Best Medicine


Sometimes making someone laugh

is the best you can hope for 

on cafeteria sandwich and soup

Thursdays, when the promise 

you were promised

has gone quiet as a bad joke.


It’s those silent moments 

where your thoughts heckle

every choice you made,

as if you can never be

right, and your only choice

is to hide behind a smile,

hoping no one notices

what you leave in those empty bottles

most Friday nights.

1. DIED FOR FREEDOM (Satis Shroff) 


Many Ukranian men from 18 to 60
Have given up their lives,
For Mother Ukraine in the cold winter.
When Spring comes,
Flowers will spring in their graves.
They died for freedom
From a tyrannical power,
Armed to the teeth.
A man who invented lies
To invade Ukraine.
* * *
2. HUNGER FOR POWER (Satis Shroff) 


Deeds of courage and resistance,
Words of farewell in railway stations,
When mother and children were sent away,
To safer destinations,
While the men stayed,
To defend the motherland.
Tears rolling down the cheeks
Of men, children, siblings.
Invaded by a ruthless autocrat
A narcissist with dreams of restoring
The faded Glory of the Soviets.
Will the Cold War be followed
By an age of chaos
Violence and conflict?
A world that cannot distinguish
Between destruction and self-destruction?
No desire to legitimize the nefarious deeds.
Violence develops a momentum of its own.
The slaughter, the butchery,
Driven by the greed and hunger for power.
* * *
3. A RABID MUNGO (Satis Shroff) 


What has Russia attained?
Territorial gain and loss of lives.
The airspace has been closed,
No Russian planes can fly
Over other’s territories.
The Russian in the street
Can’t pick up money for the automat.
Russia is internationally isolated.
Russian athletes, soccer clubs,
Even Paralympics cannot compete.
The world shuns them.
A whole country ostrasized
Because of one man:
An ex-secret agent, a small cold warrior,
Who desires the glory of the Tsar.
He curses like a rabid mungo
And says: ‘The West is imposing
Illegitimate sanctions’
And Nato leaders make ‘aggressive statements.’
Pray, who bombed the cities of Georgia in 2008 ?
Who annexed Crimea in 2014?
Who has invaded Ukrania?
Who has conquered Cherson?
Who is ceaselessly bombarding
Tschernihiw and Maripol?
Trump was the liar of the USA,
And who has lied to the Russian folk?
Disinformation for his own people.
Poor Russia.
* * *
MOSCOW ISOLATED (Satis Shroff) 


What has the ‘honest’ black-belt holder done?
He has waged a war against a smaller country.
Over a week of pounding with artillery and rockets.
His 46 lorries are stuck since days.
Sitting ducks if Ukraine had missiles.
He wanted a third break for talks,
But not ceasefire.
The warlord bombed further.
Moscow is isolated from the world.
There are demonstrations
In Berlin, Prague, London,
Madrid and Brussels,
On behalf of besieged Ukranians.
Spontaneous demonstrations in Moscow and St. Petersburg
Are stifled immediately
And people arrested.
Putin’s march to Ukraine
Is stopped by people
Of the Land of Sunflowers.
The would be Tsar gets angry
At his own logistic shortcomings,
And the stiff fight put up by the defenders.
* * *
5. CIVILIANS DIE (Satis Shroff)

Putin orders rocket attacks,
Like Stalin’s organ in World War II,
In the town of Chernihiv,
Northeast of Kyiv.
More civilians die.
The Russians aim at civilians
Instead of military targets.
They want to destroy their infrastructure.
Troops advance from Crimea,
The port Maripol, a land-bridge,
Between Donetsk and Ludhansk,
Is conquered.
Putin’s troops close in on Kharkiv.
Ukranians rally around Zelensky,
The heroic symbol of bravery,
And put up a great fight. 


* * *
6. A FOE BECOMES A FRIEND (Satis Shroff) 


A Russian soldier surrenders
And calls his mom in Moscow.
The defenders are so nice to him.
They could have easily lynched him,
But he even gets a drink and food.
A foe becomes a friend.
Other Russians sabotage their own tanks:
What is kaput is kaput.
Fed up with the mad Tsar’s war and dreams.
A pretty pilot dies in action,
Some Ukranians capture a Russian tank,
And take joy rides like children. 


* * *
7. AMMO, NOT A RIDE (Satis Shroff) 


Ukranians are extremely patriotic.
Zelenky decides to remain in Kyiv,
Come what may.
His family refuses to be separated.
What a symbolic and courageous gesture.
Zelensky inspires all Ukranians
And even volunteers from Europe
To fight against Putin’s men:
Independence, democracy and freedom.
Zelensky is not Ashraf Ghani,
Who fled with money in his baggage.
Zelensky told an American,
Who wanted to evacuate him:
‘I need ammunition, not a ride.’
A historical, metaphorical statement. 


8. THE ANGST OF GLOBAL WAR 
SUBTITLE: THE SUNFLOWERS AND POPPIES GROW 

Written by Satis Shroff 

  

Putin shakes hands with veterans in Moscow.
Russia should never be underestimated;
Power is being mobilized as in the past World Wars.
Russia has not lost the war is the tenor.
The bells chime in the Kremlin like mockery for those killed.
There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

Modern and old weapons are on display,
Generals in black cabrios take the salute.
A sea of smart, disciplined soldiers carrying weapons,
Swords, salutes and martial music on the Red Square.
It’s all about defending the Fatherland
And solidarity with the soldiers.
Stoltenberg’s message to Putin is to end the war.
Bundestags_President Bär lays down a wreath in Ukraine.
Eggs are thrown toward Baerbock
At an election speech in Germany. 

Moscow’s inner city is like a fortress:
Chauvinistic and neo-imperialistic is the pathos of Putin,
The gatherer of Russian honour.
Russia a military and nuclear power,
Second only to the USA,
Speaks of security guarantees.
Reanimation of Russian Weltmacht.
In the defense of the Fatherland,
There is no family in Russia,
That hasn’t been involved in the Wars.
Russia has always fought
For a system of the folk.
‘The Nato states don’t want to listen
To our endeavours,’ says Putin.
And speaks about the neo-Nazis and foreign military advisers
From the USA and Nato countries.
‘Ours is the only right solution,
We’ll respect and honour our ancestors
And the Immortal Regiment.
We’re proud of carrying it in our hearts.’ 

There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

The others have Russophobia.
Today our soldiers fight in the Donbas.
We remember all who have given their lives
For the Fatherland: men, women, children. 

A minute of silence.
Only the flames of the eternal soldiers lick the sky.
Moscow holds its breath. 

The Victors Day parade honours the 27 million Russians
Who died in World War II.
The death of our soldiers is sad,
We shall support the families of the soldiers.
I kneel before you for your sacrifice.
Terrorists also exist but they are not successful.
We will care for the children.
The bomb splitters will hold us together;
An independent Russia.
We’ll orient ourselves to our Armed Forces.
An exercise in being one with the people.
All men and women shout as one: hurrah!
The military bank plays.
‘Russia must ensure the horror of a global war
Will never be repeated,’ says President Putin cynically.
The fluttering flag, the Kremlin and gun salutes.
What was in-between the lines of his speech? 

There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

No mobilisation in the speech today.
No feared demonstration of POWs,
No MiGs and Sukhoi jets over the Red Square,
No declaration of war against Ukraine.
No provocation to the world.
19 battalions of 15,000 soldiers ready to cross Donbas.
Casualties are taboo and the war goes on as usual.
After the parade of the Armed Forces,
Even a separate women’s battalion in skirts comes by.
Putin appears as a professional, closed personality.
The Russians really believe in the fascist danger in Ukraine.
That the Nato troops are out to help the neo-Nazis,
And are about to surround Russia. 

The Cold War worked in the Soviet days to keep its enemies at bay.
The belief is that the future belongs to Russia,
Although the launching of the invasion in Ukraine
Was the biggest military blunder.
A retreat from Ukraine would mean Putin
Has lost the battle and his face.
Seventy years of refraining from using the nukes;
A path has to be found for mighty Russia
To leave Ukraine in a dignified manner. 

The heavy, cumbersome tanks come:
A display of hardware that Ukrainians love to destroy,
So long as they have the right weapons.
Soldiers popping their heads out of the tanks,
Saluting the Generals and the President.
The ugly, fat missiles with red caps float by.
Five big rockets mounted on trucks,
No angst in the hearts of these unaware souls.
Putin’s ultimate game is to set back the clock
And regain all former Soviet territories.
Donbas, Crimea, wherever there are separatists.
Monstrous warheads featuring prominently,
Warheads that spell Hell to countries where they explode; 

There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

It’s a bright day in May with fluffy clouds.
And the Russian brass band plays heroic tunes
For the soldiers who died like sacrificial lambs.
Then comes the all-male choir,
Thundering voices in the Red Square.
The band marches past in splendid formation.
A few nondescript global dignitaries are also present.
Putin looks short and obese as he gets up
And walks in the Red Square with his generals
Whose breasts display medals;
Enough to sink a cruiser.
Men are indeed ruled by toys. 

He holds a short speech for the leaders of the Armed Forces;
Talks with a general while walking briskly,
With security men in black as shields.
Do you hear the stutter of rifles,
The screams of missiles,
The thuds of the shells?
The vast majority don’t watch news
About what’s going on in Ukraine. 

There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

The rivers of Ukranian and Russian blood flow
In Kiev, Bursa, Mariupol and Donbas,
Haven’t clotted.
More blood is to flow.
This is the reaffirmation of Putin’s ambitions.
Till the troops have achieved their objectives
A formidable country of patriots, 

Rifles go up in salute,
Two soldiers bring a wreath
Aging generals with roses in their shaky hands.
President Putin arranges the ribbons,
And spends a quiet moment
In memory of the 27,000 dead Soviets.
Young girls with all their tenderness
Lay flowers for the dead;
Who now can neither touch silk nor cheeks. 

The bank begins with a clash of cymbals,
The men and women of the Armed Forces salute.
The Victory Day Parade is done with fervor and pomp.
Many military invitees lay their red roses on the floor.
The Russians feel good about the leadership.
That was the would-be tzar’s sole intention. 

The parade goes on with smartly dressed units marching past.
Putin walks and swings only his left hand.
His right hand is stationary beside his rump.
He has deep furrows below his eyes.
Sleepless nights caused by Ukraine’s resilience.
Lays scarlet flowers on coffins of the recently dead soldiers.
A general with a grandchild and blues eyes. 

Putin tries to justify the Ukraine war.
Collective responsibility for the war in Ukraine;
A country which was attacked without provocation.
A sovereign and independent state.
The Ukrainians have surprised the whole world,
With admirable sacrifice, resistance and the desire
To survive and exist as a nation,
Bringing great military losses to Russia. 

The marine troops dressed in Prussian blue,
Holding their weapons with a rehearsed pride,
Noses like Roman senators in the air,
Conjured up images of a defiant, proud Russia.
It all smells of fascism and tyranny during the Third Reich
The difference is that it is Russians who are the fascists.
Putin’s days in the GDR were well spent.
He has not only learned the German tongue
But unfortunately was fascinated by the Gestapo methods.
But Ukraine, and Crimea want their territories back. 

Putin’ s Blitzkrieg, Special Operation, has led to a war of attrition.
The Ukrainians put up a good fight,
Inflicting heavy losses to the fascists from Russia;
Their conventional weapons couldn’t compete
Against Nato hardware.
The losses were enormous.
No mention of Victory Day.
The war against Ukraine
Dishonours the dead
Of the past and present.
There where the soldiers lie buried
In cemeteries and on the roadside,
Sunflowers and poppies will grow;
Orthodox crosses arranged in rows.
The dead loved, drank vodka,
Sang songs and now sleep,
In the killing fields of Ukraine. 

* * * 

 
Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg and is a poet, humanist, lecturer and artist. He writes poems, fiction, non-fiction, and also on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. The German media describes him as a mediator between western and eastern cultures, and he sees his future as a writer and poet. He received the Pablo Neruda Award 2017 for Poetry in Crispiano, Italy and the Heimat Medaillie Baden-Württemberg 2018.

http://satisle.wix.com/zeitgeistliterature#!satislewixcom-zeitgeistlit/mainPage

www.lulu.com/spotlight/satisle

www.spanglefish.com/satisshroff

http://blogs.boloji.com/satisshroff

http://satisshroff.wordpress.com/

so my flowers could flourish

despite the fact i watered the flowers of our friendship, there was never any growth; everything remained half-dead and half-living; i got exhausted of being the only one to put any effort in so eventually i stopped—you said you didn't miss people, but you soon found that you did miss me; it was too late

—i tend to give people more chances than they deserve and you were no different in that regard, but i wasn't willing to wait around anymore until you were able to give me time and attention; i have no affection left for you—so when you clawed so hard and so often after i told you we were no longer friends for a friendship i have to admit that i felt nothing but disgust, where was all this effort before? you weren't there when i needed you, yet i was expected to be there at your beck and call when you needed me; friendship isn't supposed to stunt your growth and be traumatic but trauma was all you gave me

—looking back i realize you were a narcissist because nothing that ever happened was ever your fault, you were always the victim even when you weren't; and i got tired of being your punching bag—for my own personal growth, i pulled out every root of our friendship so that my flowers could flourish once more; i am sorry that you miss me but i don't feel guilty for leaving you behind any more. 

-linda m. crate 

with all your need

they say
growth is
moving on,
but when you move
on without them they 
will insist you cannot cut
them out;
as if they weren't the ones
that left you bleeding
with the scissors in your
back—
you gave me scissors so i cut
the ties that tethered us
in togetherness,
and you have no one to blame but yourself;
i needed to grow 
so you could not be hanging on the 
vines of all my flowers
crushing them to death with all of your need.

-linda m. crate 

bigger and better plans 

remember that promise
you gave me?
gave me a false sense of security
as i was under the assumption
we'd grow old together,

but that was just a lie you 
told to keep me tethered to the
many tongues of your lust;

growth came after you abandoned me
and married the woman you cheated on me with—

one autumn day i woke up and the agony
was gone,
i could bloom and live and be again;

rediscovered my magic and reclaimed my voice
and danced in my muchness once more—

every day i grow more and more 
into who i was meant to be,
and the universe had bigger and better plans
for me than to be the wife of someone
insincere and untrue.

-linda m. crate

but i do regret

they want to take credit
for your growth
when it was all your effort,
and they didn't do a damn
thing to better your life;

so many say forgive and forget
and there will be no regret—

but i do regret giving people
more chances than they deserved,
some people didn't deserve my
forgiveness;
and thought they could simply use
me over and over and over again—

the key to growing is ignoring what they
have said about me,
and though sometimes i get angry they take
credit for my efforts they're going to think what
they want to and so i keep growing toward the sun
and let them wilt alone in the angriest
of suns.

-linda m. crate 

no longer stained 

you wanted a damsel in distress
that you could dress in any garb
you thought could make you shine
in the best light, but instead you
found a warrior in a dress;

now you paint me the villain of your tale
but you've never been a hero to anyone
not even yourself—

when the illusion fades, they won't love you;
because they have fallen in love with 
the mask of you who they thought was you
who i  thought was you before you revealed 
your true nature to me—

glancing over my shoulder i am not sorry
that you are my past and will never be my future,

but if i must be the villain then i will be the one
that wins; i will be the one that they will love
and they will say that you deserved your end—

i will just be grateful that you name no longer
stains my heart.

-linda m. crate 

without a prayer 

you are without a prayer,
the moon won't save you;
she is my mother and she knows
how you tried to shatter my light

until only darkness remained—

i think she hates you more than i
ever could, her grudge is somehow
hotter than the sun and colder than the
coldest of rains; and if one of us
must go down she says it's going to be you—

there was a time i would cry at the thought
of you being left lone in the darkness,

but now i see that perhaps it is everything
you deserve because of all the darkness you've
brought others; all of the magic you have
destroyed and all the magic you tried to—

i have refound myself and claimed my magic,
and i know that you've made me a villain in your
narrative so let me destroy you in my chaos.

-linda m. crate 

Another Sunny Day

I sit outside
enjoying the
beautiful sunshine,
with my dog, and
a few beers.
Then, I have to
go back inside.

As I wait for some
cannabis to be dropped
off.

I know that it doesn't
help me, in any way,
but sometimes you
need a break from your
usual mind, and manner.

And I really need a break.

A break from reality,
and a break from
myself.

I'm not proud of it,
but at times it has
to be done. 

Sheer Joy

I know that it's really not cool to say it
But sometimes I love being me
There are LOADS of things that are terribly
Wrong in my life.

But, when I've had a few Whiskeys, and a joint, or two
And the words are flowing through me,
There's nobody else I'd rather be.
Who else would I want to be, who ?

At these rare moments, I love being me
I'm a fountain of creativity.
Yes, I may be totally pissed
Buy I'm also an artist.

Trying to help humanity
Get up on it's feet
Trying to help my fellow man
Reach his potentiality.
Or am I just a drunken liability? 

Unsteadily

I sit here,
unsteadily,
on top of
4, or 5 days
of drunkenness,
and dope smoking.

I feel great !

I feel fucking great !

But, I know that
something bad
is hiding around
the corner.

Just waiting to
trip me up.

I don't know where
or when, but I know
that sometime soon.
I'm not going to be
feeling well, at all.

                      The Decision
                               
Poverty is a tragedy by itself, to overcome it one needs to put in time, work, focus and determination. Do not allow it to be your shadow that moves with you every where you go, the only way to kill that shadow is to shine a light on it. 

Money is the root of all evil and a bunch of mind disturbances. Advice is part of the spirit that leads you to good life, at times you may have an ultimatum to choose between them. But the truth of the matter is money without advice is meaningless. 

This story took place in the life of a well-known hunter who was beset with poverty till nothing else mattered to him besides hunting animals so that he and his wife could eat. He was such a hard working man, patient with lots of potential in seeing his dream come through. He never gave up in his struggle, whether the day brought meat or not, his head was always up for a better tomorrow, for every disappointment to him was another step to move forward. His wife was committed to him always and gave him comfort when it was needed.

One bright morning, he woke up and sat under the tree where he usually sit to plat his mat. While platting his mat, a thought ran through his mind to take another step in life and try something else. Immediately he called his wife and sat her down and began to tell her his next plan of action in fighting poverty.  

"I am sick and tire of the way we live, no food, no money to take care of my domestic needs. Poverty is a sickness, no one needs to tell me that I am affected with it, 'cus when you are affected with it you will know, I don't need pastor, prayer bank, native doctor to tell me the root cause of my problems when I have not made effort in solving them. Since life in this village has not agreed with us, I am going to take a risk for our lives."

He told his wife everything he had in mind and made her understand that the journey he was about to embark on was for the betterment of their family. With a heavy heart he said, "I am traveling to the city, Monrovia, to hustle; I will be gone for eighteen years (18), please take care of yourself while am away. My decision is irreversible, because I have thought on it and my mind is made up." 

His wife was confused about the prompt decision which her husband had taken; but she has nothing else to say than to accept the decision which he has taken. The hunter's wife was three months pregnant and he never knew about it. She was afraid to tell him about it because such news would make him stay, and she never wanted him to go back on his word since it was for their own good, therefore she decided to keep it to herself. 

A week later the hunter left for Monrovia in search for a job, after a month of hard search, he found a job as a gateman. He told the house owner, his bossman, that he wanted to work for eighteen years (18), In that term, he told his bossman that he didn't want his salary till after the eighteen years. It was surprising to his boss, confused at the fact that a young man would want to work for eighteen years without monthly salary. The commotion in his mind couldn't allow him rest, so he asked the hunter, "Why do you want to work for eighteen years without a monthly salary until the eighteen years elapse?" 

The hunter told him that he was a family man and he wanted to show his wife that his labour was not in vain. And also he didn't want to waste the salary given to him every month, so to avoid using the money on things that will not benefit him and should be kept for the rightful purpose, he wanted the boss to keep his money. His bossman was shocked to hear such a thing from a young man of his kind, so he accepted to do what the hunter had asked. Because of his generous act, his bossman offered him the job with a monthly salary of 300 United States Dollars and a place to stay for the eighteen years. The hunter worked tirelessly to see his dream come through. He serve his bossman with honor and lots of respect, and his bossman was so proud of him each time he saw him opening the gate and closing it.

After the eighteen years has elapsed, the hunter went to him and told him that he was about to go back home. His bossman was so delighted with him for the time served, and he sat him down, brought out his eighteen years' salary which came to the amount of 64,800 United States dollars. His bossman had his money in full but didn't give it to him right away. 

He then asked him, "You have worked and served me for eighteen years now. You were too humble in your service, now this is what I have. On the table lies the eighteen years' salary for which you have worked. But I can give you three pieces of advice instead of the salary. So now the choice is yours. You will have to choose between your eighteen years' salary and the three pieces of advice which I have to give you."

The hunter was confused and thought that the old man was playing a trick to avoid giving him his money. But it was a decision where he was not forced to choose. The hunter thought for a long time, and with a deep breath he said, "I will take the advice." 

The old man asked him again, "So you want to tell me after eighteen years of hard work, you value the piece of advice which I have more than your salary?"

The hunter looked in the eyes of the old man with grief and said yes. 

So the old man took his money back inside and gave him the advice. "Listen, he said, 1. Never take the short cut in life, 2. Never sleep in a strange land, no matter the time, and 3. Do not allow your anger to control you, always seek the face of God before taking action."

After the old man had given him the advice, he later brought out a very big piece of bread which we normally refer to as Egyptian pillow. He gave the hunter a very strong instruction to eat the bread with his wife when he got home, so that she may not feel bad about the wasted years. The hunter was very angry to hear that was all the man had to say. So he took the bread which the old man had given him and walked away in grief. 

 
On his way to his home town, darkness was approaching so he decided to take a short cut to reach home faster before night fall. But the number one advice registered in his mind, "Never take the short cut in life." He then decided to take the long road to reach to his home town. The road was too long and darkness caught up with him, so he wandered to a nearby town to pass the night. But he town which he went to had laws that strangers were not allowed to pass a night in their town. Any stranger who intended on sleeping in their town would be sacrificed to their gods. 

In no time, while the hunter was asleep, he immediately jumped up as if something were running behind him in a dream. The second advice registered to him, "Never sleep in a strange land, no matter the time." Without saying goodbye to the villagers, he left. 

In the next morning while the hunter was approaching his house with excitement, he saw a guy sitting with his arm around his wife's waist. He got angry, dropped everything he had with him and bashed on them with a cutlass. As he was about to cut off the heads of the guy and his wife, the third advice registered to him, "Do not allow your anger to control you, always seek the face of God before taking action."

He immediately dropped the cutlass and went inside to concentrate. Early in the morning, he called a few of his wife's uncles to tell them what their daughter had done. While judging the case one of the uncles told him, "Thank God you did not commit murder upon your arrival yesterday. If so, you would have killed your entire family." 

The hunter was confused and needed to know exactly what her uncle was driving at 'cus his temper was uncontrollable at the moment. So another uncle elaborated on it. 

"You left your wife three months pregnant before going to Monrovia. You were lucky you did not kill them. By now, you would have regretted killing your wife and son all in the name of jealousy."

The hunter was ashamed of himself, and on the other hand he was excited that the advice given to him by the old man had saved him and his family. So he apologized for his actions. After everything subsided, his wife then asked him, "After eighteen years of work, my husband, what have you brought for us per our agreement? The hunter was ashamed but courageous in saying, 

"What I brought with me, for us, is life. If it hadn't been for the advice which I let go of my eighteen years salary to take, by now I would have been a dead man, and so would you and our son. But all the old man gave me is bread to eat with you when I get home." 

He brought the bread out and gave it to his wife. She was too upset with him, crying, "After all these years, my husband worked for bread!" With anger, she collected the bread from him. The moment she broke it to pieces, she saw that his eighteen years' salary was lying in it. 

The hunter was shocked and confused, and in tears they packed up their money.

By: Jelvin S Gibson


Questions:

1. What do you think prompted the old man to do what he did?
2. Was the three advice helpful to him? If yes explain, if no, explain.
 
3. What would you have done if advice were given to you instead of your money?

I rear my grief like a fisherman

i am rearing my own grief 
like a fisherman sailing in his 
trawler. i peregrinate beyond
the exigency of the Neptune—
incarcerate by a hope of lassoing 
something big—fish. until i plunge 
into the vast of ocean. so all I hope 
is hallucination. i am beguile again 
by my thought. i goad my father to
to death—douse him into water till 
he drown. he wants me save but he 
is not saved. after all, i am pronounce 
my father dead. this my body veers to
domicile—a abode of grief. i once 
reminisce about a gold my father left
for me—a tale about a fisherman rearing 
a fish he caught from the sea in his pond 
till the fish produced thousand of fish. 
now my body, too, is a pond where i rear 
a grief till my body become a cicatrix 
after sea steal my father's soul

 
to love is to create a memory

there is a dagger in my brain—a portrait
of mààmí, shaped into a grief like an idol

called òrìsà. 

there must be something powerful in love. 

they say, a decrease with a child does not 
sleep, but this feeling keeps me awake; love 
for an unseen & grieving over palpable thing. 

to love is to create a memory— a lifetime 
one. or, how can i reverse time? & end the
pains that entwine my heart? did you not 
see, when grief dissected my chest, & make 

my heart its abode? 

i, too, try not to be grieved like a boy:
a boy whose soul is heavier than his body. 
a boy whose soul becomes a wanderer, 
when merriment gushed through his heart, 

but found no place to live.

a boy whose a grief cut him open,
& indulge a machete at the nest of his chest.
a boy whose pains flow in his veins.

i, too, try to raise, again, like a phoenix 
from the ash. but, anytime i try to tame 
the grief, i realized, “grief is a beast that 
will never be tamed.”

i realized, i love mààmí. & i realized, 
i have created a memory—a lifetime one.

1) Sunday Morning, 7Am (or So)


It’s Sunday morning, 7AM (or so),
and the coffee pot is whispering its little secrets
to no one in particular 
and the sky looks like its threatening to unload.

And, from the kitchen window,
we can see a burly tomcat
playing with something it’s caught,
down in the alley, behind the hardware store—
a cockroach or mouse, maybe;
 
joyously swatting and tossing it about

and then, 
suddenly, 
indifferently,
letting it go.

An absolution or reprieve of sorts—

Who knows?

Sometimes the world
is inexplicably alive
with such innocent, amoral
and otherwise misdirected mercies

when the Good Lord or Vishnu
or Great Earth Mother or whoever 
is momentarily distracted 
by some cosmic occurrence,
somewhere, and the focus of their energies
is suddenly shifted

from whatever the current object 
of their loving vivisection
happens to be 

(who knows; the cockroach,
the mouse, the cat, maybe you,
hell, maybe me).

But elsewhere, this morning,

we can see with the floating
magical eye of the poem,
a red-breasted robin preaching
from atop a piece of PVC pipe,

a pair of red shoes
dangling from a telephone wire,

a sky-blue tricycle
(on which so much depends)
beside four white plaster chickens,

and, Maple leaves, like propellers 
cut from brittle rice paper 
or sheaves of ancient papyrus,
spiraling down in little, meandering gyres
through the clean autumn air.

And somewhere
(the picture is not as clear here),

in a motel room out near the highway, maybe,
or, in a westbound car, let’s say,
just now whizzing by that very same motel
(bound for Gnaw Bone, IA or Talala, OK),

or, in some drafty downtown apartment
above a hardware store
(that never seems to have
what you’re looking for),
the radio is torturing some
sad and desperate chump
with love song after merciless love song.

Otherwise, not much else is happening.


2) Territory


Ah, yes, the Konza,
that wily and patient old man;
he’s crossed the fence-line again.

Another modest victory
in his on-going campaign
to reclaim the land;

slowly staking-out each
newly won inch or acre
with ragged flags

of Leadplant and
Threadleaf, Bundleflower
and Blue Verbana,

Devil’s Claw, Soapweed and 
Wooly Loco, Snakecotton, Prairieclover
and Pale Comandra.

And all the while, he distracts us
with small, swirling storms
of wind and sand. 


3) The Tide


An almost perfect stillness
but for the passing
of a lone car on the highway,

as if the sleeping city were
slowly drawing in its breath.

It takes nearly a minute
for the humming of the tires
to trail off and melt away
into the soft Kansas landscape.

Suddenly a heavy silence
rushes in from the fields
like a tide, washing away
all the scattered barks and yelps
of farm dogs and coyotes,

all the clicking, buzzing night music
of crickets and tree frogs,

all the whispery gossip
of cottonwoods and cedars.

Of course we’ll be reported as lost at sea.
Families will worry and friends will search,

but, we’ll turn up sometime tomorrow
on some farmer’s doorstep,
foolish and grinning,
asking for directions.




4) Disconnected, or 
No Longer in Service



From the front porch, on this lonely hill-top
(where the wind never really seems to be still),
looking out, one can see the canopies
of oak, elm and linden that cover,
so post-card-perfectly, the far away streets
and homes of middle-middle America,
the sprawling networks of old farm roads
that wind and weave and mesh around the city,
like stitching, securing it to the earth.
And, through the churning quicksilver haze
of time and memory, it is easy to imagine
morning and the bright, sunlit room
of someone’s thoughts, from which
one can fall so easily somehow that,
without a final word or reliable account of events, 
a more than respectable semblance of love 
is reduced to a recorded message 
repeating itself into the hot Kansas night...	





First, a Few Things 
Concerning the Poet


First, it is essential
that the poet be
a failed something else—

sculptor, guitar player, bridge builder,
astrologer, cosmetologist, mathematician, whatever—

something that sounded
like a good idea at the time.

   (NOTE: anyone convinced
   that writing poetry is a good idea
   will one day make a fine
   mathematician, literary critic
   or iron-worker, even.)

Poetry, like drag racing or black magic 
or juggling knives, for that matter,
is rarely ever a good idea.

No, in fact poetry is, to the shock and dismay 
of those who would approach it, carelessly, 
or attempt to feed it, a half-starved, voracious 
and rather gnawed-at compulsion 

somewhere between doodling In the margins 
of library books and carving designs in your arm 
with a razor.

Poetry is a cosmic, meta-psychic-al occurrence
somewhere between a fifty-gallon drum suddenly
coughing-up flames in a vacant lot, late one night,
and a Grecian urn burning with wildflowers
on an unkempt inner-city grave …


Poetry is a deep, voice-like hum,
somewhere between bee’s-wings
and whale-song, thrumming and thrumming 
at the base of the skull— 

a voice calling out its pleas and directives
from the heart of the hive and the depths of the sea,
 
a briny ghost’s basso profundo 
that you can never quite be sure 
whether anyone else is hearing.

In fact, poetry is the confirmed poet’s 
dirty little secret—
like HAM radio operating, 
fantasy baseball league,
a phone-sex gig,
or, a good, solid smack addiction—

something the true devotee
(meaning here: one who has been turned)
wisely keeps hidden away (these days, especially),
on some grubby, candle-lit alter, let’s say, 
at the back of a closet, 
or in the corner of the basement
or, better yet, locked in an old bomb-shelter
out in the backyard.

And, while not widely known,
the poet is, at the cellular level, a type 
of rogue alchemist or depraved horticulturalist
trying tirelessly, against all common wisdom
and better judgment, to breed
   
     monkeys with footballs,
     dragons with freight trains,
     flame jobs with blowjobs,
     newspaper tigers with tinfoil unicorns,
     white roses with rusty railroad spikes,
     donkeys with onions …

knowing full well that
99 times out of 100
he’ll wind up holding an onion 
with big ears …

but still, none the less,
he or she must burn 
the sacred, Mexican 
Votive Candle of Prosperity 
to the hope for that one piece of ass
that wrings tears from their eyes …

water from dirt, 
fire from the sky,
gold from lead,
chicken salad from chicken shit,
life from a furious, 
life-long struggle with life.


Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,
notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be 
(loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry 
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. 

He is currently an artist-in-residence at both 
The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s 
and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor 
and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection 
of poems is The Great American Pyramid Scheme 
(co-authored with W.E. Leathem, Tim Tarkelly and 
Mack Thorn, OAC Books, 2022). He lives part-time 
in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red 
and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere 
in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters.