We are the story tellers,
Once of nature loving best.
River and mountain lake and forest
Teaming life of air or land.
We loved the wolf, big hearted proud
The stubborn boar reclusive bear.
Each with spirit man endowed them
To tell of knowing natures worth.
Shaman natures laws need master
Herb law, river, the running deer.
The seasons passing they knew them,
Living with all, wild untamed and free.
To share in stories at end of day.
But Abraham this way came stalking,
Telling stories of a jealous god.
Soul giver only to his chosen
Nature shorn, a play thing made
Hidden in mists behind the vale of tears.
Shaman cast anew to be witches,
For knowing natures secret ways.
Cernunnos, Pan, soon turned to devil,
By prelates of numen promising eternal life.
Nature made wicked will loose its value
When souls stand knocking at heavens door.
Fantastical tales are loved the best
When men will argue of dancing
Angels on the heads of pins,
Or flights of fancy to travel the stars.
Categories:
prelates, culture, nature,
Form: Free verse
There’s nothing lacking in the thing itself.
In some ways, it’s the very best of us.
It’s not like Marx was some egregious elf,
or Rosa Luxemburg some succubus.
The deal is, if you subjugate the masses,
they might not like it. Corner them, and they
will fan out fiercely, as do poison gases,
and pimps and prelates will be swept away.
So simple, so methodical. So why
did communism curdle and collapse?
One short, scant century it took to die:
a flimsy, flawed philosophy, perhaps?
We messed up, through our immaturity,
the grandeur of that peerless theory.
Categories:
prelates, satire,
Form: Sonnet