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Terry O'leary. Click the Next or Previous links below the poem to navigate between poems. Remember, Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth. Thank you.
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On sidewalk, wet with blood and sweat (a street with no address),
there lay a man, killed by the Man and left to evanesce.
The Man, then strode along the road and smiled at his success
and, cavalier, he bought a beer, sat down to decompress.
A life was gone, but day wore on, the sun awash in heat -
the riddled head no longer bled, concealed beneath a sheet,
and passers-by began to cry, were sobbing indiscreet,
while holy bells in distant hells began to moan and bleat.
In heaven's eyes, no one denies, due process is decreed,
but down below, where burdens flow, it rarely can succeed
and certainly not for those distraught, benighted in their need,
so Men in blue (you know the crew) thought nothing of the deed.
Though just eighteen, a little green (but still his mama's son),
was loved by all, but left to sprawl in webs of hate, undone -
the youth was shot and left to rot, but never held a gun,
so people cried and wondered why'd the evil deed been done.
The sheriff said "forget the dead, his crime was black as slate"
and in the rush to hush and shush, he claimed "I'll tell you straight,
that boy, today, was on his way, to rendezvous with fate,
so now you know - I gotta go, it's gettin' kinda late".
Not satisfied with those who'd lied, some took to fill the streets
with peaceful cries beneath black skies, were paid with clubbed retreats
and gas cascades and stun grenades and nights in jailhouse suites -
though curfew's on from dusk till dawn, each night this scene repeats.
With exits barred, in comes the Guard to rumble and repress -
still, people stray both night and day in search of some redress.
The city's scarred, the houses charred, the locals in distress -
with cut or bruise, they still refuse to kneel or acquiesce.
So choppers fly above the sky with whirling, twirling blades
and drones in flight within the night now search for renegades.
Within the shards of tarot cards, perceive the masquerades -
the counterparts of diamonds, hearts, are never clubs or spades.
Now all the Pols are making calls and acting out charades -
they're shouting loud within the crowd, and marching in parades,
but underneath, where lies a wreath, the hope for justice fades
yet freedom waits behind the gates, behind the barricades.
25 Aug 2014