a sun glazes
this still scorched plain
where martyrs
walked ages past
scorned in
recollection
for their wicked
sacrifices
slaughter
the legacy
kiddie game
king of the hill
a hanging on
a cross
see the mad
people shout!
they shout
from the corners of streets
a fallen
brood
we are said
experience
to verify
in churches
or traffic jam
the other is
dust
caveman
driven
with motives
of armadas
by senators
and CEOs
impotent
intelligentsia and playful priests
watch the
young die for gas
delusions of
liberty shield money games
a hole in
the sky grows daily
yet
yachtsmen smirk
when
informed that the many missed dinner
masses
paralyzed by dumb repetition
too stunned
or numb to demand more
enduring
inherited agony
prove numbers
mean shit
unless it’s
cash or revolt
serenaded by
saints and dollar signs
a graceless
embracing of droll routine
leads to
what -
trading this
for some imagined future bliss
promised by
counters?
something
notices
twinkle of
starlight far off blast
a wink
that they
scream on and
dare to
dress a god
the ape’s mother
the cruelty humans are capable of
became clear to me at the age of twelve
after breaking a window
when my best friend
- we called him ape -
was no longer allowed to hang around with me
I called ape’s house afterward
pretending to be my older brother
his mother answered the phone
hurling a barrage of insults
realizing it was me
“you’re not Billy”
“you’re bad”
“I don’t want you near my son”
the woman drank a lot and died young
bad karma I guess
but drink or no drink
that’s not something any kid should be told
whatever respect I had for my fellow humans
began to wane then
and yes
I proved her correct at one thing
however bad I was
I became more so from that time on
before long none of the other
kids were allowed near me
they saw through the bullshit of it all
flocking to me regardless
The Quiet People
the quiet people set their clocks
weary conscience avoids the acts
their taxes subsidize
all is well drudging toward the dinner bell
hours zombified by television madness
miles from the reality media hides
the fact that things could be otherwise
the quiet people no longer even whine
as they watch the gas prices rise – near four dollars a
gallon
the environmental cost worth less than a tax loss for the
boss
obscenely they allow themselves to be resigned
to a false sense of inadequacy a paralysis
instead of shouting for change
they should
rise
the quiet people cannot comprehend
that the national dream of wealth
was designed in mind of profit for one
a deceit that directs their lives
paychecks waved as if bones to dogs
an easy temptation
in an urban age a terror
allowing continuance of mistaken occupations
only brave solitary voices echo of the fraud largely unheard
justified rage en masse nonexistent
a nation founded on principles of freedom should mourn
shamed by its cowardice
Bio -
Craig Stormont is originally from Queens, NY, but he currently lives on
Long Island. He began writing poems in the late 1970's before spending
the next decade hitchhiking throughout the USA in order to experience
life to the fullest. Craig now earns his living teaching college
literature and writing courses. He values nature, truth and most of all
his young son Harry.
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