Category: Inhumane

Times of Shattered Glass

Times of shattered glass 
herald the approaching dark
Crone of a world war.

At night, soldiers come 
children cry out, glass shards of fear 
crushed into their skin

If we do nothing--
slaves we become, breathing out 
blood drops of a dream,
emptied of promise
held within springtime blossoms
of “a more perfect union”

A Burning Word

image courtesy of https://www.pickpik.com/

The words, the words--
They rattle in my head,
louder than 
the tail of a snake,
louder than 
the breaking of stacked billiard balls,
louder than 
the concussing jack hammer on a city street--
too much noise to hear distinctly
what must be written,
what must be said, screamed
into the foul fiery smoke-filled air

One word, one.
Just one, larger than the others,
louder— 
settles against my skin,
a lash of fiery noise,
burning, burning deep--
betrayal--
burning away tiny scars 
of other betrayals
a lifetime ago

This wildfire of betrayal
burns away
soul held beliefs
of common good.

Let The Horsemen Ride

(Revised from 2016 on the eve of our 2024 election)

Image courtesy of https://rose-of-god.fandom.com/wiki/Four_Horsemen_of_the_Apocalypse
The captain of industry gleefully looks to history
As a populous forgets all the tales of prophecy
While writhing in the seduction of blame and lies.

Thus, all the best in humanity is left behind.
Firing squads, internment camps, and torture now promised.
Yes, the captain says to let the horsemen ride.

The angry populous forgets
The path of anger makes the “world blind.”
Yes, the captain says to let the horsemen ride.

The sun dons a robe of sackcloth, grieving.
The ocean’s rasping last breath,
As the moon’s face rained blood tears,
Turning rivers red.

Yes, the captain bellowed, “Let the horsemen ride.”

The End of the Grand Romance

photo courtesy of @Liliwhitwhit on X



Nonsense things of twisted rhetoric

hang around the neck of a nation.

Words braided into twisted doctrines

of red and black and white.



Hatred fought so long ago

blended into now

with a new pandemic 

in the wake

of aberrant dreams.

Here where truth once

swayed and danced,

offering humanity

a grand romance

of belief in a thing

the world had never seen--

Golden rules made real.



We knew our daughters and sons

would serve as the sacrificial lambs

to keep our rules golden

for all generations to be free.







Though freedom be washed

in the blood of our lambs,

we still believed

in the grand romance--

And oh, how we did dance

For over two hundred years.



Then the roped nonsense came, 

tarnished the shine of our romance, 

interrupted the rhythm of our dance.

The twisted rhetoric strangled us

as a new sickness spread.

No ease given; no treatment sought.

Pockets lined with gold 

more important than golden lives.



Hatred and apathy listened

to the new prophet,

who said they were right--

Everything wrong was 

the fault of others:

The poor in spirit are just lazy.

Those who mourn make excuses.

The meek are just weak.

Those wanting righteousness want it all free.

The pure in heart want to give your gold away.

The peacemakers don’t want us to be strong.



Then the new prophet claimed he was the persecuted one,

promising vengeance for his own sake.

His apostles believed his sermons,

proclaiming him their chosen one.



Order is all,

He said.

Law is all,

He said.



He would teach them

by putting all people

in their rightful place.



Justice lay raped,

bloody, raw,

beaten and gassed,

in the streets 

as his disciples cheered

while the petty false prophet smirked,

holding a Holy book.

Re-forge the chain of Liberty’s shackle,

he ordered.



Then Truth 

stopped swaying,

stopped dancing,

offered us nothing,

flames of romance dying.

Twisted Cross

NPR’s Books We Love: Twisted Cross – Annette Kalandros

Blood Reign

All photos courtesy of Ap and Twitter

I’ve revised and reworked an earlier piece written in 2017 as a response to the terrorism of Hamas and the war Israel has declared. It seems to me that this slaughter by Hamas and the retaliation that Israel is now forced to take cannot be what any God wants. Surely, it is not what the Palestinian people or the people of Israel want either. 

The blood of children
falls as rain
on Holy ground.
The blood of their parents
chasing after
as if to save it,
stopping it
from concreating the land
to evil born of old hatred
as the world,
emptied of all care,
watches.

No uprisings.
No shouting in the streets
as this blood rain of innocents falls, 
flooding the silent world 
as nations watch, 
hands bloodied 
in pretense of helplessness
before turning their backs.
 
The seven descend.
Each with wings spread
enough to fill a house.
Shalom upon their tongues.
Throughout the compass points
they search to find
all the gnawed bones,
the muscles and sinew,
the heart and entrails
torn with teeth of hate.
And once the seven
gather all the tiny bits,
With flaming swords
used as needles,
they try to stitch
all humanity’s bloody bits
into one thing well knit.
Neither their swords,
nor spirit of their breath
have the power to seal
the meat and sinew to bone.

And then they know--
those who showed no mercy
would be given none.
Their heads hang--
Inshallah upon their lips
as they ascend.
Their flaming eyes
weeping tears of fire
as they see the red rider
striding across the land.

It is then the seven know 
humanity’s avarice and hate
had broken the fourth seal.

Maa shaa’Allah a whisper of smoke
within their throats.
From the seven sets of fiery eyes,
their tears of fire
stream Retzon ha-el 
across the night sky.

The Body of Christmas

Image courtesy of Patch.com

The body of this day scribed

in the giving of joy,

sacramental life found

in a bowl full of jelly

shaken by the deep belly laugh

of a white bearded fat man,

remember the truth meant

to be kept in the day,

so, turn in mind

to those who cannot share

in the giving abundance–

thus, are paid in the blessings

of holy lip service, the emptied garbage

to fill the landscape with

glittering wrappings of the day’s

leavings to leave a day

of a soulful mask searching for a soul

it lost long ago

in eternal hungering for fulfillment

never filled with ever more consumed.

Winter’s Will

image courtesy of ALEX VASILYEV on wired.com

There is no understanding

how winter comes

for it comes in too many ways

at too many times

often when it shouldn’t

starting at the edges

creeping to the core

snatching away all the covers

driving out the flames

or

slowly, softly

almost tenderly

like a gentle, timid lover

will winter drift into days

as autumn delicately falls

little dip by little dip into winter’s icy arms

then a frozen world is made.

At times winter rides

with sword drawn

into spring

after life has begun

to wreck havoc on all things

green and growing,

make still all hearts feeling the flow of life begin,

at those times, winter rides

until sweated out

in the course of time.

Yet winter may freeze us solid

in the midsts of summer’s heatwaves

as we stand over gaping mouths of graves.

While some breathing in the hope of spring

as others live in winter’s black ice

suffering the bite of hunger and need

winter’s winter grows larger still

beyond Arctic, beyond talk of tundra,

or talk of some kind of permafrost—

but something too many know.

we will not end in fire

nor will we end in ice

in the end,

it will be the lukewarm breeze

of indifference,

the one to do us in.