by Alexander Calder

orioles brush orange streaks
suntinting the green leaves
as eyes flutter to flash and feathers

duties dress the day
with a certain sameness
yet jazz beats break from trash trucks

tuesday  plays a bluesclues day
the morning dew, singular globes–
shadows on ground, questions in trees

another beat behind the others
taking it slow, hearing distant
train whistles, steamship horns

leave clothes at laundry
saw a load of lost socks washing
wonder who found them

lunch with my love
just pbj’s and grapes
but promises of chocolates

rein in my wandering mind
satisfied with getting things right
boss buzzed, says he has new plans

hangin’ with the gang
sharing some brews and news
the number nine’s  on time

back home to the one
divine time of reflection
before comfort food supper

on porch, a guitar’s playing
the full moon rises across the street
fireflies flit, mimic stars in the dark

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 6/2012 * All Rights Reserved
Posted for Triversen Form for FormForAll @dVersePoets Pub
on June 14, 2012