September 22, 2006

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  Selected poems from 2004.

  
  

  “Disaster: A Reality Show”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri 
  January 16th, 2004 7:29 p.m. pst

  
  

  Arcane Wisdom heralded doom,
  Falling into pits of hellish random violence
  Burning flesh and retribution reach.
  Man didn’t learn though.
  Arcane wisdom failed to teach
  Him, and dark ages fell
  Even spiritual redemption failed to tell
  Him what he always knew but never realized.
  He survived countless wars,
  If he didn’t get himself killed
  He dominated the earth, and collected the prize
  The cost was too much,
  Religion, Trade,Wars and Technology
  Caused much pain in the end, not to man but
  To Mother Earth
  Now News shows tell us night and day
  Someone shot somebody else
  Somebody blew themselves up in a bus station
  Mad Cows are everywhere
  The terror alert is on orange
  The killer bees are coming
  Nothing we eat is safe
  The ozone layer is almost gone
  The plankton are dying and the seas are rising
  The eskimos are dying of radiation poisoning
  And we’re all going to die
  As usual

  
  

  
  “The Website ”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri 
  January 22th, 2004 7:55 p.m. pst

  
  

  
  Gasp, the     
  URL
  triggered…..ad pop-ups for a domain name seller????       
  it was gone…   
  a universe in wondered verse   
  and sights to see so stellar….
  In the blink of an eye one dies,
  But art should never disappear.
  And creativity should never have a seller
  In an age when Homestead sells photo storage
  And journalists all have personal blogs online
  Where souls have tried to communicate across
  the abyss of planetary vastness through
  the communication links of the great internetal community,
  Only to have to see their “digital lifework”go offline….
  Gasp,  I can’t still believe it’s so…
       A treasure, a family’s memories, memories of
          lost loved ones, and of fulfilling times
       A treasure shared by many including me.
  It’s like a house I used to visit many times
  Has been knocked down….
  And a hole is left
  Where a whole lot of love used to be.

  
  

  For Sheryl

  
  

   

  
  

  “Compromise”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri 
  Friday, February 13th, 2004 4:32 p.m.pst
  (an exercise in spontaneous poetry 1)

  
  

  
  I ache to throw my arms around the world,
  A mammoth hug for humanity
  Somewhere I will be similarly embraced
  And somewhere I will be smitten for my efforts
  Because I have offended someone else

  
  

  I come to you to give you news of the day
  I might be ecstatic, bursting, emotive
  But you don’t want to hear about it
  I’ll hit a stalled locomotive

  
  

  Wisdom prevailed throughout centuries past,
  But in time we all forgot wisdom
  leaving him to
  consider
  the      cosmic
               circumstance
                    of compromise
  And the reason why we can’t look each
  other in the eyes….

  
  

  I tremble with pain for the crisis laden
  and no matter what I am feeling
  Somewhere in the world someone cares
  And somewhere someone doesn’t
  The ironclad way it always has been.

  
  

  I turn to you in bed looking puzzled
  I want to say this to you but somehow I can’t
  I’m afraid we’ve lost the connection
  Compromise has never been known to enchant

  
  

  Wisdom walked on a long time ago,now
  Memory and lost moments
  consider
  the      cosmic
               circumstance
                   of compromise
  And we bear the burden of the
  truths between the lies
   
     It seems, God’s Irony Unveiled,
     No one surrenders to their better nature
     Too bad that compromise has been uncompromising

  
  

  
  “Typewriter with Pictures”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri 
  Sunday, February 22nd, 2004 4:45 a.m. pst

  
  

  
  It always happens the same way,
  No matter whether with a pen, or whether with a keyboard
  Sometimes the words will out with ease,
  And the couplets release on their own, if you please
  Sometimes the words would get stuck in the mind
  And the pen would choke leaving inspiration behind

  
  

  As I conjure up the typewriter with pictures
  Now it’s a little bit different
  The poetry happens in notepad these days
  A benificent typewriter overlaid
  On a wondrous portal sending memories to heaven
  And somewhat hopefully satisfying the
  dreams of the masses as they worship
  In the bower of electronic kinship

  
  

  The words are now blinks on a screen
  All the thoughts, words, wishes, dreams and desires.
  Words on the screen can be moved around with ease
  Stanzas “inserted” or thoughts removed with delete keys
  But behind the wall of the light green page
  Another window shows me the mind of ev’ry internet sage

  
  

  As I conjure up the typewriter with pictures
  I sometimes feel like a god
  Overseeing the creations and the responses
  Eternity’s future laid out before me
  On a wondrous portal sending memories to heaven
  And somewhat hopefully becoming the
  Conduit through with which understanding
  Shall finally join the brethren into banding

  
  

  To create on the typewriter with pictures
  To worship through the typewriter with pictures
  To see the thoughts as they are thought
  And to move them all around in cyberspace
  Wouldst that only man would realize his fate
  And look into the typewriter with pictures
  Before it’s too late
  And realize through this he might
  look into humanity’s face

  
  

  
  “Where Jesus Walks”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri 
  April 5th , 2004 8:54 p.m. pdt

  
  

  
  I read the news again today
  Snapshots of a world gone astray
  Lost and lonely pleas for sanity
  Overstuffed political vanity
  Gruesome images
  And terrible words
  Insane retribution
  Completely absurd
  It’s all too much, too overbearing
  Has humanity lost the need for caring?
  I seem to have read the same news before
  Calamitous carnage, seared through the core
  Will Jesus be welcome when he returns?
  Will he witness strife as mankind burns?
  Peace be with my savior
  As I offer my hand
  For I don’t have any answers
  But I’ve got to make a stand
  Where Jesus Walks we must be aware
  We must have a heart, and we must truly care
  Where Jesus Walks is a world torn apart
  A world needing hope,
  A world shaking new start.
  I read the news again today
  Where Jesus Walks the lambs and lions play

  
  

  
  “Pendulum Swing Back Again, and the Questions Burn Deep on My Soul”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri 
  Wednesday, June 2nd, 2004 : 4:43 a.m. pdt

  
  

  
  How is it that I can hoarde so much when others they have naught?
  Who allows me to feel at all happy, when with pain those lives are
  fraught?
  When I view a subtle sunset, or a glimpse of God’s good graces
  How can I really ecstatic be, seeing grief on humanity’s faces?

  
  

  When will the day come to proclaim positive news, for faraway cities
  in pain
  Najaf, Madrid, Riyadh, and Karachi. Kufa, and Gaza ‘Tis plain
  To see that each day I’m allowed to review, the deeper in thought I
  shall ponder
  Still happiness wells in my heart, and this hurts, and serves as a
  depressing reminder.

  
  

  One soul is another, another, another, souls so linked by cosmic
  decree
  Yet I cannot reach out, and it leaves me no doubt, I have eyes but I
  just cannot see.
  I do have my problems, but my problems are few, when compared to such
  hunger and blight
  And I reach out to touch, with my words, seeming such, but still
  haven’t been granted the sight.

  
  

  When will the morning dawn brighter for them, as it always dawns
  bright for my soul?
  When I learn of the suffering many, why was I fated to feel so damn
  whole?
  Is this what life teaches, have I yet been taught, do I know what is
  happening now?
  Bombs and blighted burdens, tear through this pained world, nothing
  is seeming to grow.

  
  

  Except suffering, savageness, stark sullen agony, people who cry with
  no tears
  Small hopeless children, and Earthmother women, who live day to day
  with their fears
  Yet the day dawns too bright for me, too bright to see, and this
  blinds my understanding
  I shall never have the eyes to see. Is the world’s hurt an ironic
  grand planning?

  
  

  I am deep in depression this morning, my friends, but this feeling
  shall soon go away,
  On the other side of the world, or perhaps down the street,
  depression holds sway every day
  My words are but swords cutting deep in the wound, and I want to give
  back something more
  I can rend at my clothes, flail my skin in disgust, but nothing seems
  stopping this war.

  
  

  I must be to blame for the world’s pitiful slide, this must be my
  pitiful fault
  Each morn I am happy, filled with passion and beauty, while the slide
  just seems never to halt.
  I look up at the clouds, and feel glad I’m alive, then I think of the
  others, and frown,
  If we are soul brothers joined fast with our God, why do I feel like
  I’m letting Him down?

  
  

  I will pray, I will fast, I will give all I can, to the sick and
  downtrodden and lame,
  But no matter what happen’s this sick sodden feeling gives birth to a
  fulsome lost blame.
  This morning is beautiful, God’s painting in Heaven, and hope will
  shine through with the sun,
  But depression shall last, no one learns from the past, and my
  feelings are easily undone.
  

  • 10:34 am
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