24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
SR 153 somewhere between
Mullins and Savannah
is dotted with stone white
oaks, dead as hands clawing
from swampy graves.
Devil’s Dining Room Rd
doesn’t lead where you think
it will. There are three foot tall
flowers with orange heads
and orange lips foretelling war
on the uncut shoulder of a newly
paved road. They cry into
the ditch and feed the crayfish.
They fear a moving blade.
They should.
Picture this: four children on a playground,
Gathered around a freshly discovered corpse.
The bee had buzzed, surely;
Had lived, had laughed, had loved;
And so the only appropriate response was clearly
To bury the creature, fallen leaves for a shroud.
It had not, to our knowledge, stung anyone;
It had not done anything but exist;
That was all required for death to take its own.
Yet that small life had value;
Its existence was enough
To merit the respect of funeral and honor of mourning.
The ships have sailed on solar wind,
Earth is the dusty relic and we are left.
And for past generations
There was an eternity of tomorrows
And we, arrogant descendants,
Assumed life was forever.
We’re waving goodbye as the last ships
Burn an old ochre sky with a smell of ozone.
We hoped for one more future,
But our dusk came.
Hold my hand, let’s watch stars burn
And die as we have, of time,
Now knowing nothing is forever.
in response to prompt 15, apocalypse or end of days
Poor for a reason
a politician’s excuse
for no parity
You walk in front of me
In the street baba
I don’t see you
All is lost
When I go to get you
Far far
Beyond the mountains
Beyond the big fields
Beyond what we don’t even know
As it is
So it is
Far far
You walk in front of me
You dance and you sing
You are beautiful as the most wonderful
Wild madness
The game is not over
It even looks like it
Just got started
The part, not fine at all
Who makes you run everywhere
Like a fool at full speed
What’s pressing you?
So much, you, who is going
In search of you don’t know what
Lost again
To better reinvent yourself always New
Once again
There will come a time ahead when time on earth will end.
Things will grow to be so bad, we can’t even comprehend.
The only hope we have is God, who settles right from wrong,
When He returns, well-armed, with His mighty angel-throng.
The weapon He will use will not be known as common
As used in battles fought by man, in wars forgotten.
But He will end it all with just a spoken Word–
For when our God has spoken, each syllable is heard.
And whatever He commands that Day, you can be sure will be,
For He commands the first and last, throughout eternity.
And He’s the Boss, so listen well, and heed what He will say,
For God will take complete control, and He will save the day!
Four Horsemen
Four horsemen from below did ride
On steeds as thin as smoke
Four horsemen seated side by side
And braggingly they spoke:
“I am Pestilence,” said the first,
“I kill with racking pain.
My sores and fevers are the worst
No one can match my fame”
“My name is War,” the second cried,
“I do not kill at all.
I teach mortals the sting of pride
Then watch the legions fall.”
“I am Famine,” proclaimed the third,
“Starvation is my tool.
Greed and hording are my watchwords,
For humankind is cruel.”
“I am Death,” the last one spoke
“No one escapes my blade.
The old, the young, the rich, the broke,
To me the price is paid.”
Four horsemen from below did ride
The Last Days drawing nigh
Four horsemen seated side by side
To watch the humans die.
A Circle: The End is the Beginning (Acrostic)
Callous casualties of opportunistic demagoguery give way to fervent ceasefires.
Imaginations illuminate the shift that is pending. The end points to a new beginning.
Reconciliation of the fallacy of opposites finally proves the hypothesis.
Circle reunited in balance restores the Empress and chalice.
Lessons learned will be held dear for eons without masters or peons.
Expansion in mass maturation elevates the whole of creation.
Yarn hoarder’s confession
Street vendor by trade
Crocheting hats with a
Madame Defarge intensity
Seven years I sold them
Now laden with too much
Yarn purchased on sale
I appear a hoarder unwilling
To part with smart purchases
Hats of my own design
Unable to follow formal
Instructions lost on me
I had made up my own
Now Granny squares
Has become my therapy
The same square in
Infinite colors now hundreds
As yet not unified the
Squares are mounting up
In bags hidden from view
Until one day
Perhaps to circumnavigate
This failing planet to
Cozy it up with comfort
That only Granny can offer
TobeTT # 17
Mother Nature sheds one ghastly skin
One of disease and pain and spiritual vandalism
One of love and beauty and poetry
Humanity left as no more than a healing scar on earths grimace