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.

The Knight, Death, and the Devil

The Knight and his Death ride horses bridled;
One with studded leather, the Other twisted hemp.
The Devil walks. Having nothing hasty to attempt,
He's happiest when men, actively morally idle,
March, run, ride, or fly toward anything Ideal.
Plodding along, He's never too far behind.
The Devil and Death have nothing to conceal
From a Knight known to be uncommonly unkind;
To the men who've just been maimed by his sword,
He's always spared a righteous, comforting word.
They show themselves: anthropomorphic Fates
The Knight, smiling to himself, politely ignores.
A running dog briefly disrupts the stalemate
Only one of the three has the power to restore.

Army Men

The military objective: to knock the chip
Off the mysterious stone's shoulder, then tip
The whole evil mass over and bury its white
And gaping, bespittled gob out of human sight.
The soldiers, rigid with fear and umbrageous rage,
Are all innocent, young, exactly the same age.
Their memories are identical, none recalls
How his father fought the same war with the same balls.
Though they are many (the stone is ageless and numb,
Impervious to thought, its nervous system dumb),
They're dry sticks waved over dry soil by a dowser,
When what's needed is a six inch field howitzer.
They break against the stone, bounce back, and charge --
Small men to prevail over what is merely large.

Dragon’s Blood

Long ago, each dragon had its slayer.
The hoarding of gold was always a crime.
Armed with only a sword and a prayer,
The young knight tracked the serpent by its slime.
Some thought the worm slept on his rug of gold,
Never wakening, but like all creatures,
It must eat -- a lady perhaps, not old,
With pleasing form and nice facial features.
Surprised by the knight while guarding its lair,
The dragon, too sated to run, plunges
Forward as the terrified knight lunges.
Its last thought glimmers: "This is not fair."
The bloody sword drips on the knight's fingers.
He licks them. Only the gold smell lingers.

The Headless

A tyrant seeks with tongue or sword to erase

In his conquests every other race

But his own, put defenders to the chase.

He doesn’t have to kill to cut off heads;

He can speak black words of hatred instead.

By doing so, his voice, his anger, bled

Of honor, leaves him only his blunt spear

To throw blindly at what he thinks is fear,

As one by one his soldiers disappear.

The “headless” ones begin to speak of truth

With the insight and energy of youth,

And refuse to accept their headless state:

The tyrant himself, mumbling, “I am great,”

With nothing left beneath his balding pate.

The Thief

The Capitol, a home of belief —

It doesn’t matter which — slowly decays.

The roof beams go first, nothing wooden stays.

Moss paints the stone arches in bas-relief, 

Images of dead and forgotten grief.

We live in roofless rooms with a sly thief,

Who steals, first our parents and eldest friends,

Then our useless youth, which he quickly spends.

Our music and books are replaced with fakes,

Our mirrors with odd faces, double takes.

Though I would not kill the thief if I could,

I defy him — plant flowers, kiss the wind.

I have children I hug; I’ve seldom sinned.

He can’t have my memories, bad or good.

The Dancing Monster

If you dare to tell him he can’t,

The monster starts his dancing rant.

The noise blasts an half-empty House

Where nothing stirs, not even a louse.

His legs lift just so high and pound

And pound the ground like myriad rounds

Aimed to shell the foundations

Of once allied loyal nations.

(He makes of enemies his friends

For obvious and evil ends.)

His confused shrieking grows louder,

Anger eloquent as gun powder.

When dance and rant become one,

The work of dictatorship’s begun.

Pandemonium

Potus, a defeated devil of Pandemonium,
Is lonely tonight for want of a loyal friend:
Anyone, sick or foul, human or fiend,
Even a specter enriched with plutonium.
The lights glare like angry souls at the palace,
And the burning rivers between here and there
Drown out the sweet, anguished tintamarre
Of endless victims of others' so-called malice.
Cold comfort for Potus, who once boasted
The brightest shield and the longest spear,
Who stalked the palace halls without fear,
Now to stand out here, alone and untoasted.
"Curse you all!" he cries, "I don't deserve this!"
But knows there's no leaving Satan's service.

The Rhinoceros

The rhino, armored like a knight,

With two weapons — his sheer tonnage

And the horn sticking from his snout —

Will never hesitate to fight.

The least intrusion sparks his rage.

He’s a bully, a brute, a lout. 

He stalks my back yard foraging

For greens he pulls with toothless gums.

The songbirds, opportunist bums —

Chickadees, titmice, and waxwings —

Blanket his back all day for free,

Though he’s kept bug-less by the bee-

Eaters. I’ve learned to swallow fears.

Each day someone boxes his ears.

Unless, Sonnet #633

Is the word a tautology?

It seems to mean “if less, less.”

Or is it, as in theology,

Tinged, like faith is, with a guess?

What will happen is contingent

On (an unless) what might not be,

Should the past or future invent

Some unclear possibility.

We use the word every day.

Are we afraid to speak the truth,

To even believe what we say

(Old, we say it — less in our youth),

Nor mean to understand unless

We think unknowing to express?

The Error of Innocence

It’s impossible, a contradiction

Of being, a false manipulation.

The mistake is in not knowing,

Like a child mimicking a curse,

Without any idea what it means.

At four I once told my brother,

“I wish you would go to hell,”

Then added, “no, don’t go to hell.”

Hell being no more than a word —

Yet I was vigorously punished

With a dozen stripes of a strap.

Some think we’re not born innocent,

Like the lion, the viper, or the lamb,

But by some withheld benediction

That can only be lost in the learning,

Which in itself taints the newly-wise.

The veins in a sick hand, febrile

And limp, are not guilty till lifted.

“The only truly innocent are dead,”

Some say. No greater lie ever said,

Because even they are burdened

By all that has come before. Not sin,

Not ignorance, but the spoken word,

The lie given breath willingly,

For no other purpose than to know.

The Last Days

“Some chose to run, many to hide

Inside their temples and rooms,

Where every one of them died

In incendiary tombs.

I walk in a mourning fog

Outside and inside my mind,

Hand in hand with Gog in Magog

And all the rest of my kind.”

“What are these floods and fires

And stupidity admirers

(Viruses in a cracked petri jar)?

How can I fight the coming war

We’re already losing day by day

As we run, slower and slower, away?”

Parade

The invention of the assembly line,
The conveyor belt, the repetition
Of a single simple task by one man,
Produces all that is useful and fine.
Let me push the button of ignition
On armor as heavy as a tin can.
No bullet can penetrate my new skin,
Sleek and silver and exquisitely thin.
I'm so perfect now a parade of me
Runs past the smokestacks of the factory.
I'm joined by a smart, lock-loaded army;
As we march, everyone behind his hood,
Goose-stepping, bright phalanx of right for good,
We stare down the decadent and swarthy.

The Spy (Cold War Mini-sub), Sonnet #632

 

Like a sty in the nation’s eye,

He’s a hiding-in-plain-sight guy,

A cataract of the blind lie —

People still believe him, though why

Is as mysterious as Pi.

A carnival barker, though sly,

And a connoisseur of the small fry

He munches either moist or dry.

He beckons the bucks from on high.

They all trot up to him and sigh.

He has a mantra: I am I.

There’s no disputing that, just try.

There are some who think he's a spy.

We know he’s set the world awry.

Note: The number Pi is considered 

mysterious due to its irrational and

transcendental nature.