The Sleep of Reason Breeds Monsters

A compelling thought -- though owls, cats, and bats?
Hardly horrific. So, why should we be afraid?
We dream nonsensical sequences and shifty
Machinations of strangers with their brutal acts,
While mirrors try to remember all that was said,
Before we wake to dull, half-lit reality.
The real monsters are familiars, the mundane beasts
That could turn on us in uncountable numbers,
Always there and ready to amass and devour,
But forbear vengeance as long as we do not cease
To recognize, analyze, judge, and remember.
"Return our stares -- we will always flee and cower,
But abandon yourselves, fail to think and do well,
Our minions will claw out your heart, swallow your will."

The Eighth Circle of Hell

This, the eighth circle of Hell, where liars and frauds
Turn thwarted ambition to violent attacks,
Is the last reward for all political hacks
(Who “righteously” lied in the name of their gods).
Men of faith bite the throats of men of reason.
They tear at children with blood-stained fingers
And vow to prove vast conspiracies of treason,
Calling to chambers testimonial singers.
Lawyers and judges cringe, impotent witnesses,
Appalled by acts born of conviction, yet witless.
The less guilty, forgers and fibbers, writhe like snakes
To flee the melee, though they voted for these fakes.
Above, a bald Lucifer’s grimace hardens
As he grants all his dear minions pardons.

Ukraine

It’s possible to destroy even hell

And turn evil to dust

With the dropping of shell after shell.

What remains is one man’s lust

Mating with his own cold will,

Giving birth to blood and rust.

Each bullet or bomb’s a pill

That plugs a hole in his brain,

Which is cold and still,

As is Ukraine,

Where a young child fell

And didn’t get up again —

Her killer dares her now to tell.

Bread: A Parable for Our Times

I took bread from the shelf,

As so many thousands have,

A simple act for a simple meal.

I thought, from this one place

The uncountable have been fed,

From here, this grocery store,

Where the shelf is never empty.

And not just once — I have

Performed this act of grace

So many times myself, I wonder

That there’s any more for others.

Would I take the last loaf left?

We have all done far worse things.

It wouldn’t be a crime, of course —

Someone must be the last to eat.

I could say, “There’s more bread,

Perhaps, on shelves in other stores,”

Succumbing to rationalization.

There are now thousands lined up

Behind me, waiting for me to choose.

Has every one made up their mind?

If you were me, what would you do?

The Last Greenhouse

A man looked out at his black yard,

wanting to make good use of time:

I need to make one fine thing hard,

he thought, make it mine, only mine.

He stole a dozen doors of glass,

and built a house, and hung a sign

that said:  You shall not pass.

Then he bought some seeds, a pot

and dirt, and began to grow grass.

Each night he stood inside and thought —

watering grass is not too hard.

Soon the roots began to rot—

in the greenhouse, out in the yard.

A Nation of One

His own minion in that nation,

He eats like a king, thinks like a stool.

All of his words are defecation.

His actions insipidly cruel,

He pounds his fist on the able,

Whips his army like a mule.

Hacksaw and hammer and Babel

Bang on the running heads

Of corpses on the embalming table.

He dreams of flowing Red,

Of flags and blood, this revelation:

The disappearance of the dead

And his vacuous exaltation. 

Guardsman

The machine gun slung

on a guardsman’s shoulder, aimed

at blue sky, as if the war might be

won, if it could still be fought.

But that was a tornado, this only

a heavy storm in early summer, a kite-

cleaning for the trees, and exercise

for the long-limbed loping wind.

He is not afraid of the lightning,

but wonders, have I remembered well?

I should test my stride against

that lean racer’s, run for some low

roof the bolts pass by for a higher,

where the storm bashes itself into air.

He looks at the tree, chin thrust up

like a sailor’s.  The leaves thrash

in the fierce currents of the wind.