Learn from the past whether or not you were there
Of those who dismiss it ~ beware
Paradoxes
Are stories with
Responses of
Disbelief..or a
Certain immediate
And quiet resonance
Which cannot be
Explained..
Nevertheless...
Alone I enter my dim empty house and mourn our slain president
Monoku
Written 2/15/22
We stand outside, in heat or cold
And one by one, each class
Is marched outside to reunite
With we who wait, en masse.
The teachers watch to match each child
With parent, sitter or
A nana or a grandpa
Huddled near the exit door.
The children run to give a hug
To those who stand and wait,
The teachers glad their obligations
They can abdicate.
Yesterday, on the 20th of March 2016 on the BBC,
On The Andrew Marr Show about politics weekly,
I did see Ian Duncan-Smith, government member,
Say something that upset me, I do remember.
“I am not morality, I leave that to church men.”
But can't anyone decide what makes you a christian?
I understand evolution, and that gives me values,
Sets standards and boundaries for thanks and dues.
Death’s Dismissal
I have seen death
masquerading in its many faces,
the fear of those holding numbers,
the agony of those not. Stared into
the dimly fading headlights of the
passing vehicle, slowing as the vision
dimmed, the agony increased.
I have seen death
take the unsuspecting in an instant,
snatch the breath of youth, impose its
ugliness upon an empty future,
string barbed wire upon memory.
I have watched death
peering cowardly from non-existent
shadows, haunting our moments without
care, stealing, in hurtful bits and pieces,
the warmth of life’s slowing breath.
I have touched death
in weakness and denial of my life,
pleaded for release without conviction,
felt the loneliness and terror of submission,
saw the saddened eyes of death’s dismissal,
heard a number called, not mine, but death’s.
John G. Lawless
submitted to Death Shadow – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Justin Bordner
Where do you come from, vacant-eyed
hag, and where do you go from here?
Witching your way from border to bay,
who will your mumbling hear?
The babe in the bower is safe for an hour
while you intone your hideous cries;
the man in the wood not even you could
harm with your malevolent eyes.
Scat! with the brat who accompanies that
noise which you wail with spoon on pail.
Sail 'cross the sky on your broom or fly
down the chimney of some dungeon dimly
lit by the flare of gaseous air.
We'll not heed your pitiful creed
nor miss your darkening frown.
Go, Despair! Get out of town!
Ah, Inhale life
onto the paper I shall write
Be it dark or be it light
while the inner fire’s burning;
now the wheels shall be turning
It feels just right
It flows so freely
out of the depths of me
This ambitious attraction
to cascade and spill,
and all the lonely hours it does fill
For this reclusive writer
Chooses to live within her mind
there she shall be for hours at a time
And time passes so promptly and measured
moments have ended
For that, that is treasured
I will idolize my tranquility
And bleed out my reflections
In hopes I may be reconnected
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