Thursday, November 11, 2010

Let Freedom Ring the Neck of the Abusers

When did the world become a platform for
societal deterioration? When did we stop
the moral train of obligation and allow
the passengers of depraved, self indulgent
misfits to board?

Stand up and be counted in the
land that lacks accountability. Never fear
action for your actions. Reap the rewards,
sell your soul, worry not about

Day after day, we prove our shrinking
intelligence and manipulate the benefits
fought for with selfless sacrifice, and
use our narcissistic disregard for
all things given.

Congratulations to those who succeed
on the blood of those who knew
it was a privilege and not a right
Stand, be counted but don't hide,
as a coward.

Monday, November 8, 2010

I Do. I Don't. I Can't. I Won't

Slammed by Mary Walkden and Paula Blois

Two words , so small
they bind, I gag
choked out in passing
spoken once, silenced forever

Ague I was
I had to be
perhaps fevered, faint
my sole explanation, I fear.

Said for bliss, of wedded miss
soul ownership fought for dowry
longing stripped from the heart
year after year

A bed of roses is this?
no petals, but pricks and thorns
have I sown, stabbing my heart
with no regard

Wilting, aged, garden of evil
Ivy's overgrown, masking truth
covered in facts of lies.
Trapped in vines of soured grapes

Bitter whine they make, these grapes of wrath
will I stay the course on life-sentence path?
Beat me, cheat me, I will not break
for sake of two small words

I'll live in spite, kiss you goodnight
seething ,plotting, wondering "why"
"I do" I don't , I can't, I won't
We wake , we take, our life , is fake

Fairytale life? Not as your wife
To this challenge you know I will rise
One thing still is true, those two words 'I do'
are a risk I won't again take.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Scotch and Bingo

Funny thing, some may say
you sit , watching, intent on
figuring the stories
of all faces around you, wondering
what brought them here?

Faded, skin of leather worn
years of harsh living without
benefit of shelter from the
horrors, visible to those
who take the time to notice

Images of hell, seen in the eyes
of Marge. She plays thirty cards
every week, one for each year
served as a widow to the Marine Corps
Ole Marv, a regular player
suffers the hell of nights.
Listen closely and you can
hear the screams muffled
by a pillow.

Chairs dragging on worn tiles
fidgeting bodies move about
aimless as teen with his
assault weapon placed without
respect, upon his shaking hands

Callers yelling, often repeating
the numeric ball as those
who come to escape , waiting for their
number to come up.

Earl sits at the corner, best
stool in the post. Motioning
to the keep, two fingers, maybe four
enjoying the heat , the burn
as the scotch glides over his mind.