Accepting death not for the first time
It has been for several decades
The soul never spends a life fully
Every time it ends cynically
Once it happened due to starvation
The sinless soul obeyed destiny
Became a prey for fusion power
When it took shelter in a soldier
The six enemies trigger the mind
The counter factors of mental peace
Unheard slaughter by unseen virus
Can man flee from nature's aggression?
Every time a new impediment
Race, region, economy, ego
Vicious and sharp clutches of man-made
Is there an end for this agony?
Place: 3 rd
The Lost Tribe
Holocaust, this tragic word, millions of lives lost in its
name, and it has not ended. This time,
it is the
Palestinians who are victims of a people
who have learned only one lesson to survive
one has to be
and able to tell lies and
cynically play on Europe’s common guilt.
Hitler wasn’t able to remove the Jews; we Christians
wouldn’t let him.
The people of Israel have taken it upon themselves to
emulate their former tormentors,
will not be able to eradicate the Palestinians
we, the despised and cowardly Christians,
will not let them.
The raw disregard the Israelites show against their Semitic Brothers borders to self-hate; it will corrupt them, and they will sink into nihilism.
Dust upon dust, the story could have been so different hadn’t
they decided that kindness
was a hindrance when creating their tribal paradise.
The lost tribe
Holocaust, the ongoing tragedy
this time, it is the Palestinians who are victims
from a tribe that has learned that if one has
to survive, they must be ty, able to tell
lies and cynically plays on Europe's
common guilt
The people of Israel took it upon themselves
to emulate their former tormentors
tries to eradicate the Palestinians from
the face of the earth
The better-educated youth of today
will not let them, while corrupted elders
stay silent.
Israel's hatred will corrupt them
they will sink into nihilism
dust upon dust, a better story was possible
greed, arrogance, and vanity
is destroying the tribe
There will never be a great Israel
Santa stood in the warehouse
Full of nearly empty shelves
Last night they’d been ram raided
By a bunch of discontented elves
Recently infiltrated and recruited
Into an association of packing staff
Whose ideas and demands and wants
Caused Santa to cynically laugh.
He could have held out for longer
That much was very clear
But the clever blighters
Had subverted his reindeer
To make matters even worse
Pushing poor Santa to the edge
The blighters had gone and clamped
His only working sledge
Only thirty days to Christmas
He knew of no other way
Than to meet their demands
For increased shift working pay
He’d do what it took
To bring things back on track
And ensure he had enough
To fill his mammoth sack
He reached for the Gordon’s
For one last large stiff gin
Then went to arbitration
With a forced and fixed grin
They felt elated, walking
on the grainy golden sand,
Hand in hand occasionally
Stealing a passionate kiss.
The evening’s first star shone
So luminous and bright.
The sea was so calm that night.
Little did they know
What was to befall them!
They found a secluded cove.
Love was abundant all around,
Until the earth shook in a quake.
Large tsunami waves
Carried them to their demise.
The ambulance came.
The nurses identified the corpses.
There they were on the beach
Still in a sweet embrace.
Must have been that freak tsunami
Someone wise said.
Another asked cynically.
Do ghosts still make love?
Above the heat
the sky is flecked with ice.
The sun is no longer burning,
it’s a ghost lamp swept by the rags
of a coat-tailing wind.
There it is - arriving out of a hazy distance
a living cliché, a Bald Eagle
It must have caught a thermal.
I think of all the medallions and coins
it has been stamped and embossed upon;
here it is
an existential exclamation mark.
The eagle veers away
turning deeper into the ice-blue.
No one witnesses this,
even my eyes watch cynically,
the jaded disappointment of this sadness
is darkening my sight.
All hail to the he American eagle -
slowly disappearing.
© 59 mins ago
from behind
a sword is thrust through my chest
my pain is indescribable
it is so great
I feel I have to share it to feel relief
I don't really look back to see
whom the sword is from
I just know whoever pokes this wound
Will surely feel the full wrath
of my pain
Finally something does
I smile cynically
What a fool
I grab the sword
And drag it onto their chest
Wait! It's still there
The sword on my chest
It just extended
onto the next person
We're in a circle of hurt people
It's getting wider
The origin is mostly money
Try our best we should
But..It's so hard to get out
If I could I would
The things we see can be seen one of two ways
Either full of color or just straight black and white
The coexistence of natural dark and our light
But we choose to see what we think is right
Whether it’s believing that love is true
Or saying it’s something that has no meaning
A concept formed completely on a ruse
Yet it’s strength comes from its own fragility
The words “I love you” might be built so cynically
Cuz these emotions we have were formed separate from our identity
Am I happy cuz of things that are genuine
Or is this all fake so i can continue livin
Ignorin my feelins that my mind’s distillin
It’s like this whole world’s full of conflictions
Conditions and missions to keep us from wishin
But I choose to do the exact opposite
Like a drug I get so high I can’t get off of it
What’s right, what’s wrong, is it fake or nonfiction
Everything we done built up is all a contradiction
Do they still dig up bodies from
The killing Fields of Flanders,
Bones of those long ago
Enticed and betrayed,
Lost generation, sold and
Slaughtered for no real cause.
Do they inter those bodies
Amongst the precise rows
Of immaculate graves,
Each topped wth it’s
Serene white cross marked
With Number Rank Name,
Or the Unknown Soldiers tombs
For those as yet unidentifed,
Those treated as cannon fodder,
The Butchers’ Bill in life,
To be shamelessly and cynically
Too late honoured in death.
Did they learn any lessons,
Were promises made kept
Or are those Fields of Crosses
Just a sad and mute reminder
Of how easily it could and
Does happen again and again.
Once a year they parade their
National outpourings of grief
While, from the latest leaders
Crocodile tears shed as they take
Their annual break from Calculating
The continued profits of death
Glaucoma, Cataracts, the dreaded sty,
Seeing color in people is like a jaundiced eye.
Racism, Bigotry, Judging others critically-
Aversion to diversity and being equals cynically-
Uppity eyes who like to pretend
They don't judge others for their skin.
But it goes both ways-
it's equally not right-
to resent a man because he's white.
Like a disease without a cure-
Unless we judge the character
It's a rampant race no one will win.
No one gets to choose their color of skin-
Stereotypes, stigma but we need to try-
To purge the yellow from our eyes.
To see and hold all races dear-
Because only then will our eyes see clear.
Failure is with us every day
telling us to go for it on fourth and one;
more and more that’s done;
we listen to failure smiling cynically
as he whispers temptations in our ears.
You’d recognize the guy,
You’ve seen him lingering near,
first cousin to Mayhem on TV,
there’s a strong family resemblance.
But forewarnings don’t enhance
self-protective good sense
for the lot of us hooked on football games
as we urge our favorites on
to one more squeeky win
as the clock runs down to zero zed.
It’s just the same with soccer fans.
C’mon man! What more do you need
to recognize Failure’s hold?
You saw the game: that field goal
that hit the pole and then bounced off
the crossbar inches short of a score
was Failure giving us, all of us, the finger.
So now you’re an Eagle fan?
Take heed, man, Failure will linger.
Can downed Eagles hibernate? Bears can!
Everlasting war
The new normal in the twentieth century is war
it has continued without a break a perpetual machine
of mass killing, someone somewhere must see
war as a business in which every country has a bloody hand.
Politicians, the handmaiden for manufacturers
of weaponry claim, they only sell the weapon for peaceful
means this as bombs fall in Yemen.
The Afghan war against the Taliban has lasted 17 years
and will not end before all foreign troops leave,
but the war continues, and the poppy fields bloom.
Many smaller countries in UN see, it cynically, as a training
ground for officers and they know well
the Taliban cannot be defeated on the battlefield that
have no lines of combat against the Peshawar people
who fights for freedom, but we chose not to see this.
On an island in a bloody river the count not corpses but the money they make.
Wildfire season - I inhale, and choke
On fiery air, try to blink away haze
But all the sunlight is full of smoke
Drizzling embers fall in a burning dose
Like stealthy predators, they come too close
Swallowing the land in a scarlet blaze
Leaving us homeless and broke
To rebuild, we are left on our own
The red ink of insurance protects only their greed
They cynically say we should have known
As an 'act of God' they don't cover
It is on our shoulders to recover
Their profit more precious than our need
But we are not beaten; tenacity is home-grown.
8/15/18
Hiking a dry creek bed, at the mountain's base
I happened on an old grist mill, a prisoner
of time, serving life in isolation.
A few rotten boards scattered about
was all that remained of it's dilapidated Norse wheel
The broken millstone lay silent on it's bed
the thick green ivy walls, closing in.
Guarded by giant pin oaks and river ash,
yet one could easily see evidence of visitors.
I was trespassing, not on land
but on another time, another's dream.
What was most likely, once a busy road
for horse drawn wagons had become
a clearing for utility poles and wires
I did not enter but I stood there
envisioning yesterday. mountains on both sides,
creek of fresh running water and the
serenity of this lush mountain valley.
Then cynically muttered,..."Progress"
5/27/2018
I finally broke down and placed an ad
Desperate for that which I once had
Hoping for help in helping me out
Not sure it'll happen since I still have my doubts
First thing I have on top of my list
That I most miss is my childhood innocence
If anyone knows where it is
Could you give me a call, I'll pay top dollar for it
Then there's the love I'd keep beside of me
Wherever I went unconditionally
Sharing with those I felt were in need
Now I need it back, desperately
I remember when I held forgiveness by the hand
Yet over the years I cynically let it slip
The craziest thing about this is
I struggle to forgive myself for losing it
I've started out looking for just a few
I figure if I get these back I'll be doing good
Next I'll be looking to get back my clue
If I had that I'm sure I'd know what to do
Which brings back the purpose for this ad
Desperate for that which I once had
Looking for help in helping me out
Hope against hope these can be found
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