Are We Worrying About the Right Things?

I just became aware of the fact that April is also National Distracted Driving Month.

In 2014, 3,179 people were killed, and 431,000 were injured in motor vehicle crashes involving distracted drivers.

In other words, your chances of getting killed or hurt on the road by someone texting or sipping their latte are significantly higher than being a victim in a terrorist attack. 
  

I implore my readers, please do not read this blog while driving.

No, I haven't Turned This into a Poetry Blog

Some of the fans have been wondering if this space is morphing into a poetry blog.  

Well, no.

Dude, it's April -  which is National Poetry Month.  I thought it would be a good excuse to dredge up some poems that have been rattling around in my "Unpublished Poetry folder."  (There are hundreds)

But after some cogitation,  I realize that it is a gross misuse of the Blog format to publish poetry.  As far as I can tell from the comments, there are only two real people who read this blog; the rest of you are no doubt robots and probably lack an appreciation for human angst. You might be thinking "Then, if no one reads it, who gives a shit whether you publish poetry on your stupid blog?" 

Well, gentle reader the answer is blowin' in the wind. You might as well ask,  "How many times must a man turn his head, and pretend he just cannot see...?"    Or you might ask, "If one is the loneliest number, why must I be a teenager in love...?"

And most importantly, "Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong?" 

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXmsLe8t_gg

Are you back yet?  When I think of real poetry, such as Barry Mann's classic, I think why even bother?

So, yes, it's still a blog.  As in "web log."  A chronological series of entries published in reverse-diary format.  The most recent post is the first one displayed.  Thus, the Blog is an appropriate medium for evolving information, where the latest news or observation is an update  to previous information.  This works fine for news analysis, politics, epiphanies, great ideas, gossip, anecdotes about kids or pets, declarations, anything that is changing.   The lust for new information is central to the appeal of a blog to readers.

These days most of the blogs out there are just lists of new recipes, old religious declarations, timely political and philosophical screeds, tedious pompous punditry, shocking scurrilous salation, asymmetrical acrimonious alliteration, and bellicose bilious blow-hardery.  

No one reads blogs anymore.  The novelty is gone, except for wonks and choir members who need a daily fix of the same worn-out preaching.  Real people don't have time for words anymore.  Just post a picture, dude.  Give me a headline.  Boil it down to a quote.  

Well, it's time to wrap this edition up.  I have things to do and places to go.  Time to get out of my pajamas and brush my teeth. 

So, you gentle readers - both of you- have a nice day.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZr8iReEqMQ&nohtml5=False

Poetry Month - Death does not carry a Smartphone

Death Does Not Carry a Smartphone - 2011

Steve Jobs’ obituary

was in the paper today.

They called him “A genius;

cut-down before his time,”

(As if one could remonstrate

to Death’s beckoning,

“Not now, it isn’t my time!”)

Perhaps it was karma:        

That final deserved disconnection,

just retribution for the ruination

of human conversation.

But no one at the table

was listening, instead

squinting into their iPhones

reading tiny text messages

about nothing.

April Is National Poetry Month - New system

A New System

Every top-down improvement 

starts with an enchanted idea

conceived in a mahogany walled

nest of ego and power.

A deal is struck

eagles and sharks

shake hands over lunch

nod over drinks at the club.

Wheels begin to move

heedless of the pain

subalterns pass earmarked orders

down the chain.

Like children of the faithful

bottom dwellers suffer in silence

enduring yet another assault

grinding their jaws

mouthing fruitless prayers

wishing some power

would protect them

from the captains of trust.

Dennis E. Noonan

National Poetry Month - Illusions of Certainty

Illusions of Certainty

You are doomed

You drivers of gas guzzling SUVs

who do not recycle

and your vaccinated children

drinking flouride-treated water.

Doomed, I tell you.

You zealots who evangelize,

you priests of the afterlife,

sowing fruitless seeds of eternal promise,

empty promises echoing like empty drums,

you who kill to the glory of your god --

especially you.

And also,

deniers, believers, skeptics, 

fools and liars  --

all doomed.

No one will be saved

whether they be

parachute jumpers, poets,

librarians, lawyers.

scuba divers, reporters,

weather forecasters,

innocents, evil-doers.

All will die.

All, save these immortal words.

Dennis E. Noonan

April is National Poetry Month

Modern Art Modern Religion Modern Science

Jackson Pollack doesn’t fool me

I am onto him and his ilk

with their ordered messes  

brassy bold splotches of bright

as if such a rendition was something

worthy of our notice.

And those captains of trust and power

vested in robes and suits who

with thundering voices tell us what is real

whilst they plunder and pillage.

Like rats in cages we endure the

random shocks dispensed by our captors

who want us scared and sedated

tractable lab animals trained to respond to cues.

Senses rubbed raw, our beleaguered brains

pulse with rage at the lies

until finally, 

we implode into smithereens.

Dennis Noonan  

It Should have Been March

April is poetry month.

It says so right here on the flyer

I got at the free library.

I suppose I should be thinking great thoughts

reading great lines or even composing verse

but the world is not quite done with me.

While idle poets are gazing at the sunrise

noticing a certain slant of vernal light

imagining the sound of wood oars against gun rails

contemplating the shape of lilies,

I am busy in the wooden shed, syphoning

gasoline from the snow blower to the lawnmower

draining oil, stowing the snow shovels 'till oyster time.

Now, plows are churning stones in the glacial earth

fields lay still, in fecund anticipation

seeds and compost, clamoring,

elbowing-out high falootin’ thoughts about

spiders’ webs, unrequited love, lost vigor,

regrets.

No. I have no time for poetry in April.

Dennis Noonan