New Poetry

Untitled (The River Runs Yellow, August 2015)

The River ran Yellow in Colorado
When the river ran yellow past
The outfitter’s shack, kayaks lined up
Colorful, in Back
They could smell it coming first
Loaded with silt and clouds of poison
A heavy-hearted river full of sighs
Something rotten in the Animas
And coming downstream fast
The rainbow trout winking out like stars at dawn
And all the apocolyptic chemistry
Cascading and assailing invisibilia,
The magic microscopic lego-like pieces upon which
Everything is built
Begins a domino affect
A yellow light means caution, a warning
But Gold is King
So we careen through our intersection
With the world
Like a drunken teen in someone else’s car
Will we beat the light this time,
Or be hit by natural consequences?
Brace yourselves for impact

Untitled (August 2015)

Me, I’m Not
You , my friend, are a winner!
Ding, ding, ding
Happy happenstance in the living lottery
Genetically consistent maybe
Or just expected features
Yes, save that ticket, and no regrets
Watch local programming to see if
Circumstance graces your appropriate presentation,
and properly apportioned face
With its geranium kiss
At home in the temple of the soul
In fellowship, a member
Of the congregation at last
But me, I’m not
I’m just the beggar on the outside steps
Making everyone uncomfortable
So drop a coin in my bowl and meet my eye (I)
As you pass by
(and I do not)

Painting and Poetry – Trophallaxis

“We have fed you all for a thousand years,Illustration - bees
And you hail us still unfed…” these
Stark words of the old Wobbly song
Still time enough now, a hundred years on.
But more so, for millennia more (now)
The tiny, winged workers diligently toil in field
And orchards, bring our good to fruit, fill tables
With all good things that grow, they serve
Like saints, suffer like martyrs and
Share like good anarchists do, or could,
This bond of food, of plenty, forges
Our connection across species and makes the
Gathering of tribes a glad thing.
Leave it to the Greeks! Those feisty defiers
Of Capital’s call to fall in line,
To debt and submission – not they!
But, they have named the bond of bees, who
Share knowledge and community with food,
Trophallaxis, from mouth to mouth, a kiss.
So we can also feed each other, as gardens
Grow, we will grow again,



No disrespect to Detroit’s brilliant,
Beleaguered, and recently drug-martyred poet –
But Gil Scott-Heron was wrong, wrong, wrong.
The revolution Has been televised
And trivialized,
Made almost antiseptic, it’s apocalyptic attempts
Co-opted, contained and commoditized.
Now showing, an exhibit at the MOMA,
A thrilling documentary about
Just plain folks in far away places, maybe,
Coveting our conventional “democracy”
Surely these young people in tents knew that
Last year.
Not far away, but here,
They are serving Ben and Jerry’s,
And endlessly updating their Facebook pages,
Considering the subjugation of women and discussing brands..
Where are the anarchists, now,
As billions change hands and borders flex,
And bodies go to ground (blood being the most productive crop this year)
The shadow of Theocracy
darkens, sinister, solidifies
And creeps into the catbird seat,
Directing an international conversion event

That had naught to do with God

Well-documented and almost unseen.
Whose revolution has this been,


Sometimes when the paper holds a ghost
before the colors touch the page,
and shadows rise to the surface
of collective conscience,
and apparition fast-appearing
like Venus rising in the foam or,
Athena’s agile form
Sword-swinging a surprise entrance on Olympus,
compelling an attention, and
Intention forms, flows, suggests,
Knowing that we
Planaria Imperious
armed with thumbs
and our species’ strange mythology of eminent domain,
Still eat images like microbes do, instinctual amoebas all.
And where dialogue has been defeated
We are still seduced by color and the body’s biophilia.
The shadows stories build an Elegy,
A Requiem for Nature
And maybe more –
A memory consumed from mind to mind direct
As planaria connect
To say in fact across the generations
Look and love the light,
The light that casts these shadows on the wall.
For ‘ love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things,
Love never fails’
To recreate the world in its own image
And force the false constructions of Tyranny’s diseased display
To collapse in dust, like Ozzymandias
And wash away like chalk in summer rain.

“Titanic” by Marie Mason


A hundred years of stories and it’s not enough
To mark a date,
They will dredge the blue depths
And spare no expense.
(not for charity, make a note
not for Sudan’s needed grain,
not Haiti’s medicine)
But gain….
And details, dollars, samples for scholars,
The self-indulgence of a gilded clock
Stopped in time upon a marble mantel
Miles below the surface of the sea
This brittle allegory,
Sepulchre nestled soft in silt
That is the living ship
And feeds on corpses so long dead
The sea reclaims, reorganizes matter
And redecorates
With stalagtites formed by flesh.
Where the disposables still lie,
Buried with the sordid empty beer cans,
The refuse of a thousand useless cruises
And the castasides who slept in lower berths….
With what callous hubris,
With what garrish decadence
Only to meet Nature sideways
And slide down.
Posted as a sign
For all of humankind
A hundred years.
And still
It is the poor who will
Perish down below in each disaster –
While those riding high above them,
Will carry only those that love them
As they fly away too soon
In exquisitely appointed
Headed for Newt’s
Cities on the Moon.

Entropy- A poem by Marie Mason

What do you see
In this Winter face?
The imminent decomposition of the unbeautiful?
Even so, even in that
I see that all my pieces
Have their own story.
My hands have worked a brand of
That is much more sociology than
My body has bourne children
Who fly away from me
In becoming of themselves.
This body burned and burning,
Flies apart in exothermic birthing,
Molds again in endothermic coupling,
Touches ground and stretches to the sky,
Dissipating heat.
My hands move across the page
With words this time,
The taste, the sound of them
Drips, mists, rains in torrents,
Common-tongued as a storm on a street corner;
Cursed and shared and necessary.
Fingers pushing colors from my eyes into images that speak,
Or pulling the taut metallic strings of a guitar,
And waves flowing between notes
Falling from my lips
Join with the air,
Steam rising, molecules
Dispersed to dance,
Becoming something new,
Somewhere else,

Marie Mason Poem for Nicaraguan Workers

Sugar cane workers are subjected to hazardous conditions in the Isle of Windows.Marie wrote this poem after hearing a story about workers becoming ill in Nicaragua from working on  rubber tree and sugar cane plantations.

The Isle of Widows, Nicaragua
The heat rises, steam
With the breath of trees,
Into the air
Haunted eyes speak
Their questions of a mystery
The men of science come to study
This embarassing plague
This withering away
That leaves the widows wondering.
What is the science of oppression? Continue reading