In fact, at first,
By fiction’s thirst,
To thrust my sight in curse,
‘Tween nurse and verse,
For better, for worse,
At least I can rehearse.
Before the former:
A stench in fallacy’s flame,
Neurosis is but a game.
After all the latter’s the same:
Whether I meld or maim.
When the flames engulf my hands,
Lit parchment sparks my pineal gland.
Answers to question beg ampersands,
To slither out tricks per mind’s demand.
Whether or not, why I live,
I used to care to give,
Thoughts to sands and shaken sieve:
I think them too determinative.
Beyond a child’s belief,
Who knew them for their fief,
And in relief I saw the grief,
Of a diocesan thief.
So then what is it, we should think?
Too many wrote it in faded ink,
Idolatry failed in me to sync,
Whose world their tales just shrink.
So I turned them into story,
They whose nouns feign glory,
With capitals wrote by signatories,
Gave pardon for the gory.
And then I turned it into poem,
To the Devil: I’d have to show him,
To a God: who lives in hymn,
Alone, and written in a whim.
Categories:
determinative, myth, nature, poems, poetry,
Form: Rhyme
Do we understand
Can we begin to imagine
What it's like
to live over there
Where drinking water and toilet water
come from the same source
Where trips into town
are by donkey or horse
Where babies are more likely
to die than to live
Where life's path is fixed
determinative
Where rice is the one meal of the day
where anopheles mosquitos hold sway
Where 'hope' is a dream that ends at dawn
and a grave marker a pillow to sleep on
We read about it
a moment of concern
Shake our heads solemnly
as the world turns
Categories:
determinative, pollution, poverty, world,
Form: Rhyme