Monday, June 23, 2014

Craig Stormont- Three Poems

The Fig Tree

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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