Games
Arising each day
In an obscene
Fantasy world
Where brutalizing
Another human being
Is commonplace.
Subservient to fear,
Sickly minds
Play sordid games,
Scorning, ridiculing,
Ignoring humanity,
Lecherous ritual.
He Sleeps Well
He sleeps well
At night knowing
That rivers of
Money are flowing
Into his already
Bloated coffers
While his workers
Struggle with
Whether they should
Pay the electric bill
Or put food on
The table.
Ingrates
He sits livid
In his armchair,
Staring at the TV,
Where people are
In the streets,
Holding signs,
Chanting slogans that make
No sense to him.
He mutters something
About ingrates
With no right to
Protest against a
Good man just doing
His job, and what about
What those people do
To one another.
Economics
They’ll fight
Tooth and nail
To give tax breaks
To their cronies –
The one percent –
Who already own
Most of everything
But still demand more.
They won’t do a
Thing to help
The real people
Doing the actual work,
Deluge up economics.
Promise of a Gift
A promise of a gift
Made in confidence.
She’s never told anyone
About it and has
Never seen it
Become reality.
Fading away into
Memory,
Immaterial,
A gesture lost to time,
Obscured by
Secrecy.
Once in a while
She wonders
What it all meant
And whether it
Ever even
Existed.
The Beach
Successive
Waves
Have all
Encountered
The same
Alarmed cries
About how
The beach
Will never
Be the same.
Playground
Well-scrubbed children,
In the latest fashions,
Play without a care,
Eagerly returning to
Their desks to learn about
All the wonders the
World offers them.
Children in hand-me-downs
Selected from a pile
In the corner of the room,
Run around in a bare
Playground, going back
Inside to share
Outdated books.
Choking Off
Keep quiet.
Don’t you know that
We’ve always done it
This way and we don’t
Even whisper about any
Other options.
Change is not something
Contemplated often in
These circles, if ever,
Just the same old
Boring perpetuation of
Everything that came before,
Without any thought to
Improving any of it,
The same results
Choking off all hope.
Luncheon
She sat at a shrouded table with
Semi-strangers jabbering giddily,
Animatedly ignoring or interrupting
Each other’s narratives.
The clatter of silverware on china,
A haze of perfume and nervousness
Wafting over occasionally. A nod of
Acknowledgment, smile of recognition.
When will this end? All rise for the
Hallowed oath, a group of like-minded,
Like-thinking, like robots, enjoying the
Luncheon of superficiality.
The Wrong People
Recoiling from the force of
His tirade, so many years
Of self-hatred generated
By the absence of love,
Sublimation of self,
An agonized lashing out
At the wrong people
Instead of the ones who
Really hurt him.