Tag Archives: poetry

Injustice

“I don’t believe in injustice!!!!” the protestor cried.
So I punched him in the face.
I think he’s got it.

Injustice comes in several ways.

“I don’t believe in abortion no more,” she said
as her young daughter squatted
in her feces filled underwear on the doorstep
looking at me hungrily
with a hidden hunger in her eyes.

“I don’t want to go in there!,” the old man grunted and shouted
as they hauled him off to the car.
His drool was dribbling down his pants leg,
the car smelled like vomit
that was not his very own.

(Soon it came to smell like him. Or perhaps it was the other way around.)

Injustice, anyone?

Jackbooted thugs knock at my door uninvited,
however I invite them in –
ignoring Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s advice:
“When the wolf knocks on the door the smart rabbit runs!”

I guess I’m not so smart though.
They take me while I’m standing paralyzed by
the injustice of it all
right in my living room.

The frightened rabbit stands alone
only to be herded into a cage full of them.
Run, rabbits run,
from the Injustice of it all.

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Hot Fire

Friends come, friends go,
summer’s warm, winter’s cold.
In your heart where the winter’s warm
fires are burning hot
you find yourself standing under a starry sky at night
in the empty snow in an empty field, head up
looking at a million hot pinpricks and wondering:

if one of those pinpricks is looking down at you.

Hot,
love’s desire.
Not
from friendly fire
which takes place
behind enemy lines.

Madness I Am, for
friendly fire is not
if you’re in their aim
and you’ve gotten shot
by love’s betrayal of desire.

Fire
burning hot
like the bullet wounds
of my heart’s desire.
Fire
I want not
but the betrayal of the soul is the heart’s desire,
and betrayal of both sets the mind afire
with thoughts of what you want
but cannot have.

Peace be with you.

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In Our Desire

In our hearts we found our desire,
in our desire we found pain.
In our pain we found our fire,
in our fire we found art again.

In our mind’s eye we defined our goals,
In our hearts our emotions’ fires,
In our eyes our souls hold
our aspirations and desires.

We perceive what is around us,
knowing accurate perception is rare.
What does that say for our pasts,
or of the memories we have there?

We trust in what we know, knowing
what we know is not all that is there.
We see what we see without seeing,
interpreting vibrations in the air.

What is this? What is that?
The object of my desire,
it’s not what I perceive
but what I believe,
that fuels the emotions’ fire.

To see that is to know
that deep in the soul
lays the key to happiness.
Not through greed, nor through gain,
but perception’s true accurateness.

 

 

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The Eggshell People

The Eggshell People live in an Eggshell World
with an eggshell mind in an eggshell house.
They teach their children to be kind,
they wouldn’t hurt a mouse.
But they would be horrified to find one
living in their eggshell house.
They’d buy a sticky board to bind him
or a trap to let him out.

The Eggshell people don’t teach their children about war
or the horrors in the world.
They protect themselves and children
by censoring every word.

TV shows are banned, violence not allowed.
Guns as toys discouraged,
they cling to religious vows
they inspire and they encourage,
their children are terrors to be around.

“Be yourself!”, they say, “Be free in what you do!”
But not too different, and they’ll enforce their rules on you.
To protect their Eggshell World and their eggshell ways,
they will do anything that they can,
shutting out the outside world.
Demanding you be like them.

“Don’t conform!” they say.  But don’t act different from them.
“We treasure individuality!”
As long as it’s indistinguishable from them.

But perhaps you were brought up different,
not in an eggshell world.
Where guns were allowed and horrors abounded
and by five you’d heard every cuss word.
Where the struggle for survival was a struggle to survive
beyond your eggshell world.

The Eggshell people.
Children so unprepared.
Live in ruin around them.
Blind to what they see,
denying all that is around them.
Protecting their culture from reality
in order to build a reality around them.
Like an eggshell world,
their dreams if it comes crumbling down on them.
When reality pokes through,
raising its ugly head,
when faced with pain and horror,
they shrink away in dread.

The Eggshell People.
I have spent my life defending them,
hiding them from the horrors,
telling them “all is all right”
while I died and cried along their borders,
patrolling the world, patrolling the night,
in distant far-off lands,
committing atrocities and horrors
they condemn and can’t understand.

The Eggshell people!
How I envy them,
their minor squabbles and their grace,
not knowing that I died fighting for them,
giving up happiness and my place
peace and contentment
to protect the world they see.
The Eggshell people might condemn me
but without me where would they be?

(the lament of a young soldier . . . a long time ago.)

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That Old Time Religion

That Old Time Religion

That old time religion
they beat into my head
made me tiptoe into church
filled full of dread.

The choir would start singing
about the angels and the Lord
while I’d be staring at Michael
with his dripping sword.

The choir would be singing how
God would accompany me to my grave,
but the the question they kept asking was
“Have you been saved?”.
Let us count his crimes;
his sins he will tell,
because we will beat them out him
so he won’t go to hell.
My dad said I was Satan when I was seventeen,
that I was possessed with demons inside.
So I told him to prove I was not God . . .
and though he tried and tried,
my arguments were bulletproof
when I laughed and told him
it wouldn’t matter if I died.

An Army brat inside who had sex when he was five,
I knew what it was like to run, dodge and hide,
but where was I to hide when I would have to abide
the punishment for what was done to me?

So I would look up into the gold laced air
where the Saints stood staring with a cold stone glare
politely ignoring me.
And I would listen as the hymns grew real loud
and the white frocked choir sang.

The priests walking solemn as the angels sang loud
and I would feel a nauseous shame
burning deep inside of me
while my father stood nearby
and my mother held my hand
sternly.

Forcing me to sit up
be still
and stand when required
and kneel when required
and cross myself when required
by church law and ritual
until I became conformed
like the rest of them
thinking I’m going to go to hell until the day I die
when I finally will.

But I don’t believe in that nonsense anymore.
I believe in a special god.
And he’s a bit like you and a bit like me
and a bit like the rest of all mankind.
Seems more ‘real’ to me
than any god presented by mankind
because mankind did not make god
and god is just like man
only different –
like you and me.

 

 

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Time

Time.

Time is what we are giving,
time is what we take.
Times when we should be living
we often waste and forsake.

Time is bought and sold,
traded for tomorrow,
given until we’re too old
it becomes a source of sorrow.

Time.

With its burdens and its sorrows,
happiness, joys and ways
time dissolves all those tomorrows
into our yesterdays.

Time.

A beat without a season,
a string we walk in life,
wondering if there is a reason
til Death cuts it like a knife.

Time.

Time we sell, time we trade,
we give it to all our things,
and sometimes when we sell it
we wonder at the worth of the things it brings.

Time.

What is the worth of it.
Intangible to the fingers,
invisible to the eye
time is constantly flowing.
Have you learned to fly?

Time.

Have you had enough? Can you get too much?
Is it easy going or has life been tough?
Is all your time spent making time
so you can run to someone’s touch?
Or have you traded time for possessions
that really don’t mean that much?

Time.

Slows down when you have too much weighing on your hands.
(Thought there is no such thing as too much, I hope you understand.)
Time speeds up when you face too many of life’s demands.
Time is what you steal,
time is what you spend.
The question is will you keep missing the point
until your bitter end?
Or will you take the time to make some time
to enjoy the time right now
and realize with time, your most valuable asset,
its not if you spend it, but how.

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The Blue Horizon

The Blue Horizon

The blue horizon stacked like sheets of glass.
Clouds, too, flatten out as they pass.
The empty desert lies before me, slowly shifting sand,
erasing tracks behind me, presence from the land.

The horizon, across an endless plain,
calls with a mournful whisper
promising happiness and or pain.

I listen.

The horizon, blue,
whispers and gibbers to me
pulling me ever onward
towards eternity.
I take one step, two more – its as distant as it could be.
That forever horizon that I reach for eternally.

The horizon, blue meets blue again,
like time frozen, with no beginning nor an end.
Always retreating before you,
never quite in your lonesome grasp,
that blue horizon may be what you see
when you breath your last . . .

The blue horizon.

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