Rough Landscape
In my mind the landscape of Guernica features high on the many
crowbars to unmask that inner prison of conscience and humanity
So many scenes of destruction with no predominant hierarchy of evil
no glass ceiling of guilt so many tapestries of loving lives abandoned
A museum piece in Madrid with no doubt yet an exhibition of madness
displayed on the altar of what we as people have become and behold
Life would not have me nor would I have my life if my father had not
escaped what now is Kaliningrad on one of the last boats ‘cross the sea
As a German court has decreed soldiers are murderers and my Dad
has therefore been one of those martial slayers in history’s temple
There is not much left of the City of Prussian ambition and blasts
from the past just mainly a naval harbour and renegade socialist pride
A rebuilt cathedral and memories of amber and marzipan shared but
I hear Hitler Youths shouting their ‘Heils’ in absurd pubertal screams
For my own sanity and resolution of trans-generational disgrace I need
to visit my beginnings to start telling the story how to scape inner Peace
01st May 2017
Categories:
pubertal, peace,
Form: Free verse
Oh lust
How does it come?
How does it wax?
Like the wind
Or like the rain;
Like the dawn
Or like the dusk;
Like the first stain of pubertal menstruation
Or like the rapid squirt of hormonal secretion?
Oh lust
How does it keep?
How does it glow?
Like a candle
Or like magma;
Like the sun
Or like the moon;
Like the secure knowledge of contraception
Or like the private pleasure of masturbation?
Oh lust
How does it go?
How does it wane?
Like the wind
Or like the rain;
Like the dawn
Or like the dusk;
Like the guilty pang of infatuation
Or like the flaccid flop of a lost ********?
Categories:
pubertal, lust,
Form: Verse
DEATH
(IT)
Brought to us by living corpses
Every second, every minute, everyday,
Plants, even share IT’S seasonal way.
No answers, come from thanatology
We depend completely on thaumatology.
Life makes sure, that IT’S denounced
Living makes sure, IT happens only once.
Sin and sorry, tend to be IT’S kin
War seems to justify, why IT’S a win.
The Past is the Future, as soon as IT arrives
The Future is the Present, waiting to be deprived.
On land, in sea, IT diets on us
Whether long white hair or pubertal pus.
Forsaken by Forever
All groups, all prides, all flocks,
This Rolex’s worth a million
But Longevity, ticks and tocks.
Brought to us by “Funerals”
Please “Wake” us from IT’S sleep
Cause IT gave us no fair warning
IT crept, IT hid, IT leaped.
By: Arthur Charles Ford,Sr./poet
P.O. BOX 4725
PITTSBURGH,PA. 15206
EM:wewuvpoetry@hotmail.com
1-866-234-0297
Categories:
pubertal, death,
Form: Rhyme