Ghosts

 

In October of 2018, Arizona writers lost one of our own; the poet Tony Hoagland. We grew up together, those of us living in Tucson and attending the University of Arizona writing program. This was back in the 80’s. We took our holiday meals together. We read each other’s bad first drafts. For Tony, it was the beginning of a life devoted to poetry. Here’s a couple poems from that long ago in Tony’s first collection, Sweet Ruin, published in ’92.

The Word

Down near the bottom

of the crossed-out list

of things you have to do today,

between “green thread”

and “broccoli” you find

that you have penciled “sunlight.”

Resting on the page, the word

is beautiful, it touches you

as if you had a friend

and sunlight were a present

he had sent you from some place distant

as this morning—to cheer you up,

and to remind you that,

among your duties, pleasure

is a thing

that also needs accomplishing.

Do you remember?

that time and light are kinds

of love, and love

is no less practical

than a coffee grinder

or a safe spare tire?

Tomorrow you may be utterly

without a clue

but today you get a telegram,

from the heart in exile

proclaiming that the kingdom

still exists,

the king and queen alive,

still speaking to their children,

—to any one among them

who can find the time,

to sit out in the sun and listen.

Walking the Property Line:

The moon shines down from the black November sky.

The tide rolls in like a sweeping, white-ruffed arm,

erasing all the pages that have come before.

The evidence accumulates that nobody is watching over us.

and gradually, as the streets and houses drift towards night

all the words inside them close their eyes;

the sentences coil up like snakes and sleep.

It’s just me now and my famous aching heart

under the stars – my heart that keeps moving like a searchlight

in its longing for the love of other people,

who, in a sense, already live there, in my heart,

and keep it turning.

Bread and circuses

 

A Stench On the Potomac

Upon the banks where thick Potomac flows,

A spectral Stench through marble hallways blows.

The "rotten" scent that Elsinore once knew,

Now clings to laurels of red, and white, and blue.

A capital of gilded speech and performance,

Where power carves a logic of its own.

The pillars tremble under broadcast light,

As ancient mandates fade into the night.

No ghost on ramparts needs to call the name,

Of systemic corruption or ego's hungry flame;

For when the foundation begins to bend and break,

Something rotten breeds in the Washington dark.

While the populace toils under the illusion

Of weapons of mass distraction.

Every Move you Make Every breath you Take

 

Every Move You make Every Breath you take

The air in the country is changing. It is a hard thing to see, but you feel it in the way people move and the way they stay quiet. It is the feeling of a hunt where everyone is the prey.

First, there is the watching. They call it surveillance. It is in the glass in your hand and the glass on the buildings. The telescreens do not blink. They watch you eat and they watch you sleep and they watch you work. It is a clean kind of watching, efficient and cold. There are microphones in the places where people used to talk. Now, they do not talk. They look at the ground and they keep their hands in their pockets.

Then there is the policing of the mind. The Thinkpol do not always need to break down your door. They are already inside. You think a thought that is not the right thought—a thoughtcrime—and you feel the fear. It is a cold fear that sits in the stomach. You learn to kill the thought before it breathes. You do it because you want to live. It is a hollow way to live, but it is a way.

They take the words and they shave them down. They call it Newspeak. It is a language made to make the world small. If there are no words for freedom, then no man can be free. You learn Doublethink. You hold two ideas that are not the same and you tell yourself they are the same. It is a trick of the mind. It is a way to stay safe when the regime is heavy.

The trend is there, growing like weeds in a field no one cares for. It is a fascist thing, and it is very quiet.

Winter Solstice

 

The Winter Solstice 

The moonlight strikes deep in the heart of the frost,

Where the hours are long, and the light feels lost.

The year reaches down to its darkest point,

Tracing the edge of a jagged, cold line.

But even the dark must bow to the dawn,

A limit is reached, and a veil is withdrawn.

For darkness, though vast, has a point where it wanes,

A rope that snaps for the morning’s own sake.

Just as the orbit returns to the flame,

Your spirit remembers its ancient name.

The resilience you thought had been buried in snow,

Is waiting for rhythm, for permission to glow.

You survived the season that tried to turn stone,

The ice in the marrow, the chill in the bone.

Now watch as the night  begins to give way,

Softening fast in the light of the day.

You are not the shadow; you are what is true.

Welcoming the beginning of a year born anew 

should of seen the signs

 

The Dictator's Treadmill

The belt spins fast beneath the feet,

no pause for breath, no safe retreat.

To step aside means iron bars,

A concrete room beneath the stars.

So what price is paid to hold the floor?

He breaks the law to write some more

. He’ll burn the world to keep the pace

and die running in the exact same place.

Somebody opened Pandora''s box

 There is something called the Dictator's Treadmill: once you get on, you can’t get off, because falling off means ending up in jail. What options does the leader have, and what is he/she willing to do not to fall off?

Give me that old time religion

 On a rising wind

Distant drumming begins

listen and take heed

You mortal men

Ancient druids whisper low,

"Earth's rhythms, you do not know.

Polluting streams and burning skies,

Your greed destroys, with reckless sighs.

The ancient oaks, they stand and weep,

Their whispers echo in endless sleep.

The winds howl loud, a mournful sigh,

As humans ravage, with a blinded eye.

Awaken, mortals, to nature's plea,

Lest the earth, in ruin, be.

The balance shifts, the future's told,

In harmony with nature, you'll unfold."

Snow plows

 Bastards

I awake in the night

to the sounds of the snowplows

blocking my driveway.

I imagine their maniacal

laughter as they pull away

witchcraft

 

Sacred Spaces

 Sacred Spaces

The trail is full of rocks

and the brambles

tear both skin and shirt

No one has been here

in a while except

Goat, Bear and Pika

There is something spiritual

in this remoteness

among the wind shaped pine

A storm growls

in the distance

and lightning sprites dance

The wind grows colder

and the mountain seems to groan

it is time to go down.

Monkeys with Typewriters

 We poets are all Monkey’s with Typewriters

In cages of flesh,

with fire of thought,

We tap at keys,

by instinct or whim.

A game of chance and rhyme,

An epiphany scrawled,

or gibberish hurled?

A Shakespeare sonnet ,

or monkeys' world?

Each word falls,

a puzzle laid,

‘A world created,

at our fingertips beat.

Poets write

because they have to.

Happy for bananas,

or praise

though money wouldn’t hurt.

The Break up

 The Breakup

I thought Winter  had left me, 

with her cold-hearted ways,

cutting me to the bone.

I was happy to see her go.

now the snow is falling

and the windows are rattling.

Looks like the bitch is back.

                                       ch2024

Red’s Leather and Velvet Bar

 Red’s Leather and Velvet Bar

It was the kind of bar,

that makes you happy

to give it all your money.

A classic 1950’s speakeasy

architecture, long seductive bar

with a back lit display

of rare and expensive booze.

The waitresses wore more ink

than tight mini-skirts

and the skirts were tight.

Tight enough to show

they had nothing to hide,

especially the one who climbs

the ladder to the top shelf.

I fell easily under its spell,

and ordered a Communist.

A gin martini with a cherry

and hammer and sickle,

made out of hot sauce,

Background character

 

Background Character

Lost in my morning coffee,

I watch the hipsters

dominate the street.

I feel like I’m just a character

in the background

a nameless face in the crowd

A place filler in a masterpiece.

I’m sitting at a table,

working on my first novel.

The gendarmes are patrolling the streets.

I’m worried that they will chase me away.

Move the vagrant along..

If the artist had given me a chance,

I could have been someone.

Instead I’m just a character

in the background on someones canvas.

America is a Big Box store

Big Box Store

Visit a big box store and see America.
There’s too much skin and too few teeth,
More Ink than a copy machine.
Spandex stretched
beyond its normal limits
Four kids in a shopping cart
at least one diaper is overflowing.
An associate is directing people
to the wrong Aisles out of spite.
People are lined up
for lottery tickets
and buying smokes in bulk.
Tweaking for nicotine
and chasing the lottery dream,
before the social security runs out.
There's an Alzheimer's victim
in the toy section, looking for her dolly.
Her husband is in the beer aisle,
looking for an escape.
A couple assholes are harassing
the gay computer tech
in the electronics section,
while the high school prom queen
shoplifts a pregnancy test.
Out in the parking lot there's a dog
slowly dying from the heat,
in a locked car.
Some guy in a flag-waving pickup truck
is doing laps, Playing Lee Greenwood's
“I'm Proud to be an American, “and muttering
about all the dark-skinned people moving into town.
A couple families have been car camping
for the last three weeks
because they can’t rent a place to live.

This is America in a box
Chris Hoagland 2023

Hidden worlds

 The Hidden worlds

There are hidden worlds waiting to be discovered


Buy a homeless person a cup of coffee,

listen to their story.

Let them know they are not invisible.

Visit their world.


Have a drink with an exotic dancer

Listen to .their story

read the record of her world

on her tattooed skin.


Bring flowers and cookies

(If she is diabetic skip the cookies )

to the old widow down the street.

Let her tell you about the world

she and her husband built.


All around you,

are hidden worlds waiting to be discovered.

looking for the Modern Beats

Modern Day Beats

Looking for the Beats today?

You will find them

sleeping in a car

in the Walmart parking lot

Working for cash

to fill their tank and fix a broken guitar.

You will find them

working two jobs

to support the children after the dad left.

writing poetry on coffee-stained napkins

Looking for the beats today?

You’ll find an autistic shut-in

drawing intricate pictures of Paris

on his bedroom walls

You’ll find an Afghan Vet

in a drug recovery program

trying to come to terms

with the horror, humans can do

writing it down in witness.

Looking for Beats today?

They are all around you.

 

Living the Life

 Living the life

Crying in my sleep
holding it in
like a scream,
anxiety trapped
in tendon and bone
my body aches.
While reaching for
the happy pill,
I vow to learn
how to let it go.

zoot suits vs the Martians

 

It was a hot summer day in Los Angeles, and the zoot suiters were out in full force. They were young, stylish, and full of energy. They loved to dance, listen to music, and have a good time.

But on this day, the zoot suiters were about to face a challenge unlike anything they had ever seen before. A fleet of alien spaceships had appeared over Los Angeles, and they were preparing to attack.

The zoot suiters were scared, but they were also determined to protect their city. They knew that they were outnumbered and outgunned, but they were willing to fight to the death to save Los Angeles.

The aliens attacked with a barrage of lasers and missiles. The zoot suiters were caught off guard, but they quickly recovered and fought back. They used their sharp suits as weapons, and they fought with the courage and determination of lions.

The battle raged for hours, but in the end, the zoot suiters prevailed. They defeated the aliens and saved Los Angeles. The city was safe, and the zoot suiters were heroes.

The zoot suiters were celebrated as heroes, and their victory over the aliens became a legend. They were proof that even the smallest and most unlikely of heroes can make a difference.

The zoot suiters' victory over the aliens had a profound impact on Los Angeles. It showed the city that it was stronger than it thought, and that it could overcome any challenge. The zoot suiters became symbols of hope and resilience, and their story is still told today.