outsourcing…

sunken eyes
blackened with fear
flesh
stretched tight
over
a fractured skeleton
a framework of despair
too weakened to move

or
swish away flies
flies
on
unattended sores
festering wounds
of
war
war for
computer chips
or
more precisely
the resources needed
to
manufacture chips
precious semiconductors
necessary
for

calling out
for
pizza
or
chatting
with
unknown friends
who’ve
been befriended
but
not one call
to
this child

 

 

barabbas …

murderous traitor
count the dead in this nation
how can anyone
that claims that there is a god
crucify the innocent
instead of the beast
do they long to bathe in blood
that of our children
or of those too poor to beg
for their god’s mercy
are silver coins of greed’s realm
worth denying sacred words
will the holy bed
be soiled with the putrid
lies of one man’s lust
or will the faithful remove
each bloody nail from faith’s hands

 

arson…

blazes
intentionally set
to
deprive
others
of
what they have
paid
for
with
sacrifices
of
blood
and
flesh
the hard labors
of
a lifetime
turned
into
smoldering
remnants
of
freedom
and
charred dreams
of
a better nation
a nation
which
could evolve
into
it’s
own
myth
were it
not
for
political arsonists
setting fires
and
then
offering
to put them out
for
the mere price
of
your soul
a so called
deal
of
the century

 

garland of freshly cut tears…

placed upon the street
love’s silent testimony
dried salty white wreath
left by a grieving mother
oblation to freedom’s god

 

go ahead and drink the kool-aid…

©2019 Charles Wm Martin

you sing
hallelujah
from
oaken pews
each
sunday
joining
the choir’s
exaltations
to
the endless void
of
death
never questioning
the promise
of
mercy
for
all sins
but
what of those
of
omission
children
left homeless
and
affection starved
victims
of
war
and
political egos
stripped naked
of
humanity
left
without
the shroud
of
dignity
and
in your chosen blindness
you pray
for
souls
that you shun
each day
of
the week
crossing streets
to
avoid
exposing your sins
those
crosses
you chose
not
to bear

 

sleepless lambs…

caged lambs
wool soaked
with urine
from
the holding pens
shivering
frightened
grasping
for
one breath
of
the promised
freedom
from
oppression
not
this
slaughter house
of
innocent souls
but
now
it’s
lights out
at
the border
detention center

 

a flag’s silhouettes of death…

you
demanded
that
i
stand for the flag
while
insisting
i should fall
at
your feet
whenever you
offer
some morsel
of
freedom
but
it was my family
that paid
in
blood
for the wealth
of
this nation
we have been
enslaved
beaten
degraded
and
murdered
for
centuries
without
cessation
of
violence
against us
for all
of
those years
and
yet
you pretend
to be
offended
when
anyone
questions
why
gratitude
should be shown
for
a history
of
barbarism

 

you are dying…

just outside
the glow
of
life’s street lamp
death
lingers
like
a gaseous shadow
merging
with
night’s fog
floating
like
waves
into view
then
receding
into
the darkness
as if
reminding
us
of
its presence
for all too often
we deny
that
death
is near
and
that
we
are close
to
extinction