Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon

For the sake of ornament and illumination.

SONG

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:17 pm

On Buddhist Boards, by Charles Carreon

(Sing to a mambo beat, with marimba accompaniment)

On Buddhist Boards so happy-o
No nasty words no nasty-o
I've got a lot of Dharma to say
Will have to save it for a nother day

Oh Buddhist Boards so nasty no
We never have dissension-o
All people happy, all day long
Singing old Bernardo's song

On Buddhist Boards we posting-o
Say nothing much that you don't know
Sometimes so dull I fall asleep
On keyboard drooling at Bernardo's feet

Oh Buddhist Boards I love you so
Say nothing funny or crude you know
Free to say anything you want
As long as it isn't a nasty taunt

On Buddhist Boards the truth won't show
It's white on white the color of snow
Build up a snowman with a carrot nose
And when Bernardo has to sneeze it snows

On Buddhist Boards all Buddhist know
Can't learn nothing, but that's how it go
Nothing ventured nothing restrained
Now I see Bernardo pop a vein

On Buddhist Boards!
He pop a vein!
On Buddhist Boards!
He go insane!
On Buddhist Boards!
Dancing the tango!
On Buddhist Boards!
Juggling the mango!
On Buddhist Boards!
Eating the whole Papaya!

(This poem is really about Juan C. Aragon, creator of Buddhistboards.com, who operated under the false name of Bernardo Aragon during 2002-2003. Apologies to the true Bernardo Aragon, who probably is guilty of nothing more than knowing Juan.)
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:19 pm

One View of History, by Charles Carreon

In the age of the salad bar,
There were no real men
Or women, because canned garbanzos and
Plastic cutlery
Made identity irrelevant.

In the age of bottled fruit juice coolers
And yogurt bars,
There arose titanic palaces
Crammed with ambrosia,
Ornamented with water fountains,
And fragrant with a rich
Dairy-fruit scent

In the age of chocolate
Covered marshmallow cookies,
Great migrations were triggered
That in turn spawned
Cultural intermixtures
The repercussions of which
Are not yet fully understood.

In the sober era of canned pineapple,
As we all know,
Great solemnity prevails,
As we await the return
Of our children, decked with garlands,
Wearing saturnalian smiles,
From the place the heroes took them
Long ago.
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:21 pm

Ordinary World, by Charles Carreon

We are the ordinary color people,
the faded clothing, the old car people,
We are the wood-stacked-by-the-fire people,
The sun-shining-on-the-bare-rocks people.
We are the just day by day people,
No wealth, no future, no claims to fame.
We are the don't-mind-being-forgotten people,
The wind in the abandoned orchard people.
Some people say we are a good-for-nothing people;
That is OK with me,
It is good to be for nothing.
Yes, I like to walk a rocky coast,
Listening to the sea-cave sounds.
I like to lean my head out the window,
Rolling down the hiway as the desert golds,
And I like to think -- perhaps, someday
The lights and shiny paint will fade,
And reveal an ordinary world.
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:22 pm

Panorama, by Charles Carreon

There is gold for the rising sun,
And red for the time when it sets.
Green boughs adorn the curving hills,
and blue resides in the depth of the sky.
The purest light is the heart of the sun,
and its absence the essence of night.

In the weight of the earth, nothingness --
In the nothingness of sky, endless abundance --

Mountains rise high into the air,
Water swiftly descends from a height,
Wind travels everywhere without hindrance,
And the arrows of the sun are numberless and swift.
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

SONG

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:25 pm

Paper Bag Blues, by Charles Carreon

Image

(Sing to the tune "In the Summertime (when the sun gets hot)" but a little slower.)
 
Well in the afternoon,
When the sun gets hot,
And the shadows don't move in the parking lot,
You bring a paper bag
With a bottle o' wine--
We just sippin', bullshitin' an passin' time.
 
Well if ya just sit still
You can chill yourself
As cool as sweet wine
On refrigerator shelf;
You can rest your bones
And relax your mind,
You can have the kind o' pleasure
Even kings don't find.
 
Well as the bottle gets low,
Gotta sip it slow,
And as your bones get loose
We'll sing some paper bag blues--
We'll sing some paper bag blues--
You'll be swayin' and singin'--
Singin' paper bag blues.
 
Well you gone home,
And you left me alone
Nobody gonna call on the telephone
The shadows creep,
And they lay down flat
Right on the cat
And the kitchen mat.
There ain't nobody comin';
I got noplace to go,
And I finished up the last
Of the Oreos.
I got the paper bag blues--
I got the paper bag blues--
I'm gonna lay down in the kitchen,
And sing the paper bag blues.
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:26 pm

Path of the Waning Day, by Charles Carreon

The Voice of the Heart
Leads through a jungle.
Sitting in a boat,
Steering with an oar through turning currents.
The waters twist through winding courses;
I follow the path of the swirls.
You cannot see the sky,
Only green light sifting through the leaves,
A glimpse of blue,
The sun like a jewel flashing high in the vines.
I am a young traveler;
It takes youth to travel this path,
It takes suppleness to follow the currents,
Endurance to keep on without clear means.
In the jungle of the heart there is still threat,
There is danger for the traveler, and fear.
The waters comfort.
The waters console.
I follow their twisting winding,
Through the trees, old as crumbling castles,
That murmur with the Voice of the Heart.
I follow the stream, that never loses its way,
I follow the paths of the waning day,
And leave no tracks behind me.
I follow, and the sound of the waters is with me.
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:28 pm

Pat Robertson for President, by Charles Carreon

Image

i give thanx for the message of hate
that tells me I'm not too late
to get a hotdog and a straw boater hat
and a ginger beer and barbecued rib
'cause i like the cut of his jib
i'm gonna vote for that guy!
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:34 pm

Pig Party, by Charles Carreon

Well we're having a pig party
2-Nite,
Empty the ashtrays
And put the chairs upright

Then lets
Get down
At the Plushie-Tushie Palace
Do a job
Blow outta here 4 Dallas

On the nod
Like to make it home for supper
Doin drugs
Feelin skewered thru the scupper

But when we
Get down
At the Plushie-Tushie Palace
We can raise
Some holy hell between us

Back at home
And I'm feelin kinda nervous
On the phone
Twitchin' like a demon

I wish they'd come
To the Plushie-Tushie Palace
Then they would
Not ever have to tell us

Wouldn't have to
Ever ever tell us
Treat us just
Like ordinary fellas
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:39 pm

Pistolero, by Charles Carreon

Alacran Y Pistolero

[Regarding the writing of Pistolero ... Once upon a time when I lived in a yurt in the middle of a meadow with two children and a beautiful young wife, we had a neighbor who was a handsome, crusty fellow with an Eastern-European accent, and a cheerfully brusque manner of friendship. His name was Walter Von Finck, and he had run a commune of sorts, gathering fellow-travelers, and their labors, for the great mission of redeeming mankind. Or somesuch. He had made us a part of his grand collective exercise in the summer of 1978, esconcing us in the house called the Big House then, the Mouse House now that Buddhists run it. Tells you something, eh? But after one summer, during which Tara swelled up with Maria (not depicted above) and we moved into Medford to be near our midwife, we knew we couldn't do Walter's trip. As numerous other people felt the same way, Walter's commune, Rainbow Star, eventually ran out of communal steam. But we still liked living out there at Rainbow Star. We moved onto the property owned by Walter's divorced wife Chris, one of the former original Rainbow Starians, and built our yurt right across the meadow from Walter's little shanty-palace, where Dr. Shandor Weiss now lives under the watchful eye of Vajrasattva. When we convinced Chris to rent a place on her land to build a yurt, it was quite a coup. And a lifesafer, because we were so poor we couldn't actually afford rent on a single-family house in Ashland (shit -- now you couldn't rent that house for less than $1,500 a month -- but $275 was too much for us then). It was a distinct weird coup of ours, and for a long time we didn't really talk that much with Walter, though he was our neighbor. But one day he came up the road with a bag of coffee. That's when we all starting drinking the speedy bean. None too soon, I'm sure. Gave us some motivation. But Walter stayed pretty crusty, even when he was friendly. He was always criticizing the choice of our house location, telling us we were spiritually blind for not realizing "what was going to be built there." Well, nothing was ever built there after we tore our yurt down, but that's another story.

Back in the time I'm talking about, Walter and we had become good neighbors. After the quiet that ensued when we effectively seceded from his commune and nailed down a homestead outside of his autocratic influence, a warmth based on mutual respect arose.

So one night he came over and said that we should come over and watch The Magnificent Seven, with Yul Brenner, Ernest Borgnine, and lots of other big stars. It was showing on TV, and he was going to fire up the generator and we could watch it all together. Man, was that exciting.

Our kids never saw TV, and I mean never. They rarely saw electric light. We cooked and read by kerosene light or propane lamps, after the first year of living in neolithic obscurity. Our stove was so small it had been yanked out of a tiny travel trailer. I was snooping around a hermitage up in the hills built secretly on a monk's land earlier this year by an expatriate Australian, and sho' 'nuff there was our old stove. Still crankin' out the meals. At any rate, it was good times.

We weren't quite as backwoods as the folks in that Close To Eden movie, but it was as close as city kids were likely to get. So on that night, we went over to Walter's place and watched the hell out of this old Western classic, while the generator thundered away on Walter's mud porch. Heavy feng-shui coming over to Walters, with a four-stroke generator pounding away in the entry area.

Well the next day I had a fever in my brain. All that western gunfighting action had roiled my neurons, leaching out old stimulation programs that had been wired in my early developmental stages. A man, I realized, was at his most manly as a gunfighter. The decisive image of the showdown in the plaza. A bullfight where each participant is both bull and bullfighter. The duel, made mechanically swift. Two face off. Only one survives. No equivocation, no ambiguity, no uncertainty. One winner. One dead guy. Ain't no question who the ladies are gonna go for.]


Pistolero, go away.
I've been kept awake all night by you
and your friends
Clinking glasses, smoking, gambling
All night in my kitchen.
 
Pistolero, I remember you
At high noon
In the main street,
Standing with a wide stance on
tapered legs
in pointed boots,
Your gun-hand loose and poised
over a low-slung holster
Hanging heavy with iron.
 
You and your revolver --
You squeeze the trigger
and the hammer slams down
On a forty-four center-fire cartridge:
The crash of exploding gunpowder.
Smoke drifts
from the muzzle of your pistol and
Your enemy's laid out cold.
 
You repeat this action again and again
in a false-front Western town.
You practice on old whisky bottles
perched on a fence, and
The flying shards delight us,
Seeming to explode of themselves,
Balanced on that slender rail.
 
A wild magic you wield
in a gunfight you turn, wheel,
Blast them from an awkward angle,
Run, dive, roll, take aim and
shoot again.
You make a mess of little towns,
whether you're a good or bad guy
You're always shooting up
saloons and hotels,
Smashing out windows,
breaking down doors,
Crashing through railings,
allowing furniture to be splintered
Apart on your head --
 
Pistolero, gunslinger,
we've fallen in love with your
kind of justice.
We shed no tears for bad guys
Who disturb the peace of
innocent townspeople
Who destroyed the buffalo?
Who annihilated the Navajo?
Who are all cut from the same
Whole cloth of pure white goodness
Which is never stained by the blood
of ruffians,
Or torn by the anguish of whores,
Or disturbed by the stuporous stares
of alcoholic Indians, leaning
against railings that do not break,
Falling heavily through glass that
shatters without drama,
Collapsing at noon in the boring dust
of a real street in a town
Where Wyatt Earp checked out
of his hotel an inconceivably
long time ago.
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:57 pm

Plan "B", by Charles Carreon

Nothing's quite so sure
as this, the moment when
something's gone amiss . . .
It's creativity then
must intermit, at the
pleading of necessity,
to show us how to make the
best of it.
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 18498
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

PreviousNext

Return to Belles Lettres

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest