An imaginary place in thin, dry air between the mountains and the dusty plains
Looking for some great reads for your book club? Get tons of recommendations Monday, August 19, at Between the Covers with @boulderbooks.
Boulder County Indie Authors (including yours truly) will be there, presenting TEN (10!) of our titles. See you there!
Raise your hand if you believe a tree that falls in the forest makes noise even if no one hears it.
Now, raise your hand if you believe that writing a poem is worth the effort even if no one reads it.
Whose crimes these are I think I know.
Their place is in the fire below;
They will not see you shed a tear
Nor care a whit, death fast or slow.
The dying child is numb with fear
And choking as the end comes near
From breathing toxic fumes so thick,
From burning what we love so dear.
She gives the fog a wistful look
Remembering a pretty brook
That ran behind her house one day
Before the heat took it away.
The Earth was lovely, green with life,
But we cared so for things and strife,
And conquered her with greed so rife,
And conquered her with greed so rife.
Inspired by the poetry of Robert Frost.
Words hover out of reachThe tiny flame
from a candle in a glass jar
that a young girl holds up high
for the world to see
is stronger than the shouts
and middle fingers
of cowards who roar by
on the street in the night
on their way to hell.
Truth lay bloodied and broken
underfoot, bones trampled
and crushed in a pilgrimage
of hate and greed
and power-lust.
Exposed at last as perfect fraud,
its dying gasps for filthy air
unheard in the clamor,
truth was mere metaphor,
a dreamy notion of reality.
Leave the children and elders
as meat for the vultures,
then wall out the neighbors
and snuff out our culture.
Build warships and fighters
to prove our illusions
of greatness and honor
and feed our delusions.
Let’s pity the rich and
relieve them of taxes,
and screw all the rest
til they take up their axes.
