This leaden sky cries
Frigid tears, scarcely warmer
Than the misery
Filled void where once a soul
Languished in base
Ignored by most
Yet callously nurtured
By few men of ill intent.
And upon whom should
We heap the ample onus?
Upon crafted blade?
Upon the crucible in
Whose heart it was made?
The hands that stoked the flame?
Or bowman who loosed the shaft?
As for me, I long to be
Absent from this legacy.
Neither forge nor fire,
Neither bellows nor coal,
Neither hammer nor anvil,
Neither arrow nor bow.
A flag was flying inverted,
a symbol of distress.
“Do they know?” I wondered,
“or it is it simply
After all, this Nation is,
or so it seems to me,
made to labor in duress,
shackled to a legacy
of agony and heartlessness.
What can we do
of bondage and of shame?
For if we can’t achieve this goal,
our children’s lot
will be the same!
I, for one,
would rather not
leave my little boy
chained to all that suffering,
but have him finding joy.
I’m sure that I am not alone.
I’m sure that you would want that too.
Together shall we take an oath
to find, and do, what we can do?
He worked a life
time setting the foundation
upon which others
built glorious cathedrals
and filled them with
art and song and sacred word.
As time passes, men
praise artist, poet, and God,
yet none sing praises
to that base mason upon
whose labor all glories rest.
There must be secret woman jujitsu
A form of linguistic aikido.
It makes us do what they want us to
And often we don’t even know
That some mystic blow was struck
Until we’re doing what we wouldn’t do!
Some guys seem to have all the luck,
A kind of mental immunity,
That lets them seem not to give a fuck
And act with apparent impunity!
Or perhaps there was a vaccine found
And given out to them, but not to me!
A twist of thought, a bend of mind,
And my own desires, I can not find!
What can I say when people ask
About the nature of her “Feast”,
When I don’t know If she served him
What some may call “The Full Buffet”.
She sure did feed his Giant Ego!
Of this I’m sure, at the very least.
In the end it doesn’t matter
What people ask or what I say.
The die is cast. The damage done.
The sun has set, and in the East!
It doesn’t get more done than that!
It is over. No “Remains of this Day.”
Even if she didn’t feed him against his little will,
I am here to tell ya, she will not give us the bill.
So! I have this new GP.
I call him the “Teen Titan”.
He looks like he is maybe, three
And his smile? Kind of frightenin’!
I’m sure that he has got the skill
In his prepubescent way
But I’m still here against my will
And I’d really rather have a say!
My prior doctor had to flee,
Apparently, in some disgrace.
He didn’t even hint to me
Of his departure in such haste.
I’d love to know what they ensure,
But it’s not my health, of that I’m sure!
Her silver tongue weaves,
filling the air with golden gossamers, clouding the mind
with mists of glittering unreason.
Her glowing glossolalia explains the inexplicable, defends the indefensible, and justifies the vast injustice.
Before her words, the miasma
of fecund decay shifts,
begins to resemble the aroma
of lavender and roses.
Venom like, the smooth caress of silky snake oil conceals the cut of serrated steel.
Hope and reason succumb
to resignation and despair.
Luminous joy drowns struggling
in a sea of gilded sludge.
As the thick dark shroud envelops all she pauses, an instant, to draw breath, and in that moment her spell shatters!
Plug your ears, Ulysses!
You will have no second chance.