Long Unspoken Fury

How was it my fault,

Dad,

When those dime store Wallabees

Melted through the furnace grate?

How you always chided me

When I said I was afraid,

“Don’t be such a fraidy cat.”

Now you stand and seethe, enraged

Learning what I always know.

Floor grates lead to misery

And premature, stinky, deaths

For green plastic army men

And your cheap-ass knock-off shoes!

That Hoary Gilded Capital

Walking sullied streets,

noting all the old deceits;

gold leaf peeling off in sheets.

~

Cracked and weathered stone,

reminiscent of old bone

cast aside to rot alone.

~

Maybe I’m jaded,

but it’s luster has faded,

past dignities degraded.

~

How have we become,

so uncaring, heartless, numb,

is there naught that can be done?

~

Dare we even try

to uphold truth to that lie,

“Great Republics can not die“?

~

If we can’t, we’re done.

Hare on off and have some fun.

Democracy’s race is run.

Harken Ozymandias

With your every stride

Fallen leaves and memories

Fragment into mulch.

You think yourself bold,

Decisive man of action:

Midas of decay;

Modern day Nero:

Tweeting while Rome succumbs

To internal flames.

Survey these ashes

Stark remains of the fury

From your careless match.

Where Colossus stood

Only dust and rubble stir

In warm autumn breeze

And yet:

Despite your chaos,

Slender verdant tendrils grow

Rooting your ruins

Proving to you, Wretched Waste,

That even now, hope remains.

Stuck in the Middle with Him

Three oh one point nine!

Broadcast on all the networks.

Label it Fake News

And some will eat that sandwich

Unaware its their last meal.

Our neighbors may, even yet,

Construct and pay for his great wall

If only to shut him in.

And could you blame them?

Hopefully, in time

When we wake up and appeal

For them to let us exit

They will show us charity

Alien to our leader!

For My Old Friend Harry

Some claim the measure of the man 

Lies in something tangible and firm;

His stature, his strength, 

His fame, his fortune.

But I, for one, find none of these, 

To be a fitting yardstick.

Rather do I measure Harry’s worth 

By the stories we have shared,

Comedies and tragedies,

Dramas and histories

Yarns of adventures gone awry.

Be they Joyous or humble, 

Painful or proud,

Of good times or of Ill,

I have found in these shared sagas,

His humanity,

Well hidden by gruff temperament,

Masked by mumbled words,

Infused with a certain spirit,

And well punctuated by profanity.

It is not despite these flaws

But rather more because of them,

That his tales of love and loss,

Of dangers, of trials,

Of hardships, of misadventures,

Resonate within my soul 

And will remain forever with me.

Godspeed my old friend.