I enjoy so much when I receive poetry from those in the publishing field...clients...publishers...friends I have made online!
Here is the latest from Branden Books Publisher and my friend, Adolfo Caso!
~~~
On one hand, Americans accept to live under the principles of a representative democracy and have few qualms in sending soldiers to fight for their freedom and liberty; on the other hand, so many demonstrate against their soldiers to the point of insuring defeat or denying victory.
This un-typical peculiarity forms the basis for the poems by Colonel Adolph Caso, who believes that soldiers sustain and make hope meaningful.
Observations:
•· An old woman dressed in black searches for her son's bones on Monte Grappa
•· An actress joining Viet Cong soldiers returns home to an adoring America where she amasses greater wealth and popularity.
•· A world-champion boxer refusing induction because "the military is owned by whites" (he is the only one to have suffered consequences) nevertheless has become a wealthy and undisputed world champion.
•· The ever popular balladeer welcoming Chinese Communists to take over a greedy America gains more popularity and greater wealth on growing older.
•· The officer returning home throws away battle field medals and later becomes a millionaire seeking and almost winning the presidency of the United States.
•· And, Mr. Song, surviving the genocide in Cambodia, sees America as the only hope for his children.
Poems:
SILENT, THE ROCKSCool and silent is the peak
covered by lifeless shadows
and the color of the moon's
pale streaks.
Un-designated trees enjoy
a rampant breeze
while rows of rocks
speak their sorrows.
Do not be dazed; say the rosary.
This rock is not the stone
over which you wept before.
The sun has never shone here.
Rows of rocks weep over the sorrows
the anguishes that rooted them down.
Who knows of the bones in the burrows
or the steel that once
was the crown
of men forgotten.
The symbol hangs on
though the rocks remain
over which to weep.
Come, old woman in black,
assemble the twigs of the deep.
Do not stop.
The stone is not your son's.
Below, your children await the fire.
Go!
Nourish them!
Another peak awaits.
The puffed-up male
noisily following the partner
into the spring foliage
of the tree,
the branches sprawling
over the gurgling waters
of the cool brook
bending
around the foot of the mountain,
where ponds of still waters
are visited
by hovering flies
which quickly disappear;
the tadpoles
the trout
white butterflies
aimlessly
peaking and dipping through the air
the eagle from up on high
the animals wandering
through the virgin land
the bee
winging itself from flower to flower
the honey drops
exuding
from fruits ripened by the sun
the mountain lion
the rattler
raccoons in hide--
the limpid sunset:
all
an impressive spectacle
a dream come true
for the young run-a-way couple,
the new Franciscans
wearing the single robe and cord
drinking the waters from the spring
putting together the abandoned cabin
with trees
cut with their own hands
finally free
independent
living the youthful days
in vigorous bodies
singing to birds and animals alike:
Adam and Eve
cast-off
of their city and God,
away from the massive followers of Krishna
from the new materialism
finally free and independent
in their newly gained paradise
there at the foot of the mountain
near the river bed
free from beer cans and bottles
under the watchful eye of the eagle
satisfying today's hunger
with present finds
to run the risk
of being another's meal
than to be consumed piece-meal
through corroborated programs
free of newspaper print
strewn all over the land
or
piles to be processed
without leaving a single trace
of its real mafia
free at last
to wander about nature's spectacle
with hair ruffled by the breeze
bodies of healthy muscles
from years of meat diet and sports
eating nature's food
without the sacrificial offerings
of slaughtered pigs and cows
finally free and independent
enjoying the time of day
in and out
of the wooden shack--
the new Eve, in the presence of Adam,
taking today's pill
so
that
they
can
get
laid
From a life, rich
of every want
never felt the pangs of hunger
or the feet touch the ground
other than the cool grass
on lawns made beautiful
by some Puerto Rican
working for some Italian
or on wall-to-wall carpets
shampooed as necessary
to keep the shag from knotting
beneath the feet,
the color television
screening images
of peroxide blonds on martinis,
the gratuitous killings,
words of lasting peace
amidst reports of battle slaughters,
the Watergate--from the small
to the big un-necessity
perpetrated by preacher politicians
scoring the recipients
of welfare checks
the crying babies with their emaciated faces,
farmers clad in Genovese cloth
patched wherever their skins and bones
have worked through
to the harsh bruises of labor,
and the affluent youth
protesting it all--
a rebel through lengthened hair,
barefoot on warm days,
the wheels of a supercharged beetle,
sixteen-speed bikes,
the girl wearing tailored jeans
shed at the feet,
discolored as though
sweat had perspired through,
patched with embroidered monograms
wearing America's flag
the stars on one
the stripes over the other cheek
and the mast wiggling its way up her ass,
wishing it were real!
Blood
I will give
as water
enough to invigorate a boxer
for another round:
Suicide
through
murder!
One hundred victims--
five times one hundred
pints of blood
lost to the ground
unredeemably wasted.
Collect for the doomed
what is left of the doomed
having still one breath
of blood
in its warm flesh,
the transfusion
to rehabilitate
for another battle--the spectacle
to keep
our peace-loving hearts
secretly
entertained:
Suicide
through
murder!
Blood of yellow today
brown tomorrow
black and white--the secret hope
to quench the ultimate thirst--
It is well
the ground to soak today
tomorrow another ground
and you will give me enough--
just enough--
for another battle--
to your heart's content
secretly
the PEACE button
on your breast:
Suicide
through
murder!
Suicide:
cowardice or courage
the latter lacking
allow the victim
to take the blood
of another victim
and you don't want me
to be
the victim of the victim
so long others
are currently available
though enough of yours
you will save for me
and others to follow--
always others!
Suicide
through
murder!
For me!
my brothers!
my children!
and theirs!
Five pints of blood
times one thousand
redeemable
transfuseable
five times one million
PEACE on heart
blue turned red:
frenetic excitement--
Peace!
Peace!
so long
the ground soaks.
If there be peace
you know
you will die:
Suicide
through
murder!
HYMN TO SONG
Awakened by dogs, barking
in the distance of his memory,
the refugee from Cambodia
stands silently by his new curtains,
staring into a morning darkness
steeped in nights of fear and doom:
his eyes opened glaringly,
his ears attuned to distinguish
between signals of life and death,
the bark of dwindling dogs
ear-marked for his capture,
and the brutal execution
of family and friends
together with anyone else
in the path of Pol Pot soldiers,
indiscriminate of age or sex,
establishing an order of death
for neighbors that never come back,
making the barrel of their guns
the democratic equalizer for all!
In his hideaway,
he listened, in controlled silence--
the wailing of poor and innocent beings
brought to slaughter while the world watched
in selfish indulgence.
Only scattered dogs responded with their bark
to alert the already hardened farmers,
and their emaciated wives and children,
one by one and in mass
numbering in the millions,
doomed,
with the active collaboration
of peace lovers knowingly fueling
the unfolding genocide,
with never an outcry or shriek against the perpetrators!
How did it happen?
Oh! Cambodia on Cambodians!
Why!
Why China on 120 million Chinese!
Russia on 90 million Russians!
And Turkey, on Armenians still weeping
in a world of callous denial!
Africa on African Blacks
in a continuous Calvary
between man-made AIDS and in-bred terror!
Germany on Jews for an ultimate solution
backed by a science of folly
maddening supremacy!
Glancing over the faces of his wife and children
sleeping in their New Jersey apartment
he mulls over the miracle
of their newly-found life,
to a future,
guaranteed,
with prosperity abounding
and needing only the muscle in his arm
and the resolution to work
like so many millions before him.
His eyes turning in different directions,
to lit-up lawns, shaped bushes and trees,
and to his neighbor, sleeping in opulence:
he thanked God for his fortune,
but not the One failing the others-
his trance broken by an image of stealth
moving over the lawns and by the trees:
a coyote appeared, howled,
and quickly disappeared.
Shaken, creases on his forehead
he turns to his wife and children.
Resting his eyes on their faces
he knows
they're in pursuit
of the American dream,
unfolding before his very eyes!
--Adolfo Caso, 2008
Tags: branden books, adolfo caso, poetry, publisher, hymn to song, suicide through murder, a hippie's protest, the new adam and eve, silent, the rocks
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