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!

Questions of Heroes and Saints

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!

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.

His Master’s Voice?

They must think us dogs

salivating to their bells

doing tricks for tiny treats!

~

And how can they not

when we drool at every cue

playing games they tell us to?

~

Is there any choice?

After all, they hold the cards

and set the rules we must regard.

~

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!

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!