There’s a shocking revelation
attuned to every pen nib’s scritch
but writing will, soon, consume you,
If you dare to scratch that itch.
This is not an easy path;
nor breezy way to strike it rich.
There’s no need to parse that sentence;
creative writing is a bitch.
Adjacent vast eucalyptus towers,
Spring, it seems, arrives at last
And in the field, a frost of flowers,
echoes there the winter past.
While golden birds build great bowers
with bright shiny bits amassed,
a-dread that their mate’s ardor sours
leaving them bereft, outcast.
And is it not thus, likewise so
among us higher, wiser species?
We, too, huff and puff and blow
and dress up like Maharishis
then to the local nightclubs go
to espouse our learned theses.
I guess this verdant time of year
drive us all to strut about
in search of mates to curb our fear
of rejection and self-doubt.
Do heroes have to be perfect
in order to earn our respect?
Must they be free from all blemish?
Is that what we’ve come to expect?
How much stain, how much tarnish,
how much of a character blemish
can be glossed over by splashing
on coats of whitewash and varnish
before the seething and gnashing
of the oppressed leads to the trashing
of monument to those held dear
in eruptions of violent clashing?
The answers, my friends, are clear.
Let’s open our ears and try to hear
the history of brutal oppression
that cause so many to live in fear.
Since if we can’t learn this lesson
we’ll lose more than an election!
Folks, it’s high time to reject
this notion that every hero warrants beatification!
Almost half these souls today
Standing queued at the SSA
Voted for that jaundiced bloke
Who has promised to revoke
The services they’re here to get
Without the single least regret
Careless or how much they paid
Regardless of the plans they made
All throughout their working years
To avoid the pain and tears
Spoken of in elder’s tales
Of the trials and travails
Before this social safety net
Made retirement a safe bet
All to give a tasty treat
To his buddies on Wall Steet.
What did I ever do to fill you with such rage,
That you would see me dead, my ink wiped from the page?
Can I not just live my life, without the fear of murder
Because of skin or faith or tongue? Or is it something further
Afield than these ideas, some unimagined sin,
Committed all unknowing, that raises all this din?
Please attend my friend, before you pull the trigger,
Let us embrace instead, not make the difference bigger!
I assure you friend, I bear you zero malice
Whether you reside in bayt or yurt or palace.
Why should I curb my caustic tongue
When seeing all the damage done
By all your fears and monstrous greed
Harming those in dire need?
All so you can gather more
To bank away so far off-shore
Lest someone else, who has a soul
Exact from you too high a toll
Jeopardizing some distant dream
In which you finally become the cream
Rising high atop the rest
Like life is just some kind of test
To judge just who the worthy are
For us to worship from afar?
Now listen here! You’re just man!
I’ll never be your fawning fan
Nor will I censor bitter word
When faced with statement so absurd
That none with eyes and open mind
Could, therein, some logic find.
And if, by chance, you take offense
Because I choose to look for sense,
Before you sigh, express lament
About the “fools” you represent,
Remember you’re no mighty king
Unto whom we peasants sing,
It’s your desire, oh so fervent
To be elected, OUR public servant!
Aroil in Pain 