Thanksgiving 2017

The sidewalk receptacle stood undisturbed,

by passersby unperturbed,

in the cold evening.

The old man, face worn, brown coat torn,

pulled, from the trash,

a brown pizza box.

Box that yesterday held a large pizza:

tomato, pepperoni,

triple cheese and anchovy.

Box that yesterday passed round a room

with glee.

No way to un-see, attempt to forget,

pretend not to feel, or try not to cry,

though the old man tonight will not die.

The brown pizza box held a leftover slice.

Box that when opened seemed to ask why,

when gods among men play with dice,

do the poor and the weak pay the price.

Republican Hell

All is not well.
The world has gone to hell
Because all we want to sell
Are guns that fire a shell
Faster than time can tell
The seconds when victims fell,
Bleeding enough to fill a well.
‎The leaders you elected smell
Like the sulfur they'll breathe in hell,
Foul odors we should expel
The next election by a groundswell
Of people, like me, compelled
‎To shake you by the lapels
And leave you with this bombshell:
Vote Republican and I foretell –
To all that's good just say farewell.

Lebensraum

I gave a homeless man
a calorie bar.

The stars above the seas have wandered far
from days and nights
when men would leave their lands
of burning sands
and fight
for food and home.

Now alone and thin as bone,
the homeless man sits
with cardboard sign,
his face an invisible sign
that we have not come far
from our savage days of need.

The single thing man will not fight
is greed.

World of Law

We set up laws
to obey the king upon the throne
and to turn the country into home,
a place where people would greet
each other passing on the street,
not kill each other over scraps of meat.

But laws did not suffice.
For such is mankind’s vice:
we ignore the law, respect the price
of the devilish things that do entice
our monstrous greed to play at dice
with children’s lives
and ancient forest woodland,
the ocean tides,
the dying crops on the drying land.

Laws would not have slowed the fire
that every soul does char and burn
if the king had not in turn
revealed in tales a land of fire
reserved for murderers, thieves and liars.

Hell is the ultimate prison, ultimate end,
the king would say,
and death is here eagerly willing to send
the disobedient to torments vile and eternal,
to die endlessly in suffering infernal.

Still the threat of hell has failed to stop
those greedy few who laugh and mock
the hellish stories as children’s stock,
those bloated beasts with hearts of rock,
who chew upon the people’s bones
and sit atop the world’s gold thrones.

Golden Worm

The Iniquities of the Age,
And the Barbarity of Yore
All sprout the same black gore.

The avarice that piled coins high
At the point of bloodied blade
Today sees sums in bank accounts
Rise in high surreal amounts.

How to explain the riches of today
If not as a parade of terror,
Oppression, destruction,
And pain
That makes our evil plain?

Across the world and in plain sight,
A testament to greed's blind might,
Spreads the wreckage of the poor,
The hapless living near the lure
Of the beast of gold in sundry forms,
A monster feeding worms.

Burning towns, piles of corpses,
And bullet-ridden cattle,
The cries of women raped,
And wailing children
End another wicked battle.

Petroleum, uranium,
Gold, silver, iron ore,
Futures and stocks, too -
All produced by the same gore.

The malice that in ancient times
Raised marauding armies,
And the contempt that in our time
Loosed financial ruin -
The mythic despot and the banker
Share that timeless heartbeat,
The drum that beats the dirge
Of the planet's strongest scourge.

The Beast

A peasant
From the age of superstition,
Days of pestilence and hunger
And nights of endless dark,
Would see a horror far more stark -
And dangers far more strange -
In our present modern age.

From every mouth pours forth a rage,
From which the ancient devils cower,
In mad desire we gorge our flesh,
Slaves to a modern, bestial power.

It thrives upon our constant needs,
And upon our sickly fear it feeds;
Taking cloudy shape from seeds
Within our ever-grasping greed.

We see the monster in the mirror,
Faces that fancy beating death,
Yet still our last day draws nearer -

Even as our voices launch
Forever and far
Into the stars -

We are gone with out last breath.

Kentucky Derby

Let us be thankful to the gods
For the bacchanalia,
For the fruits and for the wine.
So went the refrain in ancient times.

But the Lord was present in those days,
In the faces of fledgling Christians
Thrown naked into the arenas
Holding starving lions.

From those anguished faces
Wringing shackled hands
The Lord’s message rang out:
Repent! For the end is near!

But who would want to hear?
The thought of ending the party!
Really! Bring on the thrills!

The transmogrification of the Lord continued:
As a bull in a Spanish arena,
Pricked by a starving bullfighter;
As a horse in the Kentucky Derby,
Goaded by a starving jockey;
As a football player in the Super Bowl,
Cheered by a starving public.

In the lands of endless bounty,
From Rome to present day,
The rich starve in every country,
While the poor are toys for play.
All are racing to the finish,
For what prize no one can say.
In the crowd’s roar after victory,
The horse’s groans are swept away.

Candelabra

Candelabra burning bright,
Chase the shadows into night.
Shine upon the crowd that gathers
To forget important matters.

Candelabra, if you could see
How the revelers dance with glee,
And consume their little cakes
With exotic kinds of teas.

Candelabra, if you could hear
How the music fills their ears,
As they laugh and cluck and crow;
Their party forms a jolly show.

Candelabra, if you could turn
To the crystal window sights,
You would be suprised to learn
How the others spend their nights.

Candelabra, stoop to see
Dirty children running free
A promised meal they run to follow
Promised by a crooked shadow.

Candelabra, bend to hear
How the mothers sob in fear
Their children gone from feeble sight
To form the armies of the night.

Candelabra, guard your flame,
For throngs are whispering your name.
They gather at the gates of hell,
Your festival in mind to quell.

Candelabra, pray aloud
That God may calm this angry crowd.
Be not surprised if you should see
This night repeat like history.

Down the ages, through the years,
Said the sages amid jeers:
A prince his hoard will fail to keep
When the poor fight hunger in their sleep.

‘Tis the Season

You have not been raped,
Or beaten, or maimed,
Or treated like an animal
With no right to think.

Blink. And you’ll see.
You have jewels, and cash,
Food to toss like trash,
And someone in the world
Who remembers your name.

Shame! That joy comes round
Once a year
To the injured faceless loathe to hear,
“We give; we give, in Jesus’
Name.”

Still, the faceless have no name
That you will remember,
Save, perhaps, in December,
That season of the year
When the poor do hope
Their name to hear.