Change. We want change. A hundred thousand poets for change want change. We started wanting change nine years ago. Nothing much has changed since then, Certainly not by us poets Certainly not by our poems. What is change anyway? First off, I’ll tell you what change is not: It’s not the change you leave for the waitress, It’s not even something we all agree about, And it’s not anything specific. We just want change. Now, I’ll tell you what change is: It’s something that starts off with one or two good people And ends up with just about everyone in the world; It’s something that lassoes your imagination and your heart; And it’s so specific that you know exactly what to do. There’s no right or good time for change. The time for change is now. No one will do it for us. Only we can do it. If we can’t do it, Then it has to be me; Otherwise, we’re just A hundred thousand cicadas Making noise in a forest. June 20, 2020
Do the skies above your country stop at our borders? Are the skies above our country afraid to enter yours? Do the rivers flowing through your land dry up at our borders? Do our borders refuse admittance to your rivers? Is the wild grass at the edges of your fields reluctant To spread over the edges of our fields? Do the grasshoppers on your side decide against Hopping over our imaginary lines into our Breeze nudged grasses or having hopped Decide not to hop back home? It seems there’s something in our natures That disdains our borders and boundaries Despite our worst intentions. July 28, 2020
Pity the mildewed magician Who knows there’s no magic And all is just slight-of-hand Which gets slightly slower As he gets older As does the blonde he saws in half To dwindling applause, And who knows the sound of a One-person audience clapping. Pity the flim-flam snake-oil salesman Standing on his teetering soapbox In front of a crowd of toothless bumpkins And a pre-paid confederate in a wheelchair. He knows his medicine’s no good And his confederate isn’t crippled, But he’d take a swig of kick-a-poo juice, Stand up from his wheelchair, And walk tall for all to see. He knows he’d better get going Before the suckers realize They’ve been suckered again. Pity the poor politician Alone on the stage Sweating under thick makeup And squinting at a teleprompter. He alone knows his promises are lies His answers are as substantive As cotton candy at a carnival, He hasn’t a clue what to do, His supporters will eventually Turn on him when they finally wake up, His opponents see through him, And his friends will desert him As soon as their whims change. August 7, 2020
©2020 Mike Stone
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Mike Stone was born in Columbus Ohio, USA, in 1947. He lived in San Diego and Chicago. Mike played clarinet and saxophone in his high school marching band, dance band, and concert band. He also composed music. He started out with a Fine Arts major but then graduated from Ohio State University with a BA in Psychology. He served in both the US Army (stationed in Germany) and the Israeli Defense Forces. Mike has traveled throughout Europe and to several Arab countries.
Mike has been writing poetry since he was a student at OSU. He has published four books of poetry (The Uncollected Works, Yet another Book of Poetry, Bemused, and Call of the Whippoorwill), a book of essays, and four science fiction novels (The Tin Man, The Rats and the Saps, Whirlpool, and Out of Time). Mike is currently working on his fifth book of poetry (The Hoopoe’s Call) and a fifth science fiction novel (H4N5-2080). He supported his writing habit by working as a computer programmer, specializing in information security.
Mike speaks English and Hebrew, as well as a smattering of Spanish, German, Russian, and a bit of Arabic. He also speaks several computer languages fluently. Now he is retired. Mike moved to Israel in 1978 and lives in Raanana. He is married and has three sons and seven precious grandchildren.
Check out his blog. You can read his latest poetry, short stories, and essays, while they are works in progress. Mike also has an Amazon author’s page.