Modern Savior

I visualize Jesus

in the world today.

A great PR man

losing his way

to all the complexities

befalling every man.

Too busy working
to ever take a stand

as the second coming

remains just a myth.

Ignoring the promise,

allowing us to drift

between what’s right

and so, so wrong.

Eyes looking upward,

ears hearing the song

of another siren

in the distant night.

Another scene unfolds,

another horrific sight

and he at a computer

deciding work or play.

This time he thinks,

‘I’ll do it their way‘.

poem and artwork by Dave Holloway

‘Tis the Season

December must be

the month of lies.

Jobless rates down.

A fat man flies.

Gifts abound

and no one cries.

Sales sky rocket

and everyone buys.

Smiles on every face.

Jingles in the air.

The idol shines bright

and none will dare

tell the truth

about ribbons and bows

turning to nooses

when a cold wind blows

in January.

We the People

are like flies buzzing

around the zombie corpse

of the Corporate Reich

that feasts on the flesh

of every sacred right

and swats without effort

the flies that might

demand a fair share.

* * * * * 

Black Friday reveals the real 99%

who are servants to the beast that devours them.

The Real World

The perfect end

for the rallying kind.

Leather boots

and stars that shine

on frightened faces

in the dead of night.

Batons in motion,

canisters that might

bring into focus

who’s wrong and right.

Sponsored in full

by the Corporate Reich.

Winter Skies

Red, white and blue

and a thousand lies

hang limp against

the winter skies.

Defeat redefined

as a compromise.

The children rally.

An old man sighs.

The dead turn over.

A mother cries.

Disappointments fill

the winter skies.


I wrote this last winter and it seems more relevant this winter.


Leading Indicators 

Brokers and bookies,
together they are bound.
Fortunes are being made
in the great up and down.


Humanity Lost

I wonder what was replaced
when commercialism filled
every aspect of our life’s
with it’s diversity and insistence
we become
what it say’s we are.

The Horror 

Who knows what horrors

slither and slice

through the mental realms 

in anyone’s life.

Haunting recollections

of bleedings galore

and painful regressions

into images of gore.

Compelling obsessions

in projects and text.

Wide eyed in the dark

fearing what’s next.

Heart pounding loud.

A line chopped fine.

A chance to transform

into the sublime

and overcome at last

the fear and horror within

and welcome the new

with a demented grin.

Neola fire, Utah 2007

The Evergreen 

You have seen

with no eyes

the turn of tides

a century long

and you have felt

with no skin

the soft caress

of a gentle wind

and you’ve heard

with no ears

your brothers fall

beyond trail’s end

and you have smelt

without a nose

the smoky clouds

of your own demise.

I wrote this a few weeks after surviving 

that horrendous beast.

Senior Lament

The greatest thing I’ll ever do

I probably did but forgot.

The best woman I’ll ever get

I probably already got.

The most money I’ll ever make

I probably made and spent

and the god I seek I already found,

long ago was sent.

All that remains is repetition.

The Machine

It seems progressive.

It’s like a giant machine

everybody helped start

and drove out of control

by worshipping the elite

like the gods they now are.

Politicians, billionaires

and the movie star.

Stock brokers, judges

and ball players galore.

Patriotic hero’s 

to justify every war.

Big TV’s and keyboards

we think we all need

on a great spinning gear

in sync with the greed

turning to become

what we say we are not

but the cables still tighten

on the dreams we sought

and the machine rolls on

with no end in sight.

The brakemen disappeared

like thieves in the night.

The Protester

He was hunched over his Sony laptop
and Walmart writing pad
reaching for a Marlboro cigarette
he’ll light with his Bic
and then write with one too
venomous words against corporate greed

and with his other hand he adjusts
his Nike tennis shoe
then grabs his Verizon cell phone
and orders five Pizza Hut pizzas
for his fellow protesters.

Boycott

From the corporation’s point of view the 99% is just throwing a big party
but if the 99% starts talking boycott it will get the corporation’s attention.
But of course,
who’s willing to give up all these marvelous technological wonders?


I am 99% fed up with the 99%.

We bailed them out.
They used it all up
and then charged us
a debit card fee

for that’s the way
they thank us
for our generosity

and we say,
“you’re welcome”
and go ahead and pay.


If you think a corporation is greedy then just stop buying it's product.
Duh!
When you buy the product you feed the greed.

Babies

I fathered babies 

and gave them my love, 

believing them to be 

gifts from above,

receiving in return 

wonder and awe, 

and glimpsing a heaven 

without a flaw

where purity and innocence 

blends to mesmerize 

with stunning clarity 

through big brown eyes

and luminous black pupils, 

like mirrors they shine, 

capturing without effort 

every curious mind,

answering without words 

every question we find, 

flashing ancient secrets 

like a neon sign

but mostly I remember
just changing diapers.

by Dave

Arab Spring/American Fall

Soon those cold winds
will chill the bone,
and send all the children
back to their home

and the great machine
will just go on
like it always has,
right or wrong.

by Dave Holloway 10/2011

The American Dream

It’s always too expensive

down poverty hall.

Skimping and saving

for nothing at all.

By the time we acquire

the great golden dream.

A ghetto it became

in a rich man’s scheme.

The sights we set

always fade away.

We take what they give

and never say

ENOUGH!

NO VOTE HERE!

Trapped like always

by marketed fear

making someone rich

we really can’t say.

So behind the carrot

we trot away.

by David Holloway

Published by DY Magazine  10/2010

We the People

I tossed my shame hat

high in the air

much to the grimace

of corporate despair.

People are waking up

most everywhere

tired of the giants

who pollute the air

waves with lies

and insistently declare

we follow their lead.

Worship their greed.

Buy all the crap

they say we need

while they get richer

and we slowly bleed

away.

But not today!

David Holloway   10/3/2011

This is my tribute to those who are giving voice

against corporate brainwashing and world domination.

Universal Truth

An alien spacecraft landed in the backyard

and the alien commander came out and asked

me to take him to my leader so I invited him 

in the house and showed him the TV.

He put his alien fingers on the screen and

instantly absorbed the information of a hundred

channels then turned to me and asked if I

wanted to buy a cheese and onion chopper 

with three attachments for $9.95.

That’s when I suddenly realized 

what life and the whole universe amounts to 

so I said,

“perhaps, is it dishwasher friendly?”

by Dave Holloway



I think if any supreme being ever appeared to us it would simply try to sell us
what we think we already own because that’s all we really understand.

Metamorphosis 

Long black hairs

growing out

of nose and ears.

Skin worn 

like old clothing

un-returnable

and smells

never smelt 

before

this longing to hide

or shout 

STAND BACK!

Another old fool

coming through

the transformation!

by Dave Holloway


In Kafka’s story the guy wakes up and realizes he’s turned into a bug.
In my story I wake up and realize I’ve turned into a old fool and sometimes
it seems like it happened overnight.

Hope 

I once heard it said, 

"the sea contains hope for every man."

"Well, does it?" 

I asked myself at the beach. 

"Perhaps," I said aloud 

but whispered, "a figure of speech,"

for all I see is unchanging power

changing with each new wave. 

An unyielding force 

unable to save 

the smallest of it's creatures 

in a vicious chain. 

I see a endlessness 

that drives men insane 

and that's hardly a hope 

I must conclude. 

The sea like a god 

would never include 

a pest like hope 

in it's reflective blue. 

Hope distracts 

from what's really true 

of a terrible darkness 

the deeper you go 

where a ruling void 

directs the flow, 

casting hope with debris 

upon the beach,

again I whisper, 

"a figure of speech."

by Dave Holloway

The Bum

In anything other

than a ‘dog eat dog’ world

you’d probably like me.

Instead you suspect me. 

Loathe, fear and ignore me

and say it’s what I choose

and when all is gone

you categorize  me

with others the same

 locked away   

in prisons, asylums, and

those skid row alleys

where we drink and dream

of compassion without

a logo or a dollar sign.

Rent

I guess a perpetual recovery 

sounds a lot better 

than a great perpetual suck,

being the fools that we are

wishing on a star

the rent too doesn’t go up

but if it does, oh-well,

who can we tell

and who really gives a damn?

* * * * *

Oh great!
Wall Street is up again.

Reminds me of those
Who flaunt good health
In the midst
Of the sick and dying.

* * * *


I suspect

it’s the gaunt nation
that slips into
every dreaded recession.

Emaciated, long before
the fat disappeared,
in spirit and soul.

by Dave Holloway

Adam’s Soul Mate

If he were upon her right now 

bringing them both to that needed end 

the universe itself would retract 

and the big bang would occur again.

This is the way it is between soul mates. 

New worlds created in orgasmic thrusts. 

Stars and galaxies are nothing more 

than the spewing of the cosmos 

into the great egg of nothingness. 

Sketch and poem

by Dave Holloway

A Day at the Park

You find a quiet place to park

at the park, shady and serene

and wouldn’t you know it,

some trashed out, poor man’s 

pimped out Chevy pulls in

beside you, speakers blasting

a gravelly devil-Vader sound

in full profanity absurd, making

you wonder the worms that squirm

in the drivers brain you fail to

acknowledge for who knows

what impending legalities await

such a glance.

So you drive to the other side

of the park and once again

find a shady silence till the

‘happy-for-no-reason’ crew

pulls in and loosens a half dozen

screeching toddlers who seem

to think your car is a playground

attachment so you quickly pull out, 

cautiously, and look

for another shady spot but find

none and you end up sitting 

in the quiet, blaring sun

thanking your god
for another glimpse 

into the 21st century.

by Dave Holloway

Antiquity

I lost something once

but can’t put my finger on

what it was but the 

lacking is most evident.

Some things are easy

and some things are vague.

Most things are just waiting

and never die

like fossils in stasis 

the life is in the finding

which probably sustains 

eternal interest.

by Dave Holloway

I found this drawing I did back in the early 70's of a Michelangelo statue and

saw that it fit with the poem though I don't really know how that happens.

Young Love

What’s more intriguing 

than a young girl’s infatuation?

Feelings intense, feeling’s that sing.

A young girl’s love is a beautiful thing.

But like a bird learning to fly

the temptation arises to see how high.

Never knowing what she’ll meet up there.

The eagles, hawks and all who share

the majesty and brilliance 

of the high open air.

A realm designated from the start

for the fearless, the noble 

and strong of heart.

The young girl tests her wings of love,

fluttering quickly like those of a dove.

An eagle swoops down, smooth and fast.

That adventure ends, maybe her last.

So listen well, you sweet young things.

Love is a mystery that softly sings

of a promise as vast and big as the sky

but more often than not

leaves you to cry.

True Love

The waves are pounding down below me.

The sun disappears setting the night free.

Darkness enhances campfires up and down

like glowing diamonds on a black background.

A warm wind blows into my face

coming off the sea from a distant place.

I smile to myself, contentedness surrounds me.

I ponder it’s meaning staring out at the sea.

My gaze drifts up to the distant city lights

edging the shoreline like a necklace that delights

an eternal goddess standing proud and sure

whose breath is the wind, an enticing lure.

Forgotten Love 

So, who writes poems 

for the ugly forlorn?

Eye’s radiantly dull,

skin blemished and worn.

Lips full but cankered

waiting to be kissed.

Love is the mystery

they always missed.

Blind dates forever

who never show.

A glimpse from a doorway

then off they go.

Tired clichés

about the beauty within

never made it happen

but said with a grin

and that look

they always denied.

The look of pity

by all who have lied

about this wonderful thing 

they love to call love.

Given to the beautiful

from somewhere above.

Sketch and poems by Dave Holloway

Entitlements 

Here I sit

in a windowless room

on skid row 

but I think I can live 

within my means

the work of a lifetime

has given me

with a bathroom 

down the hall.

With the inebriated 

I share

and the noise and smell

permeates the air

I breathe 

to write this stupid stuff.

by Dave Holloway

Land of the Lame

The world’s unrest

puts Americans to shame.

We, the great example

act weak and lame

when our jobs disappear

and we never have enough.

Our president bends over

and never stands tough.

Homeless lines grow.

Gas rulers rip us off.

Doctors want an arm and leg

to treat a simple cough

and we the great nation

just sit back and grin.

Give praise to revolutions.

The winners we befriend

and hope to bloody hell

it doesn’t happen here

for our couch size asses

compels little fear.

Descent

I’m of a generation

who ended a senseless war.

Reasoning was flawed

but man, we could roar!

Now of course we waddle

and squeeze thru every door.

Placidity is our reward.

We consume instead of roar

and skimp thru the day

and grumble thru the night

and only dream of a time

we knew wrong from right.

by Dave Holloway

History of the World

All leaders are plagued

by the subtle fear

they’re not as intelligent

they hope they appear

to a stupid world

that just grinds on.

Not for the rights

and not for the wrong

but for the momentum

it’s gathered to now

and no one can know

exactly how.

* * * * *

In a giant vat

six billion minds

float together

in slippery slime-

covered intent

always out of reach

despite what they think,

despite what they teach.

For minds without arms

is a stretch indeed.

A dream perhaps

is all that they need.

So lets give it a nod

and let it roll.

Momentum will gather

ever so slow

and abracadabra,

a history we know.

by Dave

The Decline

Like a cockroach

that somehow endures

a nuclear blast

we too endure

the blast of rejection

and the fallout disease

of alienation

and every now and then

crawl out from a crack

to skitter this way and that

avoiding the slap

of a leather sole demise

or the capture

of inquisitive eyes

and we still survive

wishing to fly

away from ourselves.

Fly Paper

Like fly paper
I accumulate, not only flies
but particles of discontent,
strands of regret
and bits and pieces
of self-deception
sticking to the memories
of my good intent.

by Dave Holloway

Evergreen 

You have seen

with no eyes

the turn of tides

a century long

and you have felt

with no skin

the soft caress

of a gentle wind

and you’ve heard

with no ears

your brothers fall

beyond trail’s end

and you have smelt

without a nose

the smoky clouds

of your own demise.

In the Dark

Screeching cries,

talons sink deep

the yielding flesh,

raptors reap.

Carrying screams

upon the wind,

chorus like

the two blend.

In a eerie fate

for the dying kind,

orchestrated above

by swaying pine.

A conductor’s wand

through a dark night

filled with fear

and void of light.

The Smart Thing

The winds blow through 

the hair of blasphemy,

tossing it this way and that,

while his sister heresy

plays with her toes

and hides in the shade

of a old friend who say’s,

something terrible

the wind blows in

and I think it’s a thing

called intelligence,

in which I have none

flowing through my limbs

covered in green attire

and enduring 

centuries of everything 

but the smart thing.

by Dave

Painting by Dave

1996

Fifty 

This is the last day of my forties. 

Tomorrow I'm a half a century old. 

Seems monumental in a way, 

I would of denied it if told 

I'd make it this far. 

Hell, thirty was a surprise, 

forty was unreal, 

at fifty I should be wise, 

but I'm not,

only been through so many things. 

Nothing's ever paid off and that stings. 

Never got a job to ease my later years. 

Never found a woman to calm my fears 

of a growing inadequacy

in a world that demands 

servitude to a pace 

rapidly changing where it stands.

Tomorrow I'm fifty, today I say farewell 

to the years of my youth, I lived so well, 

so evil, so wicked and yet so pure. 

Overcoming without help most every fear. 

Now almost fifty, monumental like I said, 

I died a dozen times but I'm still not dead. 

Lived in nice houses, shacks and behind jail bars. 

Made my share of money, driven nice cars, 

fathered beautiful children 

still shooting for the stars. 

Fought in a war and dabbled in the arts. 

Stood at the pulpit, broke a few hearts. 

Seen some things nobody should see 

yet still I marvel 

when the sun touches the sea.

Soon to be fifty and still can't define 

the god I saw once only a inch from my mind. 

The meaning of it all, I'm sure of this 

but just out of reach like a lover you miss, 

so close you can feel her kiss 

but when you open your eyes 

she fades into the mist,

where dreams like past years 

cease to exist.

by Dave 

(I wrote this 13 years ago)

      

Rule of Thumb 

The lesson giver, 

exasperated,

insisted we heed

the narrow way trailing

what we already learned

the hard way,

the loser’s way,

the only way 

is

there’s six billion sides

to every way

and twelve billion eyeballs

rolling.

 * * * *

I suppose

there’s an exception

to every rule

because every rule

was once an exception.

“Hey!” the furry one said,

“we don’t have to kill them”

hence,

‘Thou shalt not kill’

with exceptions of course.

Homeless Dawn

The black gives way

to ever brightening

shades of gray.

Reflections of orange,

yellow ray

off the underbelly

of a lingering storm.

Five new mosquito bites

matching the hours

of uninterrupted sleep

as the commuter traffic

grows and growls

ever so loud

and a light wind remnant

of a car rocking blow,

five hours ago

gives pause and praise

to a homeless dawn.

Parking Lot Blues

He looks at all these people

coming and going.

All with a place to go

but he, always he

like a bird in a tree

flying from one parking lot

to another.

Cops on the prowl

and somehow

he simply blends in.

Just a old man

sitting in his car

waiting for someone 

perhaps

who never shows up

and the time creeps by.

Good he'll sigh,

for he's in no hurry to die

as he waits for the night’s

dark embrace…

Requiem for a Goat

There he stood on a distant hill.

Far from the herd, alone and still.

A champion breed, noble and sure.

Separated for his response to the ageless lure

that drives a beast crazy from time to time.

Now he awaits his master’s find

yet his eyes quickly scan the area below.

An urgency directs the way to go.

Muscles respond, he finds himself free.

Strength abounds, he knows what’s to be.

The does are nervous, they seek to hide.

A buck with the does rises in pride.

He knows a battle is soon to begin.

He also knows it could be his end.

The master’s wire fence separates the two.

A small obstacle for what they must do.

The sound of crashing heads fills the air.

An obsession to kill is what they share.

The noble one realizes he’s getting no where

so he backs up the hill for one last shot.

This time he’s giving it all he’s got.

Charging like a locomotive with head cast down

he misses the buck and hits a pole in the ground.

Silence fills the night time air.

The does just graze, they don’t care.

The victor walks away, the battle is done.

He knows not why, but knows he’s won.

The champion lies dead, alone and still

with a broken neck at the bottom of the hill.

Victim of a urgency that delights in the kill.

My friend Bill raised goats and while we shot pool he told me this true story about his prize winning goat.  I was moved and inspired by the ridiculous relevancy to my own haphazard way of racing headstrong into love.

1988

Last Days

In a grand finale

almost vengeful air

the sound mind

slowly slipped away

yet a youthful gleam

shone crystal bright

through cloudy eyes

that saw too much

of a beautiful world

that grinds to dust

the wicked core

of self righteousness

still plaguing a corner

of a mind now loss

but sweetly surrendered

to a nurse’s care

and a garden view

where baby quail

pick and peck

their stomachs full.

A Mirror Script

The astronomer said,

“I don’t know what it is either

so let’s call it dark matter”.

Scene flashes to the garden

where Adam say’s to Eve,

“I don’t know what it is either

so let’s call it god”.

Leaves

Dry leaves we are

falling away

from living limb

to ride the wind

and wave alike

to parts unknown

we accumulate

in heap and pile

to rot or burn.

by Dave

Survival’s Downside

A beaver who survives

predators and modern displacement

will eventually die of starvation

for the older he grows

the more his teeth curl under

preventing him from eating

life sustaining bark.

From The Edge

It’s only in hindsight

we determine

the journey good or bad

for while it’s happening

we only survive

one way or the other.

* * * *

So give me a box

or a ball and chain.

Without one or the other

I’ll go insane.

Recently I pitched my tent on National forest land 

to live within the boundaries of a fixed income 

with no job in sight.

by Dave Holloway

America, 2011

Alone

small dreams

and less hope,

futility embraces

the weary soul

with crooked finger

points the way to go

to the barren lands

where chiefs once stood

in reverent awe

of raptors flight

relinquishing all

in a noble fight

for what can’t be owned

 still goes unsold,

a majestic creature

worth more than gold,

a fragrance divine,

rivers without end,

I stand alone

cleansed by the wind

by Dave Holloway

Do waterfalls prove the river took the wrong path
or does the river fall victim to a declining terrain?


The Bailout

The shepherd’s men

culled the flock,

one in five

and they feasted

on mutton divine,

stuffing themselves

for all was fine.

Feast after feast

the sheep soon gone.

The men panicked,

sang a woeful song.

Cried to the shepherd

give us more sheep.

He agreed and left.

The men fell asleep.

Woke the next morning

claiming a recovery.

Prided themselves

in their victory

and to celebrate

another culling was done.

The feast began

at the setting sun.

by Dave Holloway

Dictators 

Within the perimeters

of anything

a dictator dwells,

rules and expects

total allegiance

and only when we slip

can we determine

how dictatorial

our dictator can be.

Outside the perimeter

where no dictators dwell

we yearn for one

nevertheless.

Lost Souls

I think souls are lost

unaware

and bodies left behind

to fair

the beastly mind

that dare

call itself holy and right

and guide nations

it might

in foaming greed,

unnatural need 

for it’s all

a beast can know.

My Crazy World

I’m inspired

by a crazy world.

The crazier the better

inspires the poem,

the art, the letter,

the continual quest

to find what’s true

inspires and makes me

 crazier than you.

So let it roll

you crazy f**k.

If you were perfect

there’d be no luck

and that dear world 

would truly suck.

So let it roll

I’m here again,

no hope, no home

not even a friend

on the edge of nothing

I look within

and staring back

with a fiendish grin

my crazy world.

by Dave

Senior Community

I wonder the line

these towed forever,

now gather together

in club house halls.

Clamoring in slow mo

to calendar events

with intense interest

they form a line

dancing’s the hit

four times a month.

Poker two,

and crafts only one.

School yard thrills

in blue/grey curls,

skin worn

like oversized clothes.

Smiles denture bright.

Boney hands clasp.

Fragile is the word

they carry in hip

pockets with fear

of the final scene.

Alone and gasping

is the way it comes.

Old and Wise

If I live ten more years it will be a surprise.

If I live twenty more I just don’t know.

If I live another thirty I’d have to surmise

we live the majority of life old and wise

but if that’s true please tell me why

we still fall victim to so many lies.

The Slow Death

A slow death

we fear the most.

The drawn-out ordeal

where pain is the host.

Sucking up memories

unto itself,

clearing every corridor

and every last shelf.

Ending it ourselves

is considered a sin.

Confirming who rules

we’re reminded again.

these poems inspired by Dylan's  "Not Dark Yet"