Perhaps it is a time for a wee poem or two, to say the thoughts that clamber and crash their way through the labyrinth of my mind.
Tinsel Cities.
In the city of tinsel and bright lights
midst the playthings of the rich
just beyond the champagne bubble
out of earshot of the butterfly people
in the dark shadows where no one looks
there you’ll find poverty and destitution
dance a macabre dance of survival.
In Mammon’s city of grand illusions
where rivers of wealth feed frivolity
in its twisting dark and musty lanes
where the light of hope seldom shines
an army of the living dead sweat and toil
polishing the tinsel, changing light bulbs
refilling the champagne bottles
nothing must stop the flow of frivolity
or the butterfly people will die.
In the city of tinsel and bright lights
midst the playthings of the rich
just beyond the champagne bubble
out of earshot of the butterfly people
in the dark shadows where no one looks
there you’ll find poverty and destitution
dance a macabre dance of survival.
In Mammon’s city of grand illusions
where rivers of wealth feed frivolity
in its twisting dark and musty lanes
where the light of hope seldom shines
an army of the living dead sweat and toil
polishing the tinsel, changing light bulbs
refilling the champagne bottles
nothing must stop the flow of frivolity
or the butterfly people will die.
The
Invisible.
We live there— yes— there
A little bit above the dead
But quite a bit below the living
Where poverty is a dream
Deprivation a reality
Our daily bread an illusion
We sigh--we weep—
As ruthless poverty
With its cold claws
Tears the heart from our children
We ask—WHY?
Surrounded by opulence
Invisible to arrogant greed
Anger simmers beneath the surface
We seek equality
We will have justice
If blood is the price
So be it.
A little bit above the dead
But quite a bit below the living
Where poverty is a dream
Deprivation a reality
Our daily bread an illusion
We sigh--we weep—
As ruthless poverty
With its cold claws
Tears the heart from our children
We ask—WHY?
Surrounded by opulence
Invisible to arrogant greed
Anger simmers beneath the surface
We seek equality
We will have justice
If blood is the price
So be it.
Mirror Mirror On The Wall.
that old man
as he staggers across the room
with that unusual gait
punctuated by the odd stumble
I hear his groans and feel his pain
sometimes with a few profane words
he drags himself from the couch or chair
pauses for a moment to regain his balance
I sense his reluctance to bend down
and pick things off the floor
I’m fascinated by those hands
light brown withered looking bony structures
with their pronounced veins
running along the back of them
and up his slim arms
I sense his annoyance
that they’re not as strong as they used to be
I feel his regret
that he can’t do the things he once did with ease
I often think
that to have lived that long
he must have a chest full
of memories and experiences
that should be worth something
but what puzzles me most
is when
I look in the mirror
I see him and not me.
I can’t help but watch him
that old man
as he staggers across the room
with that unusual gait
punctuated by the odd stumble
I hear his groans and feel his pain
sometimes with a few profane words
he drags himself from the couch or chair
pauses for a moment to regain his balance
I sense his reluctance to bend down
and pick things off the floor
I’m fascinated by those hands
light brown withered looking bony structures
with their pronounced veins
running along the back of them
and up his slim arms
I sense his annoyance
that they’re not as strong as they used to be
I feel his regret
that he can’t do the things he once did with ease
I often think
that to have lived that long
he must have a chest full
of memories and experiences
that should be worth something
but what puzzles me most
is when
I look in the mirror
I see him and not me.
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