Tag Archives: death

06/30 – Solomon

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Nicolas Poussin’s “The Judgement of Solomon.”

Pray for a change in the way that the game is played and won,
but alas,
“There is nothing new under the sun.”
Serpent’s tongues still tempt forbidden fruit,
distort the truth, distract you with some other proof,
and unastute,
we drop hook, line, and sinker,
as unscrupulous demagogues push us to the brink of war,
humanity’s sores,
for all our achievements, how many’re for gore?

This abhorrent, warrantless debasement of life,
pawns pressed into service of some politician’s knife,
flashed fangs, rattled sabers,
the blatant fanning of the conflagration for capitalist wagers,
history’s pages are littered with these maniacal crooks,
but who’s reading about the past in their books today?

Patents protected better than patients are,
where a scare can become a scar,
Land of the wage slave, home of the meek sheep that bleat,
corporate owners have us beat.

This does sound bleak, so don’t keep your seat,
stand for Life, Liberty, and the pursuit to seek
Happiness,
a standard, not just sappiness,
our Freedoms must be stressed into practice, yet remain,
despite 45th reign being profane,
the blame laying on Electoral College,
which should have protected, instead a shiny turd polished,
should be abolished, what good’s it for,
except for insuring racists get a place on the floor?

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Gardener

Cutting through the soil,
Bent blades breaking dirt,
Opening up the earth,
Cracked and dry, brown,
Giving up the rocks,
The clay-like blackness beneath.

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Libra Rising

Just before the moon crests the horizon,
Libra pokes her head above the curve,
Promising Mars and Saturn behind her,
Courters to her crown,
Casting of Jupiter,
Hanging lonely above in isolation.

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Haiku #Connecticut

Bumblebee buzzing,
Friendless stranger in the rain,
No nectar to eat.

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Tag

Sticking out,
Tag like,
Obtuse,
Too unpracticed
At small talk,
Too timid for a noisy bar
Full of people
Who know each other already,
No way into the conversation
Save for an oddity
That was gifted
And hangs
Like old memories,
The way the El Cortez still smells
Of 60 year old cigars
And the musk
That marks it
Proprietary.

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The Hermit

Somewhere in the war between winter and spring waging in a backyard,

half scrawled promise against promiscuity that severed spider limbs from moth balls,

made mania from a mammoth making mischief,

contemplating meeting Mason in the immediacy,

lost between heartbreak and bliss.

 

Miss “cheevious” and chortling,

contemporary lost to mortality,

the stream that spit the consciousness on top of this,

that split to shift the depth of the problems he was having.

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Tilted Windmills

She says it’s magic,
Calls it wond’rous,
this tragic madness crashing thund’rous,
loud as a blunderbuss between these ears,
where windmills tilt
to subdue these fears.

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