Teabagging

Where was the outrage when the

Tea Party teabaggers armed themselves with

guns and knives, racism and oppression?

Why did the powers that be not

protect me from violent minded

hate mongers who want to

deny my children basic health care while

I struggle to provide a decent meal

every evening because their

trickle down economics has

showered urine and feces on

my earning power?

How are sad, desperate, dirty,

homeless people a threat to
armored suit wearing power

elites in the glass steel ivory towers

conservatively arrayed in Fox News

reality distortion deflector fields?

When the teabaggers compared our

President to a rabid monkey, which

mayor sent in the troops?

Why was the gun-toting teabagger who

stalked the President as he valiantly

worked to fulfill an honest campaign

promise not pepper sprayed?

Tell me Fox News,

tell me Mr. Mayor,

tell me phalanx of

faceless police troopers.

You obviously don’t trust me to think for myself.

The Crackdown

Yes! Crackdown on the Occupy movement.

Crackdown on democracy.

Crackdown on the Constitution.

Crackdown on freedom of speech and

freedom of assembly.  All hail the

National Socialist Republic of Oakland, and

kneel down before the Theocratic Republic of

Denver.  Open fire with

rubber bullets and tear gas and

batons of wood and steel.  Gear up

police state.  Don your kevlar armor,

black plastic shields and helmets, and

gas masks.

Those sad, pathetic, harmless

homeless people are

dying in those flea infested

Bushville camps, so let’s

finish the job and

kill them all!

They have not had the

courtesy to OD fast enough in

hopeless desperation, so

something has to be done to

speed up the process.

Send in the troops,

beat and slash,

pepper spray them as they

crouch in well deserved fear.

They obviously represent a

clear and present danger to

the status quo of

unfairness, hoardful greed, and the

gleeful apathy of the

supreme ruling class.

Clean up this mess

Mayors of the Apocalypse.

Don’t you know Dancing with the Stars is on tonight?

A post-mortem on the haiku-a-day challenge

I gave myself a challenge to write at least one haiku per day for the first thirty days of North Station, and that has come to a close.  Overall, I feel this has been a successful exercise, since I did write thirty new, original haiku over the last month.    The fact that I had to write pretty much every day forced me to carry a notebook with me every day, which gave me a place to jot down my thoughts as they came to me without having to hope I would remember long enough until I got home.  This led to me producing more new poems in a month than I had in the preceding year, as well as working on several short stories, both new and old unfinished ideas.  I have found this to be an artistically fulfilling experience.

I have also been incredibly pleased with the number of strangers who have visited my blog.  In addition to the traffic I have gotten through the incredibly talented Robin Samiljan’s Fine Art by Robin blog, I have also seen dozens of visitors from Russia, Europe, and around the world.  The biggest surprise for me has been how few people have left comments.  In almost of month of posting and closing in on forty posts, I have only received two comments, one of which was from a friend.

I am committed to continuing this blog as a place for me to share and experiment.  I currently have three poems that are nearing completion, at which point I will post them to North Station.  I also look forward to hearing constructive criticism and comments from friend and stranger alike.  The best place to keep track of when I post something new is to follow me on Twitter at @jasonbreitkopf.  Thanks!

Stuck

A glimpse of green, a
Cool breeze, unfelt, rustles past
Outside my window

My journal

Page after page of
Scribbled notes, vague thoughts, poems
Yet to be written

My father, WWII veteran

A faded picture
Of a man tall and handsome
His smile confident

The full moon

Through bare and twisted
Branches, the pale, glowing orb
Shines down ghostly light

A leaf in November

Trapped halfway between
The cool relief of summer
And the final plunge

Horse

Powerful shoulders
Thick legs, strong back, streamlined head
Potential energy

The rock wall

The labor of a
Dozen generations still
Stands the test of time

Horse pen at Endicott Park

Horse and pony each
Silently contemplated
The little girl's song

Thoughts on Death

I don’t like poems about

death.  There is nothing

special about death.  It is

merely an ending.  Every

story has an end.  It is

the story itself which matters.

Life matters.  How you

love it, what you do with it.  How many

lives you affect.  Too many

poets waste words

glorifying death, romanticizing death, worshipping death,

yet ignoring life.

Death can be

mundane, falling asleep for the last time in your warm bed

after a long lifetime, loved ones surrounding you, or

alone in a hospital bed with the beep beep

beeping its long banshee wail.  Death can be

heroic, sacrificing life to save others.  Death can be

tragic, a child lost before her time, or a

genius eaten from the inside by cancer.  Death can be

sad, an old friend who has gone before you had that

one last chance to catch up.

Then there is the death

pathetic, wasteful, and useless.

Suicide and drug overdose both are an

insult to every person whose life was

cut short, whether by

illness, injury, or violence, who strove to

beat back death for

one last lost moment with

the loves of their lives.  Neither

suicide nor drug overdose is

romantic or glamorous despite all the

wet ink spilled in a hurried rush to

immortalize a fool who chose to

tread the undiscovered country like a

holiday spent wandering the

amusement park complaining about

the long lines for all the rides.

I have no interest in death, though

I know that one day

the final word of the the final sentence in

the final paragraph on the final page of

the final chapter of my life story will be written.

I love life.

I love music and poetry.

I love watching a great movie in a crowded theatre and

reading a good book at home alone in the quiet of a winter’s day.

I love in running in broken-in sneakers on a warm, bright

spring morning and walking leisurely through

fire colored leaves along a shady trail on a

cool, crisp autumn afternoon.

I love meeting new people and

catching up with old friends.

I love a good game of baseball, especially when my team wins, and

I love playing a really long game of cards with my wife.

I love sex, singing, and a good joke.

I love my children, and look forward to meeting my grandchildren in twenty years.

There needs to be more poetry about

life, and less about death.

Everyone dies.  Not everyone lives.

As told in Eeyore's voice

How many Eeyore's
Does it take to screw in a
Lightbulb? Why bother

Thanksgiving

Sumptuous repast
Warm family gathering
Please, let's not argue

North Station "Train Schedule"

During the haiku-a-day challenge, readers of North Station can be fairly certain that I will post something each day.  As we reach the “home stretch” of the challenge, now in its final ten days of a thirty day challenge, it occurred to me that readers might want a way to find out about new posts without having to guess & check.  Luckily, some enterprising fellows created a no-cost, low-effort method of keeping up with friends, celebrities, and your favorite writing blog(s).  Enter Twitter.  A sure-fire way to keep up with my blog, in addition to following me here if you already have a Google and/or Blogger account, is to follow me on Twitter at @jasonbreitkopf for regular updates and notifications on when I post a new poem, short story, or blog post.  As always, I welcome your comments here at North Station.  Thanks!

Summer longing

There is nothing more
Sad than a swimming pool closed
For the long winter

Sherman the Cat

Cautious explorer
Eager to play, do not touch
Squeaks to ask for food

Red-tailed Hawk

Piercing eyes searching
Silent serious stillness
Sudden flight swoops past

Autumn

Golden afternoon
Warm light infusing cool air
With crisp sharp flavor

The first flurry

Snowy dust clings to
The earth in desperation
Autumn sun too warm