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THE NIGHT

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The night is cold, dark and bleak, and there are hours to go before I sleep.

Gone, gone away is freedom’s light, empowering the perverse to their own delight.

But the time has come for them to die a terrible death, the time has come for their last breath.

Who first? I think about this as I pace, who first is to lose their face.

I ponder the landlord, the lawyer, the banker, the politician, who first to my knife’s fruition…

The night is cold, dark and bleak, and there are hours to go before I sleep.

The Landlord, mostly an inherited man, a man who gains wealth by another’s hand.

But the worst of this type, actually believes he is Lord and it is this man we can no longer afford.

So over his gate I climbed and into his house I did walk, and smiled at the splendor meant to make others gawk.

Soon it would be covered with red, soon this temple of doom would be a place of dread. The wife, the son, the daughter, the Man, I cut and peeled off their face according to plan.

The night is cold, dark and bleak, and there are hours to go before I sleep.

The Lawyer, is there one that won’t burn in Hell? Maybe one, the scriptures tell.

With so many of these to cogitate on, I decide who would not see the dawn.

A despicable little man, who lies as he breathes, and at the point of my blade he knelt on his knees.

“This is mad, I was just doing my job,” these were the words that he sobbed.

And he did sob, as the sharp steel cut his throat, no more would this creature gloat.

The night is cold, dark, and bleak and there are hours to go before I sleep.

The Banker, the man who takes from the poor and gives to the rich, then laughs in our face and says, “Ain’t that a bitch.”

Yes, Master Of The Universe, Man of Wall Street, it is my blade the you will soon meet.

And there he was taking a walk in the night, and on 5th Avenue he discovered his plight.

First I ran the bodyguard through in the middle, why him you ask, because the hired gun of the evil is part of the task.

The banker shrunk into the gutter, part of the trash, part of the clutter.

“I have money, a lot of money, I’ll pay for my life.” I stared at this pathetic being down in the street. “You exist for a number in an account and for this you must account. You are an abortion, you were born dead.” And then I put the blade, into his head.

The night is cold, dark, and bleak, and there are hours to go before I sleep.

Oh Politician, you are the ultimate betrayer, it is time for you to meet your anarchist slayer.

So many reasons for you to die, perhaps even more than the stars in the sky.

But really it is the promises that you break, it is for this most of all, your life we must take.

Who first? The man that calls himself the lawmaker, who is known by all to be the lawbreaker.

This loathsome whore gorges his belly full of ill gotten gain, while delighting at heart, of the hard workingman’s pain.

I found this devil asleep in a luxury hotel, so I raised my knife to send him to Hell.

Wait! No! This is too good for such feces, he must be an example for the rest of his species.

I returned that very night with knife, rope and gas can, everything necessary to put an end to this man.

I stabbed him, and he awoke screaming, “You can’t do this to me!” “I can, and soon you will burn, and swing from a tree”

Swinging, he kicked and hoped to detach, but there was no escaping my match.

The night is cold, dark, and bleak and there are hours to go before I sleep.

I pace back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, contemplating how many more of these evil oppressors must I purge, how many to put an end to this scourge?

All of them! Their blood must run like a river through the land…And until then, the knife is in hand.

 

Poetry

GRAND AGAIN

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Foreword by Stan Lerner: it’s that season again, when we should all take a little time and travel around the country. One of my greatest adventures (August 2008) took me to the state of Michigan where I explored Greenfield Village and then headed for Mackinac Island–what an incredible place! There I sat and wrote the only poem I’ve ever published…And now I offer it to you again, this time as and excerpt from my book “NINETY NINE POSTS”…Give it a read, I think you’ll like it.

I entered Greenfield Village, it would I expect still make Henry Ford proud. I smiled as real Model T’s drove people around and kids played baseball with the staff by 1869 rules. I stood in the Wright Brothers’ bicycle shop, then I ate lunch in a carriage house, the menu of which hadn’t changed since 1857—I drank a mint julep and ate onion pie with some trout. I walked to the great American poet Robert Frost’s house…and stood and listened to a recording, an old recording, of him reading “The Road Less Traveled”. What a voice.

I will go to the Grand Hotel, sit on the porch, and write a poem, I thought to myself as I listened…

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear

Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet, knowing how way leads onto way

I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence

Two roads diverged in a wood

And I took the one less traveled by

And that has made all the difference

GRAND AGAIN

A Poem By Stan Lerner

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about the air, not on the island but out there.

Too often polluted by despair.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about the Rouge Plant asleep, a betrayed soul which was all of ours to keep.

Once a symbol of might, now a symbol of darkness like the night.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about hearing the old tired voice of Robert Frost speak of the road less traveled—an endeavor in which I have also dabbled.

There was indeed a fork in the road, a part of life which we have all been told.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about click, click, klop, click, klop, a horse passed by.

A sound from another time.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I asked myself, “Better off now or better off then? Will civilization need to begin again?”

I talked to myself about this a lot, click, klop, click, klop…

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about dress too casual, the few with vision, the abundance without, the profanity spoken by teenagers, how base we’ve become, and the beauty of an island surrounded by blue water that tolerates it all.

The Grand does make one feel small.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about what might become of the rest of my years.

A bird flew near, then off toward a lighthouse no longer in use.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about what might become of the rest of my years.

All of the hopes and a few of the fears.

On the porch of the Grand I sat and rocked.

And to myself I talked.

I talked to myself about taking time to love and time to think—a slight breeze blew from a direction I did not expect.

I watched as the flags moved by the wind and hoped we could all be Grand again.

NINETY- NINE POSTS

To sample or purchase “Ninety-Nine Posts” please visit:

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/9380

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stan Lerner is an award winning-author whose diverse credits include the novels “Stan Lerner’s Criminal”, “Blast”, “In Development,” and the children’s book “Stanley The Elephant.” Stan Lerner is also the creator of the Las Vegas music spectacle “Night Tribe” and the writer, director, producer of the hit motion picture “Meet The Family.” Mr. Lerner was born in Montebello CA and has lived in downtown Los Angeles for the last fifteen years.

For more information about Stan Lerner please visit his author profile at: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stan

Poetry

THE RAVEN

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Foreword by Stan Lerner: Edgar Allan Poe was finally given a funeral befitting one of the greatest writers to have ever lived—a debt of gratitude is owed to the city of Baltimore for this. Edgar Allan Poe and I share January 19th as a birthday and it is the poem below that he wrote just a few years before his death in 1845 that I would list as one of the literary works that inspired me to become a writer. Do you remember the first time you read The Raven? Well here it is…Thank you Mr. Poe.

 The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore–

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“‘Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door–

Only this and nothing more.”

 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;–vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow–sorrow for the lost Lenore–

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore–

Nameless here for evermore.

 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me–filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“‘Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door–

Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;

This it is and nothing more.”

 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”–here I opened wide the door–

Darkness there and nothing more. Continue reading THE RAVEN →

Poetry

Poets on the Corner of 5th and Main

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On Thursday, August 27th, at eight- o’clock, The Third Area presents the last poetry reading of the summer at Pharmaka gallery on the corner of 5th and Main.  This is an extraordinary opportunity for readers to get a dose of vital and utterly current poetry read by the top notch poets themselves, in a setting surrounded by the visual arts in one of downtown’s most appealing galleries.  For a cherry on top, wine, beer, bottled water and hors d’oeuvres are provided free of charge, (a five dollar donation is suggested).  Of course, that should be no surprise.  Writers are always talking about the importance of the mantra “know your audience.”  The doors open at seven, when mingling and noshing and perusing books and visual art begins.  We hope to see many downtownsters there.       

 There are always four poets featured.  They are introduced, often beautifully, by other poets.  One fine example of the art of language to be found at these readings at Pharmaka follows below.  Tony Barnstorm, whose résumé of literary awards is so extensive that we can’t list it here, read this poem, along with many others, among his amazingly divergent repertoire.

The 167th Psalm of Elvis
This poem comes from Tony Barnstone’s book, The Golem of Los Angeles, published by Red Hen Press

Blessed are the marble breasts of Venus,
those ancient miracles, for they are upright and milk white
and they point above the heads of the crowd in the casino.
Blessed are the crowds that play, and whose reflections
sway in the polish of her eggshell eyes,
for they circle like birds around the games,
and they are beautiful and helpless. Continue reading Poets on the Corner of 5th and Main →