The circus train cars abandoned decades ago,
The circuit of America now belongs to vultures,
Who once followed the elephants and clowns
Like starved, yearning runaways, an exiled sideshow.
Now, as then, they only eat the unclean, if pure,
Scraps of disease or murder on the edge of town.
It exasperates them, winging round and round,
With only frowning little girls and unplanted
Trees, shrubs, and ancient sawdust on the ground.
We know that of all fowl we're the most unwanted,
But those tiny birdbaths are simply insulting.
Tattered flesh, the stench of decay, our putrid breath --
From a vulture's field of view nothing can be revolting.
We soar, bubbles of gold, spiraling death.
Zealotry of Guerin: Poetry and Fiction by Christopher Guerin
The sonnet sequence, "My Human Disguise," of 630 ekphrastic poems, was begun February 2011. It can be found beginning with the January 20, 2022 post and working backwards. Going forward are 20 poems called "Terzata," beginning on January 27, 2022. Fifty Terzata can be found among the links on the right. A new series of dramatic monologues follows on the blog roll, followed by a series of formal poems, each based on a single word.
Wednesday, September 3, 2025
American Vultures
Thursday, August 28, 2025
The Mask of Fear
The mask doesn’t reach ear to ear.
It has one eye through which to peer.
(Not all you see is pure and clear.)
It does not change how you appear,
Or turn you into a seer,
Nor prevent you being a hearer.
It will hide an impolite leer
And a few, not many a tear.
You must lift it to sip your beer,
But not to look in the mirror.
Someone will say to you, My Dear,
There’s nothing in your life to fear.
As if you are blind, they will steer
You off the end of a pier.
Friday, August 15, 2025
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."
Friday, August 8, 2025
The Eighth Circle of Hell
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.
Thursday, July 31, 2025
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.
Wednesday, July 23, 2025
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?
Thursday, July 17, 2025
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.