Uranus once ruled the ethereal realm
And for a while was at the helm
Until his son, Cronus, overthrew him
But Cronus, too, would have the crown seized from him
Cronus feared he'd lose the throne
Which caused him to swallow more than his pride
He swallowed his children; his wife did groan
But Zeus, she managed to hide
Zeus would eventually rescue his swallowed kin
A potion given to Cronus caused him to 'hurl' them out
But for the throne, there would be a war to win
In their battle with Cronus, victory came about
Thunder rumbled, and a dark cloud coils
Now it was time to divide the spoils
Cronus was imprisoned, never to be set free
Zeus got the sky and Poseidon the sea
When are you far right.? If for peace you call'
Where is far left..? Right now it takes my breath.'
Can't some democrats be Christian.? Who decides
On what, is what.? Like even stevens..We don"t hear
About him now, a playground adage he helped somehow?
Make it clear' yet along with kids not climbing trees, the offence of dirt
And fresh skinned knees, the label placers run amok
Handing out words the keep as stock' I see politicans
Austrian too..left the building, did Elvis get a view.? he had
His faults from what I hear.? Yet his passion for the U S
I beleive was clear.' Austrians can be the same.' Their land
Has vowed 'kein kreig' being as hitler is their shame.! And so
zelensky's session they left.. peace markers standing mute
Upon their desks.! What say you.? What do you think.?
Poets peers whats in your ink.? Wtite me something the
World is bleeding.' People are straving children dreaming
Of food of love a place thats safe.' Am i misleading? Yet war is raging in your
Face.' overtly peaceful institutions toil; to divide and
Conquer attain the land;? divide the spoils.' Their time is short
Their influence bought, the progress they offer is value naught.!
If I stare at the blank page long enough
Words will appear,
Words written in black ink, not mollified.
The words will grow together
Like grass forming a sod.
Then, as if on cue,
Spoons dance,
And horseshoes have wings.
A very short story would be the prime motive,
A murder of crows, perhaps.
And perhaps not.
Sometimes, the mud crawls together like glue.
It seals the burial of the crows.
It speaks in a slow language.
To interpret the hieroglyphs of the gods
Would be worthy.
The phone rings:
It is Kathmandu, dispirited.
Out of Montana a horn blows,
And the mountains sing.
The magpies are summoned to a conference
They will divide the spoils.
Their calls resound
On the north face of a mountain.
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