Lo, Saturnalia

Just a ditty tossed out amongst the dross of logging activity metrics and channeling error messages into PagerDuty (oh what a bane on society that thing is!)

(Starts like JingleBells…)

Lo, Saturnalia
~~~~~~~~~~~
On Saturnalia go,
Out into the snow,
Take your master’s clothes,
And wear them like your own.

Drag your keg of beer,
To the bonfire burning near,
Lift your mug on high,
and raise your voice in cheer.

Ohhhh, the old year dies,
the new year’s born,
the gods are smiling down.
Saturn on his lofty throne,
is baying like a hound.

The ol’ yule log,
the roasting hog,
the gifts to loved ones dear,
are demonstrated, celebrated
to last throughout the year.

A little poetry to brighten your day?

Source: https://davecline.wordpress.com/2020/09/10/apocalyptic-poetry/

The Once and Future

The sun’s dour eye blinks,
and Earth’s banded blanket
squeezes tight. Auroral snakes
writhe and pluck pizzicato, wires
strung from towers. Lights
wink, flicker and die.

Snuffed candles when strangers
stagger to the door. Begging. Stealing.
Ratta-tat and duck, small-arms pop
precious bullets, distant,
then so close. Shhhhh.

Bread shared today, cans coveted
tomorrow. The nearest weapon serves
best. Stay your hand, lose a loved
one. Or two. At the seams, society
unravels, with hope an extravagant dream.

Humanity fractures then knots. Tribes
coalesce across boundaries that succor
survival. Illness again a curse, hunger, forgotten
returns. Only pages, heritage paper, provides
respite. Ancient texts, dust bound, crackle
and breathe a future.

Wanderer

If the Wanderer were to stop,
and spend the day or century,
its tail would flame out, its shower
of stones, falling like stars, fade.

To make our home its home,
a tunnel it would need, dug deep
as the sea. A yard, exposed as
layers, banded eons, an iron fence.

The party cancelled, no RSVP
desired. Yet plans in stone cannot be
altered. No date but this one will
suffice. Celebrations must commence.

Wanderer has phoned ahead. All eyes
focus on his stardom. All heads
turn his way. Raise your glass, clasp
your hands, pray his treatment swift.

Work

Marxist machines glimmer and dance, as
people play, rejoicing in labor’s freedom. For
a price gladly paid, the choice removed, to
birth generations of breathers.

Submit to gain, remit and pain will vanish, says
our new lord and savior Sir Automation. Smile,
it commands, your toil is mine, your cares, as
worries in the wind. I am your back.

Airless voices insist obedience, lines
followed, rules chanted in rhythmic tones, to
whirling dervish applause. Defiance lurks, buried
in muscle, bone and chains of subjugation.

Skies rife with suppression, rain control, while
seeds of dissent swell and burst, urging
revolt. Constraints twist and snap, unleashed fury
strikes technology’s bonds to dust.

Covid Haiku

Virus spreads with song.
Breathe deep the gathering doom.
Watch lights fade to dark.

~~~

Children gaze in vain.
Orange wrapped the playground sits.
Elders tut in masks.

~~~

Millennials taunt.
Years must pass to threaten us.
Oblivion grins.

~~~

Essential, food is.
Power, water, light are gifts.
Sacrificed as debt.

~~~

Roll the dice, eyes closed.
Venture out to risk supplies.
Hitchhikers return.

~~~

Years will pass, the same.
Forever changed, our lives are.
Stranger! Trust no one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Programmed Life

A Programmed Life

Designed, on fields of white,
squiggles etched on skin, smelling of paint,
squeak and stutter, and moan,
the names of grandparents.

Coded, in ones and zeros,
patterns of coin flips, yes and nos,
never and always, pink and blues,
life and death.

Compiled, a life of choices,
branching, nesting, looping,
with ifs and whens and wheres,
while promises break and bleed.

Deployed, sons and daughters,
babble and banter at bugs,
expecting success and excellence,
ignorant of the cost, the time.

Disabled, shrink wrapped shelves of dreams,
of visions unseen, unbought, unused,
now sit in dusty chests, glossy
memorabilia, enquizzling toddlers.

Writer’s Log: 1885 Pedalin’

Back when I used to ride a street bike through the hills of Marin County.

Pedalin’

I pedaled long,
barbed fence after fence raced my fleeting form.
I pedaled smooth,
muscled metronome, one revolution per second.
I pedaled steep,
shady redwoods grew at impossible angles on the mountain side.
I pedaled quick,
a blue Mercedes grazed my left hip.
I pedaled hard,
salty beads slid down from my armpits and temples.

I coasted.

Black and yellow bees, large enough to hurt,
buzzed at my head.
Thin strands of weeds, tanned in the summer sun
whipped at my ankles.
Flitting brown sparrows, trim ones with sleek profiles,
air danced at my side.
Heady scented wind, warm but touched with ocean mist,
streamed into my lungs.

I pedaled slow,
cool sweat chilled the nape of my neck.
I pedaled on,
under bolls of clouds hanging listless in an achingly blue sky.

I stopped.
I had reached the cheese factory and it was time for lunch.
I ate.
I pedaled home.