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| Click BLOG and discuss anything you like. The Senescent Sun is a senior site written by and for people over fifty. There are no fees or dues. The propaganda professionals now control most literature, mass media and the arts. If you are happy with these spin doctors, then we wish you the best. If not, join us as we try to ferret facts and find truth then express it in an interesting way--tempered with the compassion and sage that should come with age. While we do not seek to be politically correct, we do not accept anything that espouses violent solutions to social ills or is anti-ethnic or malevolently racist. Still, Americans enjoy a long tradition of criticizing their leaders through parody, farce, fiction even jokes or personal anecdotes. I would rather listen to, and share with, folks over fifty than accept the endless stream of vitriol, propaganda and rhetoric people are bombarded with by the " news media" of today. If you are interested in sharing anything from an opinion to a fictional or anecdotal story or a poem or verse or a joke or anything else with us, we hope you’ll send it to us for our enjoyment and edification. |
| Girlfriend: What’s the matter? Reporter: I asked my editor if I should put more fire in my editorials and he said, “no, vice- versa.” |
| The News Today the News is lost in spin. For who or what they want to win. They nudge a sound bite left or right to pull us in an endless fight. Our shameless press is no watchdog They’d rather keep us in a fog. They covet ratings from the fray And flames of conflict fanned for pay. They pander to their polls and peers And worry most of their careers. There’s nothing for us in their bray. The News is lost in what they say. Senescent Sun The World is Worse Without the Verse. Ancestral fish came with a tide. They brought a beat that’s deep inside. We find that beat in poetry With simple rhyme and simile. Later Australopithecus Began the march that became us. As little hairy feet bent grass Our birth beat’s borne us from the past. Good bye in Anglo Saxon tongue or fancy Gallic “au revoir” to verse poet police have sung… But I beseech you break their law. Since verse began until right now Upon pulpit, behind the plow Our simple rhymes and similes Are what we’ve loved for centuries. The world within us has not changed We like our verse neatly arranged. But now they say you should reject Our verse before it takes affect. Ignore those snobs who tell themselves The rhyme is past--best left on shelves. Open those books; meet lines of measure You’ll swim in seas of well-timed treasure. Ambiguous bards with attitudes Who think that smart, means closed and rude. They’re just a pack of pompous twits That Anglo Saxons called nit wits. Who is it thinks their poems fun? So few that do under our sun. Yet still their wrath must students fear Who write the rhymes that please the ear. Like royalty aloof and smug They’ve swept our rhymes under the rug. But as they reign each of them knows They’re kings and queens without their clothes? Just batter down their barricade And into verse begin to wade. Don’t let these academic boors Nail shut imagination’s doors. Though what’s out there is in our mind The beat is real and deep inside. We’re each a world and worlds apart. But in-our-verse we share one heart. You’ll see sea shores; squeeze bar room belles, Hear jungle drums; smell death row cells. You’re lulled until you feel within. The very pulse that they felt then. Academies will some day say The measured verse again’s okay. And open minds will then allow The poets blocked and black-balled now. Like children playing with new toys, The world will know the endless joys Of measured, rhythmic, rhyming verse That when without, our world was worse. Rick Van Weelden Simple Rhyme and Simile “Had I but world enough and time,” Attacks on rhyme would be no crime. For years we all had so much fun But now they say that rhyme’s all Donne. I like a rhyme that lulls my mind. And leads me down a lighter path, Away from life—my fading light— Where darkness looms to equal Plath. I’m not a fellow who will bellow About the hollow in his heart. Nor drum the drama, “childhood trauma!” The day I passed a classroom fart. Illegal drugs or stranger’s hugs Are not my cup of tea you see. To take me from my life’s despair It’s simple rhyme and simile. “I dwell in possibility.” That modern writers know the rules. And imagism Does eclipse The fun we had with rhyming tools. But must all poet’s dancing feet Be cast in gray and cold concrete? In “January Morning’s” pool? Must we toss every rhyming jewel? Why fault the poet’s rhythmic rhyme That gives some soul a happy time? The best of “Guest” aids brains in pain, And starts the “…stir…[of]...roots with…rain.” Like butterflies brought with the breeze and cliché rustling of the leaves. There’s beauty in simplicity like simple rhyme and simile. Rick Van Weelden A neighbor says her husband turns in his sleep so much it reminds her of an alligator tearing its prey. Sleeping with the Alligator A battery of sweat missiles mottle the bed or Burst upon her bare strawberry jam back. Streams stagger down creek beds of white skin. With clogged pores leave a film of fear and dirt. The dreaming alligator, rolls, twirls, and whirls. He tries to tear a piece of flesh from his past. Palms out, fish belly arms and claws frame eyes, Eyes shut tight that trap him inside himself. Teeth gnash; the sheet flashes, splashes in the air, Then pours over the bed and drapes their dreams With a now still, yet still rumpled, Rippled surface they can never seem to smooth over. Rick Van Weelden |
Ode to Those That Teach
The ivory tower tumbles down.
And accolades will time rescind
The moths consume the cap and gown
And all of us are “dust in wind.”
But we sail seas of here and now,
These silent seas of consciousness,
We scan horizons from our bow
While rudders score brilliant abyss.
Folks paint the planks, devour the lime,
Protect the deck and all her hands.
Still most of us will meet our time
Before the shores of promised lands.
But there are those that transcend time,
With knowledge nurtured while in bloom.
With language, math and verse and rhyme.
They often guide us from their tomb.
.
These Godly guides are souls that share,
Their map of stars to lead the way.
With chalk and ink and hearts that care,
They help us now to meet that day.
That day we have to navigate
For those we love and can’t forsake
Amongst the wreckage in some straight
Where we can’t be left in the wake.
That day our sails all find as masts
Those teachers who passed us their past.
Rick Van Weelden
The ivory tower tumbles down.
And accolades will time rescind
The moths consume the cap and gown
And all of us are “dust in wind.”
But we sail seas of here and now,
These silent seas of consciousness,
We scan horizons from our bow
While rudders score brilliant abyss.
Folks paint the planks, devour the lime,
Protect the deck and all her hands.
Still most of us will meet our time
Before the shores of promised lands.
But there are those that transcend time,
With knowledge nurtured while in bloom.
With language, math and verse and rhyme.
They often guide us from their tomb.
.
These Godly guides are souls that share,
Their map of stars to lead the way.
With chalk and ink and hearts that care,
They help us now to meet that day.
That day we have to navigate
For those we love and can’t forsake
Amongst the wreckage in some straight
Where we can’t be left in the wake.
That day our sails all find as masts
Those teachers who passed us their past.
Rick Van Weelden
War of the Worlds of Words: a casual
look at prose and poetry.
“The lumbering mechanical giant
plodded through the woods towards
Lake Michigan. The snapping of tree
trunks terrorized the already hysterical
townsfolk even before the alien
leviathan came into the clearing. As it
neared the artillery hiding in the brush
near the beach, the military men made
ready. The crowd had been cautioned
to stay still so as not to give away their
position.
But as soon as the Martian was in
sight, they began to scream and flee.
Many people ran through the sand and
entered the lake at a full run, splashing
wildly until they fell, drawing the
attention of the aliens. The turret atop
the mechanical beast turned and the air
filled with that unholy whine as the
dreaded red ray of light swept into the
green, frothy water--disintegrating
anything in its path.
Shrieks of terror abruptly stopped and
only steam rose from water that
seconds before held a thrashing young
woman.
His fury fueled by those that died.
“Fire,” a rasping sergeant cried.
ba Boom ba boom ba boom ba boom.
They fought while facing certain doom.
On and on the brave men fired the
battery of artillery into the belly of that
beast—knowing any moment the red
ray would turn their way and they
would join the ranks of those already
claimed by this mechanical horror. Still,
the Sargent ordered the platoon to hold
their position so as many townsfolk as
possible could escape during the
barrage.
That was when the whining of ray
stopped. For a moment the giant metal
tripod stood silent, then one leg bent
and the entire contraption let our a
deafening creak of metal against metal
and toppled over itself clattering and
clanging until it hit the mud with a loud
splat that rained mud upon everything
within a hundred yards!
There was silence for a time as
everyone stared at what now seemed
only a colossal heap of metal. But as
the company of soldiers gave out a
victorious cheer, the first they had
known since the aliens had attacked,
people began coming out from behind
the brush, and crawling and stumbling
out of the shallow water to the shore.
Men, women and children, faces
covered in scratches and mud or their
soaking wet clothes clinging to
shivering frames. There was limping
and bleeding, but soon they too began
cheering and some even dancing as for
the first time since it began, there was
hope for the defeat of the invaders.”
Before we begin our discussion of
prose and poetry I want to make one
thing clear. We are beginners and
intermediates; we are here to help each
other. We are not here to eviscerate
innocent human beings who have
expressed an interest prose and poetry.
I have heard unbelievably ruthless,
arrogant comments from people about
writers that they feel have not reached
their own levels of expertise—although,
I find it interesting that the more
genuinely accomplished the writer of
prose or poetry, the less he or she feels
the need to bash beginners.
Click here to continue.
look at prose and poetry.
“The lumbering mechanical giant
plodded through the woods towards
Lake Michigan. The snapping of tree
trunks terrorized the already hysterical
townsfolk even before the alien
leviathan came into the clearing. As it
neared the artillery hiding in the brush
near the beach, the military men made
ready. The crowd had been cautioned
to stay still so as not to give away their
position.
But as soon as the Martian was in
sight, they began to scream and flee.
Many people ran through the sand and
entered the lake at a full run, splashing
wildly until they fell, drawing the
attention of the aliens. The turret atop
the mechanical beast turned and the air
filled with that unholy whine as the
dreaded red ray of light swept into the
green, frothy water--disintegrating
anything in its path.
Shrieks of terror abruptly stopped and
only steam rose from water that
seconds before held a thrashing young
woman.
His fury fueled by those that died.
“Fire,” a rasping sergeant cried.
ba Boom ba boom ba boom ba boom.
They fought while facing certain doom.
On and on the brave men fired the
battery of artillery into the belly of that
beast—knowing any moment the red
ray would turn their way and they
would join the ranks of those already
claimed by this mechanical horror. Still,
the Sargent ordered the platoon to hold
their position so as many townsfolk as
possible could escape during the
barrage.
That was when the whining of ray
stopped. For a moment the giant metal
tripod stood silent, then one leg bent
and the entire contraption let our a
deafening creak of metal against metal
and toppled over itself clattering and
clanging until it hit the mud with a loud
splat that rained mud upon everything
within a hundred yards!
There was silence for a time as
everyone stared at what now seemed
only a colossal heap of metal. But as
the company of soldiers gave out a
victorious cheer, the first they had
known since the aliens had attacked,
people began coming out from behind
the brush, and crawling and stumbling
out of the shallow water to the shore.
Men, women and children, faces
covered in scratches and mud or their
soaking wet clothes clinging to
shivering frames. There was limping
and bleeding, but soon they too began
cheering and some even dancing as for
the first time since it began, there was
hope for the defeat of the invaders.”
Before we begin our discussion of
prose and poetry I want to make one
thing clear. We are beginners and
intermediates; we are here to help each
other. We are not here to eviscerate
innocent human beings who have
expressed an interest prose and poetry.
I have heard unbelievably ruthless,
arrogant comments from people about
writers that they feel have not reached
their own levels of expertise—although,
I find it interesting that the more
genuinely accomplished the writer of
prose or poetry, the less he or she feels
the need to bash beginners.
Click here to continue.
Political Snakes
They slither through, the city streets.
Their long thin tongues are slit in two.
Each tells a tale to those it meets.
So long as there’s a camera crew.
The socialistic snake just lies and slides
Around. and flicks its fork into
The lazy breeze. “I feel your fears;
I’ll dry your tears; I’ll make you
safe.”says she.
The capitalist snake stares in your eyes
To see if seeds of greed will grow.
A spouse, a house, a car can be
your prize
Your stocks your friends; poor
folks your foe.
The academic communistic snakes
Subvert our homes to make us weak.
In campus nestss they coil to strike
While masquerading as the meek.
“Listen,” say snakes in golden Churches
Or be cast in the burning lake.
They perch in trees as white as birches
But color can not change a snake.
These snakes that drop from trees above
Prey on our fears and hearts desires
Ensnare us all with words of love
Or scare us all with bricks and fires.
We worship truth here on the ground.
Its heels can crush the hissing snakes.
It’s in our souls that truth is found
We’re not the tools of fools and fakes.
So snakes you leave your lies behind.
Leave truth alone to rule mankind.
Rick Van Weelden
.
.
They slither through, the city streets.
Their long thin tongues are slit in two.
Each tells a tale to those it meets.
So long as there’s a camera crew.
The socialistic snake just lies and slides
Around. and flicks its fork into
The lazy breeze. “I feel your fears;
I’ll dry your tears; I’ll make you
safe.”says she.
The capitalist snake stares in your eyes
To see if seeds of greed will grow.
A spouse, a house, a car can be
your prize
Your stocks your friends; poor
folks your foe.
The academic communistic snakes
Subvert our homes to make us weak.
In campus nestss they coil to strike
While masquerading as the meek.
“Listen,” say snakes in golden Churches
Or be cast in the burning lake.
They perch in trees as white as birches
But color can not change a snake.
These snakes that drop from trees above
Prey on our fears and hearts desires
Ensnare us all with words of love
Or scare us all with bricks and fires.
We worship truth here on the ground.
Its heels can crush the hissing snakes.
It’s in our souls that truth is found
We’re not the tools of fools and fakes.
So snakes you leave your lies behind.
Leave truth alone to rule mankind.
Rick Van Weelden
.
.