Category: War & Politics
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Poem before dying
Lorca wrote of roosters, of eating cemetery grass, of weeping little boys, of snow, of guitars, of murder, of women dropping off to sleep, of a resurrection that will never come, and he makes me weep. I write of barking dogs and feral cats, of trash on asphalt courts, of weeping little boys, of warm…
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Election cycle news
tidal stream reedy channel can’t decide which way to flow emptying and filling with the moon he shuts his engine off lowers a trolling motor sets the GPS anchored without an anchor tosses his net for bait hooks mullet through head casts his line and waits for supper to bite his lucky day the fishes…
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In my veins
In my veins, my parents walk hand in hand reading letters written across the ocean of a world war. I look out with my father’s eyes remarking on the country he fought to preserve and the sad state of his Grand Old Party or with my mother’s eyes to see what season it is and…
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Pinnochio’s nose
Russian Roulette fool’s game bullet in the cylinder which one? Maskless COVID-19 sprays droplets random involuntary inoculations who’s next? Ranting Maniac warrior king imaginary bone spurs cured he’s still a coward Russian Puppet Putin laughs pulls strings, makes him dance grows his nose Mister Geppetto sawdust brains never was or will be a man strike…
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Translucent rags
After everyone had gone home only the pulsating glow of embers remained. I watched a possum walk through the yard. A woman appears in the chair next to me, wild hair, dressed in translucent rags that moved in a wind I could not feel. She says the moon is beautiful, I reply I cannot see…
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a question for the next Presidential debate
If your maskless arrogance Slays your child Or slays the child of another Is that murder in the first degree Or negligent homicide America debates the question 10-3-20
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poem before dying
Lorca wrote of roosters, of eating cemetery grass, of weeping little boys, of snow, of guitars, of murder, of women dropping off to sleep, of a resurrection that will never come, and he makes me weep. I write of barking dogs and feral cats, of trash on asphalt courts, of weeping little boys, of warm…
