Stopping by the world

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 reach

macro-1834138_1920bWords hover out of reach
like dragonflies
on a hot summer day,
fleeting glimpses
in shimmer and haze.
The mind drifts
from passing thought
to passing thought
to yet another.
Eyes see fear
in clouded eyes
and look away,
witnessing their own future
as a fading memory.

war budget

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.

False patriots

Sick and dying in the light,
their crimes laid bare,
false patriots stumble,
gasping for the air of freedom
that once filled their lungs,
choking on caustic fumes
of hate and fear,
inhaling the searing flames
of self-immolation.


The way to her heart
is a mystery.

A maze, it is,
a labyrinth that leads
to culs-de-sac
on every path a man can take.

Then a smile,
a teardrop betrays her
and tells me that
I stumbled in.

I stumbled in.