Charity or Wisdom

Listen Up, you grey old goat!

Your racist ways are history.

Does that hate not sere your throat?

That grossly overt bigotry

never fails to offend

younger,

compassionate,

thoughtful men.

But since we’re here within this lodge,

I’ll try to muster up some grace,

abide the precepts of wiser men

and curb my urge to pulp your face.

I’ll maintain regard unconditional

despite your beliefs, so unlovable.

His Master’s Voice?

They must think us dogs

salivating to their bells

doing tricks for tiny treats!

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And how can they not

when we drool at every cue

playing games they tell us to?

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Is there any choice?

After all, they hold the cards

and set the rules we must regard.

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Why must we regard

their arbitrary edicts

when their only care

is their self-serving interests?

Bite the hands that feed, I say!

Ignore their strident bellows!

Exercise our every freedom!

Let us run across the meadows!

For the Farmer and the Fisherman

Today I walked alone,

Silently, among the fallen.

Snowy cold, standing stones

Basking ‘neath the setting sun

Stretching to eternity.

Here among these Legions,

I came across the one

Bearing my mother’s maiden name.

One of many, stretching back

To our very founding;

Fathers, grandfathers and greats.

Not all of whom retired here

To this, once, grand old estate.

Another found, I know, his rest

In a distant mountain stream,

The place he lived his later life,

The place he loved, by far, the best.

I honor them, those grand old men,

My few, among the many,

Not only for their sacrifice;

I honor them, out of love,

And, I suppose, that must suffice.

An Unexpected Face of Christmas

It’s freezing +1 and a driving rain
Peppered with shotgun blasts of sleet.
As I linger at a light, up beside me pulls
A mask of misery in dire need of heat.
Soaking on the running board,
Clad in saturated yellow,
Behind the garbage truck,
Shivers a most frigid fellow.
His visage drawn and tight
And muscles tensed against the cold,
I am suddenly quite certain
His tale of duty must be told!

He, like many others, labor away in misery
Struggling to meet the needs of their family.

Missing Some Zees, on a Weekday Morning

Whose hell this is, I think I know,
He’s tortured me before and so,
I will not let him catch me here
Sleeping late, so off I go.

My small family must think it queer
For me to rise with dawn not near
But I know I dare not be late
As we approach the end of year.

My pounding steps must make them quake
But pretty soon they’re all awake.
They know that I would rather sleep
Than do these tasks I undertake.

But I have a mission to complete
And notes to write, and people meet!
And notes to write, and people meet!
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* Forgive me Robert, for the grave disservice!