‘Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless
against the powerful.’ – Molly Ivins
Lounging like an uninvited guest,
thinking the room is its conquered kingdom,
a fly on the wall scans his idiosyncrasies.
Its surreptitious eyes roll in incredulity
as a budding leader rehearses to make lies true.
A self-professed monitor of his trying times
it’s perched there just to silently laugh at him,
feeling secretly like many he’s an entertainment,
for by now it knows him too well
to scribble his tell-all as invisible writing on the wall.
The herd amasses together
The numbers provide the semblance of societal norms
It's a collective value system called conformity
Like bees to a bee hive - they swarm
Non-compliance is unacceptable
The fear of alienation is what drives the herd
The outsiders are entitled to their opinion
Yet crucified for their words
They are self-professed social warriors
With superior morals, values, and beliefs
They project - true virtue
Living a life of victimization filled with childish griefs
Self-righteousness becomes their identity
No one is excluded from their attack
Like a snake that eats its own tale
We all lose something we can never get back
Conformity - presented as collective value
Exhausted - we accept uncritically
The line between fact and fiction
Becomes a complete absurdity
“Herd morality is a powerful beast, with the force of the majority behind it.” - Friedrich Nietzsche
God is Dead?
Hubris, man's nature
A God, self-proclaimed
Nietzsche opined he's dead
Conceit, we laugh and say, no way
Self-professed with special attributes
Sympathy, love, reciprocity; how divine
Exalting our human virtue
So convenient; unfortunately, so blind
We sublimate our consciousness
Valiantly creating a magnificent reality
The audacity
Willfully blind; to only see what we believe
If we were to open up our eyes - our mind
Acquiesce to the grandness, the complexity of it all
Humble
Perhaps we thrive before we fall?
Hubris, mankind's nature
In his image, we reflect piously
Nietzsche opined he's dead - and we have killed him
The narratives not about God - its about you and me
She knew it all; she was brilliant. A genius.
I had never met her before, but she told me right away.
I watched my tablemate’s faces. They knew her. They were grinning.
I will do that! She said at every task we were given that day.
The others backed off right away; I was the only one who fought her.
But after a bit of time, I too, gave up.
It was not worth taking on her intense knowledge
That she was the only one who would do the task in a brilliant way.
She was a genius. She said. She was the best. She said.
A genius at alienating other people.
The best at being a selfish, know-it-all who did not know what a team was.
I, I, I, me, me, me, she sang as she did all of the tasks.
It was the last time I made the mistake
Of sitting at a table with her.
She had taught me that at least.
self professed failure
self confessed bailer
left when things got hard
disappeared
bad guy he told many
self confidence?
I don’t have any
Walking apology
Was this guy
When he arrived the women sigh
They want to save him
Rescue, turn him into
Someone rather fine.
They whine, cajole, lament and moan.
Trying to save this bad boy
Every time.
Were you at one with yourself
while writing it
Did the beginning
have an end
Did each word describe,
or then inflame
What light
can only bend
Did you gag
on meaning bundled
Were you trapped
behind its door
Were you—are you
self-professed
Does truth still ask
for more
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2019)
Hank was a blitz-drinking honest brute.
He wrote about the grime and grit of the streets.
Drunks, alley roaches, hookers on the beat.
Emily chose to live life in a little room.
A daydreaming spinster writing dainty verse.
Across those pages were the seeds of her hurt. *
Hank, the self-professed loner, sought out company.
Emily was really the burlap and he the delicate lace.
Poetry is a mountain made of many masks.
With the truth lying just underneath.
And still she smiles
Even in this darkness, her darkness,
when a moonless sky
preaches fear from a pulpit of shadows
pointing elongated fingers
and walls crumble
into a rubble strewn alleyway
with graffiti issues, spray painted threats
on frantic facades dripping. . .
common sense
hides in sealed envelopes
addressed but not delivered
to neighborhoods in need
while self professed wanderers
linger on sidewalks of
washed out hopscotch scenes
by a raincloud that never seems to stop
Her beauty shines
in effervescent streams
illuminating a photograph, poetry
and a kind word from quivering lips
caressing my eyes
in watercolor enchantments
and pastel pleasures,
showing me it is not what, but who. . .
for this darkness is hers,
weighted thoughts on soft shoulders
binding wrists in tethered worries,
draining dreams from casted wishes
and as regrets rip at the fabric,
folding seams in crooked stitches,
her heart continues to outrun the pain
and still she smiles, for me
Not a typical leader like anyone else
His silence speaks for his character
The depth of his soul wakes my curiosity
Has a potential to be a great leader
So he leads the whole class with fervor no angst
That is why he is called the chosen one
Not a selfish leader for he shares every single thing
His talent and skills are incredible things
That hidden skill is about to come from his depth
As I start to see the glamour in his eyes
Like a melody singing from his strings
Truly incomparable like anyone else
Someday he’ll see the glamour along the road
Not a typical leader that you usually know
He’ll make his name and it will light up in sky
A self-professed leader that will outshine everyone
Name on a white sand
Signifies identity
The greatest poet.
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