Archive for September, 2013

Easter Island Sculpture

running headless,

a body parts ways only

through force of will

 

as my head

puckers for grandiose

acts of conscience

before speaking

 

for or against

that righteous cause

or this perceived injustice

 

while the body rolls

down hills that sport

Easter Island sculptures

 

eyeless to the brilliant

Sun relaxing

behind the waves

 

until my body

is buried

and my head

is asleep to

 

ideas and dreams,

 

finally,

free.

by

Rod C. Stryker

This is a recent piece. Hope you like it.

Dancing for the Muse Final

art photograph by Rod C. Stryker

she waltzes through

a change-up phrase,

deep-seated metaphor,

some cliche’d sentiment,

each night

she sings hieroglyphics

born of indigestion

and anxiety

until slumber’s lake

is still, calm,

at first light,

she courts

as lover, enemy,

bares sinner and savior

w/both shoulders,

a sacrifice to memory,

every poem

she bleeds

I gain..   me

by

Rod C. Stryker

The poem and the art photograph were published in my book, Lucid Affairs. Hope you like it. 

If you’re interested in getting a copy, click here: https://squareup.com/market/sun-arts-press

rio grande

photo by David Lund

The crop duster

sprinkles loving

bug-chemicals,

confusing me,

losing me among

small towns (Pleasanton)

and officers

w/lips

burned beyond recognition,

awarding me w/a ticket for

my troubles,

I see the charred

slivers of flesh peel away

from yellowed teeth

that ask me:

 “-where ya comin’ from?

-where ya goin’?

-is this your car?”

 I doggedly trail

my bug duster

through

more backwards hamlets,

searching feverishly along

roads that stretch

scrub brush and sage bush

from blue-haze

horizon

to cloud-covered

sunset.

 

Duster lets me finally

discover my

McAllen connection,

Joey, Tina and I break bread

and inhale American Standard coffee

by palm trees

and a bookstore

discussing wayward poets,

Joey’s Review

and Tina’s Dilemma.

 

Afterward,

I check into

a motel that has

aged and echoed

since ’59

w/senior citizens

who scowl at foreigners;

a classy joint.

The clerk

asks in the usual

anal retentive sneer:          

“-how many nights?

-who will be joining you?

-do you own a CAR?”

I sleep w/sweaty dreams

of bug-juice

and charred lips

waking in a rush

to take my leave

of Valley life.

 

I pick up the smell

of bug-poison once again

and border patrol agents

promptly pull me over,

one w/cheeks

scarred and pock-marked

like a road map, eyes glazed

from the heat asks:

“-where ya comin’ from?

¿Habla espanol?

-where ya goin’?

-IS THIS YOUR CAR?”

And I’m not surprised

Senor Pock-mark

let the anglo family

pass,

as they drive their probable drug-filled

truck to more of America’s youth

while I wait patiently

for the drug-sniffing dog

to thoroughly

inspect my car,

finally giving his special

yellow-tinted seal of approval.

 

I get wise to her and ditch

my bug-dusting nemesis,

kiss the goddess, San Antonio,

And finally admit: “YES, IT IS MY CAR!”

by

Rod C. Stryker

This poem was originally published in my book, Exploits of a Sun Poet. The short film for the poem (see link above) was produced by PrimaDonna Productions.

Coyote and Grizzly Bear

Grizzly Bear photo by Ricardo Reitmeyer

Favored by

close ties

to

animal gods,

I plod

through the

peat-bogs,

enjoy

the fog somewhat

reminiscent

of roasting intelligence.

 

I trip into

paradise

once foretold by

prophets and paupers

but return to

the river of bees

honey and stings

embracing me,

slosh

towards the forest of lies

where

bears and coyotes

debate the finer points

of screaming salmon and

bitter partisan politics.

 

Once my swollen

carcass

lands the shore,

I stumble

for city lights

winking seductively,

as they tease and tempt

all us honey-swollen

animals

to our corruption.

 

by Rod C. Stryker

This poem was published in my book, Exploits of a Sun Poet. Hope you like it.

Apple by Rudra Mandal

photo by Rudra Mandal

 

That

I want you

makes me race

to rip my

clothes off,

but slowly…

trade my work clothes

for my birthday

overalls,

entice you

to flaunt your

Sunday best

if Sundays were

for nudists,

grab an apple

as I chase you

in glee

and bare skin

through

bewildered crowds

of oak trees

and

conservative pastors,

assume

treasonous attitudes

and cavort

w/peace-lovers

from the train track’s

other side,

patently enjoying

our uninhibited selves.

Yes,

that I want

you makes me…            Free.

by

Rod C. Stryker

A more recent piece. Hope you like it.

Artwork by Dmitriy DenysovArtwork by Dmitriy Denysov

Decadent lifestyles of

the miffed and heinous

take center stage

with bells and chimes

      a-ringin’.

      Singin’ the blues

 in textured pastels,

they descend to greater

feats of misery

   and mayhem.

Pay them their due

    or suffer

   the likes of a

World Trade Center massacre

    or a despot-led riot.

And quiet the whispers

   of the love and peace

      we crave

      so we remain sane

  in our depths of depression.

 

by

Rod C. Stryker

An older poem. Hope you like it.

Overcome

The Palestinian woman

       in her black

     hijab walks alone.

 Her mind and heart

       longing for her Jewish

  lover and consort.

       Soon

       she’ll walk beside him

       in the open air,

hijab discarded,

   dreams unfolding.

  But her family suspects

    and his government

   disapproves.

    For the blood

       runs free and long in

       years past.

    Their love is strong, but

will it survive the wars

of God and Allah?

 

by

Rod C. Stryker

An older piece. Kinda speaks for itself. Hope you like it.