Brutish Poems

Longing Faiths

Let our clear eyes gaze
at the rising moon on the
shores of the Sahara, let
the evening stars shine,
holding the skies in their
         cosmic magnet, let the
tides cease their aggression
within the ocean, like the
brutish pain we feel as
we welcome and embrace
the oases of our longing
         faiths, our kisses
flirting on the shores
of the ocean’s lips,
resolute in our struggle.
We are sandwiched between
the blades and mortars of
these plains, bludgeoned on
the banks and rivers of
these burning forests,
our peace stolen by
hate, so we spend
      these silver years in
agony, asking the same
questions our ancestors
asked: shall our hopes be
burnished and taken away on
the lost bays of these curving
currents determined to throw
us into the pits of the boiling
gutters, or shall our longing
        faiths, like stones, outlast
the flames of the forest fires?

Luxury Item

Just how long does a steaming lobster sob? 
How terribly do boiling limbs and guts
burn? Like a million simultaneous cuts? 
When does its sweltering heart cease to throb? 

On who’s authority do humans rob
that creature of its life? Have we the rights? 
—the rights to cook a living being? Nights,
(countless), have I questioned this brutish job.—

Yet, even still, I meet no day when not
a hungry shopper comes to claim a kill.
And for the taste of murdered, smoldered meat,
—(we sear our ethics inside that same pot)—
they beg me: “I can’t bear do it, but will
you?”. — — I’m sorry, truly, crustacean…”treat”.

Nasty, Brutish, and Short

It was you who initiated this relationship.
Even at its outset, I was crying.
I was your plaything,
the butt of your elaborate practical jokes.
Refusing to be transparent,
except when teasing me with illusions,
you never revealed your true meaning or purpose.
You built me up with hope and ideals,
only to chop them down and crush me.
Everything you gave to me,
you took away.
I haven't a good word to say,
and now,
in the end,
you're discarding me,
like you did all the others.
You aren't even attractive,
being as you are,
nasty, brutish, and short,
Good riddance to you,
cruel life.

brutish Trump meek Musk

Brutish Trump, Meek Musk?
Trump comes across as a brute and scares people off the middle usually nice middle-class people who do not what it is like working on a building site or spending years at sea with men appear ruffian but mostly, is a braggadocio and as such nothing to be alarmed over in Trump’s case he is not likely to start a war with China, Russia or Iran Trump likes powerful autocrats, he respects as much as he hates effeminate Macron also Starmer
With his perfect modulations, yet sits cross-legged when speaking to Trump who is not in the habit of showing the heels of his shoes, but as we know English leaders have hidden distaste for those they think are inferior to them 
Trump, like many rich people, pretends he comes from a modest background, his father was a wealthy man in real estate which made his journey easier; the millionaires we see today are from wealthy families and that is Ok, but their idea of poverty is miles away from the mark 
The hatred we see of Elon Musk is grossly unfair He is at heart a good man with a dream of saving humanity from itself, but I fear when the chips are down politicians will put the onus on him

bison stepped on my foot today

Brutish bison stepped on my left foot today
Making me less merry, forcing me to delay
It weighed a ton, so what could I do?
I yelled “Get off of my tennis shoe!”

Skittish bison got startled and galloped away
My toe is broken, bleeding, its nail is turning gray.
So, I cannot come over for my play date today.
Maybe you should invite my cousin Jay.

slaughter them without mercy

The elves were not mean enough to harm the orcs themselves
They recruited mercenaries and winged monkeys from the North
They marauders flew into the valley on Tuesday whooping and hollering
Should we have done this? The elves worried among themselves
The orcs were brutish and aggressive, but did they deserve this wrath?
By noon that day the mercenaries and winged monkeys were all dead.
The orcs had been trained well by the nasty hateful Lord Morgoth.
He sent them to reign terror down on the elves.
“Slaughter them without mercy,” he told them.

Autumn Eschews Silence

“The fog may come on little cat feet”*
But Autumn eschews silence
The thick crunch of crisp fallen foliage
Hastens the homebound honking of gaggled geese
Soft whispers of falling rose petals
Fade into the haze of hoarfrost
Cold winds whistle wildly through naked Maples
Flags snap loudly to attention
A brutish barn cat recoils from the touch of snow
Squawking ducks slowly slide across an icy crust
Chattering children board a school bus
Winter awaits its curtain call

A Hero in a Man's Army

    When he grows up he wants to be
        a hero in a man’s army
    He’ll join the war and fight the foe
       to foreign shores he’ll gladly go

    His sweetheart he will kiss farewell
       his parents’ hearts will truly swell
    He’ll proudly don his uniform
       and head off to the gath’ring storm

    But soon the smirk will leave his face
       when bursts of bombs and missiles chase 
    him underground as scared as hell
       He'll lose control, begin to yell… 

    Brave dreams give way to brutish war
       ~ no hero ever clamors for  


              Iambic Tetrameter ~

The Empty Room

Eight minutes in, 
dream-debut decomposing,
marred in mad mud.
Barely begun, his brutish block,
a tackle that tore through time,
trailed by the walk of shame.
Elation fades, deflation reigns,
suspended in solitude,
exiled in emptiness. 
The still dressing room droning.
He sits soaked in sweat and sorrow,
an anvil of anguish weighing down on his chest.
A downpour of despair envelopes him,
Relentless…
His dream withering in a damp corner.
He inhales the burden,
of cold crushing desolation,
agony amplified,
Loneliness lingers…

Healing On Sabbath

As apes that muddled the streams rather than quenching their thirst
Pharisees went to the temple for mischief; not to pray.
Like death-stalker scorpions, in stinging, they were well-versed
In the man with a drooped hand, the predators found their prey.

Compassion, like nectar from the herb, dripped from Jesus.
He saw the withered-handed, by psychic worries, stranded
Empowered by the heavens, to reform the egregious
To him, to stretch his hand, he compassionately commanded

The hypocrites, as though the crane that found a fish, arose
They brought the Sabbath laws that stood always with them, like guards.
They shot allegations at Jesus like brutish arrows.
With a sun-lit smile, he looked at them with loving regards

Do not clog the flow of the streams of love of the divine.
Isn't abundance of love, the divinity's design?

Behold the Beast

Behold the beast, wandering in astral night
From dark caverns he emerges by starlight
to quaff nectar from his ambrosia chalice.
A leering creature with evil eyes of malice.

What nefarious thoughts does he ponder
as muscles ripple in his aimless maunder?
Does his venomous tongue thirst for more?
A pungent stench sloughs from every pore.

Empty cup held in gnarled gargantuan hand,
this goliath bellowed orders in foul reprimand,
"Heed my warning or tonight one of you will die;
the one who allows my nectar flagon to run dry!"

With each guzzle, the more belligerent he grew,
a frightful scene in which a battle would ensue.
The massive titan stumbled out in moonlight,
with ripe grape libation, he was fueled for a fight.

What brutish slander he grunts without a pause.
Frothing at the mouth with fallacy as his cause.
Scorning those upon whom he wishes to feast.
Brutal is bigotry when malevolence is released.

Electric Fly

                I soar 
     with brutish strength,
      I fall for a whirlwind;
What I want is a sweet escape
              with you;
Dancing along a lightning bolt 
        electric tingles fly
          charging a fire 
                 in me.

Defeating Our Goliaths

There are soft whispers only I can hear
coming from shivers deep within my soul,
"Save me from that which I most fear.
Hostility around us that we can't control."

My heart beat more rapidly in its confusion.
Though sheltered, I couldn't decrease its pace.
The world continues to proliferate delusion ~
cause for the woeful state of the human race.

Brutish rulers sit on pedestals as their throne
while innocents must claw in the dirt to survive.
Where is another David who will hurl the stone,
to free my heart and soul and keep hope alive?

Hoist With His Own Petard

He who disregards truth and justice
Will sooner or later go the whole hog;
His bestial appetites and habits,
His love of cruelty and power eventually will take over
Perhaps without him ever realizing the danger.
He is not only beyond the control of others
But beyond his own control.
He does no good ( like rainless clouds or fruitless trees,
Heaping abuse on anything he doesn't understand;
Spoiling the fellowship meals with his irreverent behavior.
He lives at the mercy of his brutish instincts,
Looking after Himself instead of caring for his brother.
Like storm, he leaves behind him shame and disgrace;
like the dirty foam left along the beach by the wild waves.
He's like stars that have wandered into outer space and give no light,
He grumbles about everything and have a huge chip on his shoulder.
He is one in reign,
A loud-mouthed show-off
Who flatters others for his own advantage
And give free reign to his evil desires.

James Mclain And The Mandela Effect

In those fearful time's by memories clear,
James McLain, a soul once gripped by fear.
Within the labyrinth of my own mind,
The Mandela effect, a twist defined.

Through unfairly, I faced a daunting fate,
Unjustly convicted by the state.

Mental tempests, an internal weight.
Florida's prisons, a brutish place a primitive place,
My resilience endured despite the state.

Fifteen years entrenched in strife,
Raped by other's most now dead.
James endured the tumult of prison life.
But within his core, a spirit resilient,
A survivor's tale, uncowardly told.

In echoes of despair, a whisper grew,
Hope emerging, a steadfast view.
Through bars and chains, my spirit free,
James McLain, triumphant decree.

With each passing day, redemption's flight,
A phoenix rising, reclaiming the light.
The Mandela effect, rewritten by grace,
James' story echoes in time and space.
Where there is injustice I remain disgraced.

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