if god meditates
will the children of war heal
will the dead rise up
dead
the tattoo…
it started
just below her ear
and coursed down
her neck
covering parts of her breast
winding like a politician’s words
to her back
vining down her leg
it was there
for all to see
it protected her
from her own teachings
of love thy neighbor
she was willing to die
for those who shared
the same tattoo
but those
whose markings
were different
were to be
guarded against
kept away
shunned
and shown
no mercy
in battle
that they had children
and husbands
lying dead
in the rubble of life
was not her concern
for they did not have
the tattoo of god
as
she saw
god
sorry my mistake…
somewhere
between yesterday
and today
i thought
the world
would end
in the sense
i’d lose
another friend
i had no particular
insights into why
i just had a feeling
that a life might
just end
not sure whose life
i was concerned about
since most folks
i know
are already dead
or
have made appointments
i cruised through
the morning newspaper
thinking i’d
recognize
a name or two
but they were all
just young kids
soldiers
dying in some
foreign land
same thing
i’ve read for years
so
i guess
i was wrong
the watchmen waketh…
beneath the earth
the army of the dead
move in unison
to the rolling pitch
of the underground train
marching to the surface
passing the roach infested
dark alleys of shadow people
the ones who beg for alms
as the hollow souls scurry past
the army must stay its course
headed for their burial abodes
crypts of glass and polished steel
for they have bartered their souls
for transient wealth and fame
a bloodless coup of a nation
where only pleasures of the flesh
are considered worthy
but at night
curtains drawn
flickering news stories
of the anger
of those who sought alms
makes every shadow
move independently
on the walls
a creeping fear
that makes even
the dead
turn
in their
graves
This poem represents my final response to the third challenge series between Jade and I. This challenge is somewhat different in that the prompt is now an audio prompt. Each poet provides the other with five instrumental songs (so that the song’s words do not interefere with the poet’s) from which the poet is to write a poem. Jade has written her first response which can be found here.
conquistadors…
in the harbor
a black ship
sails toward shore
the new land
the americas
below the decks
crimson warriors
satan’s own
wearing crosses of white
we see them come ashore
so many men
with strange dress
metal arms and heads
weapons that flash
like thunder
killing without a single
blow of the axe
elders tell us to flee
but we the young eagles
say we shall fight
for our sacred ground
for freedom
for all that the gods
have given us
but
rocks burst open
the blood of our nation
pours from each stone
of the village
flames consume
the living
and the dead
waves of fear
cover all who stand
before these beasts
our gods
have forsaken us
our gold
our freedom
our land
raped
by
messengers
of a
foreign
god
who
came
to
save
our
souls
This poem represents my fourth response to the third challenge series between Jade and I. This challenge is somewhat different in that the prompt is now an audio prompt. Each poet provides the other with five instrumental songs (so that the song’s words do not interefere with the poet’s) from which the poet is to write a poem. Jade has written her first response which can be found here.
pharisees of kansas…
holding high their golden calf
they stand outside death’s gates
as if wishing to enter hell today
instead of at their appointed time
these pharisees like maggots
invade the souls of the bereaving
mocking them like centurions of rome
casting lots for the garments of all true disciples
the chief priest and his elders
asked not for him to come down from the cross
but that others be crucified with him
wanting to nail every hand but theirs
on a cross for failing to join in
as they offer a sponge of vinegar
to the those left outside the sepulcher
they relish these moments
like a drunken whore at an orgy
yet like all false prophets
they dress in the royal robes of sanctity
these pharisees with their lawyers
going to every corner of the globe
offering false witness as was predicted
of these satanic soldiers of barabbas
stooping to remove the coins from the eyes of the dead
to fashion a new idol for the beast they worship
offering up prayers to the nine pilates
in the common hall for thirty pieces of silver
but when the veil of the temple
is rent for the final time
there will be
hell
to pay
the damn smell…
i am a back street poet
pied piper of little harlem
using my pen for a wood flute
calling out society’s rats
hoping to write their epitaph
smell the burning rags
endless odors of death
people blow their minds
over things they can’t define
so they light a fire or two
in hopes they might forget
endless odors of the dead
which creep into their souls
so they drink and waste all
relief line soldiers is their trade
passing my door – off to the camp
the camp of the great white father
who gives them no hope
to forget the damn smell
some fools say move away from here
but how
who’ll lend you the money
ain’t no one i know got one cent
so that ends that in a hurry
but the smell, the damn smell
it remains in the air
children playing barefoot in the streets
among the maze of broken bottles
laugh and cry and don’t know why
their lives seem different than yours
but the smell, the damn smell
lets them know all too soon
come walk with me to the grave
in which they’ve lain your city’s child
whose unmarked and small grave
is covered in weeds
but there in peace is rest
away from the smell
the damn smell
Read Between the Minds 