Hatred

                HATRED 
Hate came to town today
dressed in white supremacy.
Neo-Nazi indignation,
Anti-Semitic ugliness,

masked and marching,
in a cavalcade of the obtuse.
A mounted symbol of slavery
deployed as a lightning rod.
A rusted relic, a reminder,

as a spark for uncivil unrest.
A statue of limitation,
disguised as a pointed excuse.

Steaming cauldrons
of racist contempt.
Trumped-up tension,
rocking violently,
teetering, on the thin lever
of our deepest fears.
Boiling vessels
of blood and bigotry.
Hatred and ignorance,
spilling over,
scalding our common decency,
after simmering for eight years

Hate came to town
waving a confederate flag.
White bred nationalism,
with automatic weapons,
carrying the Klan torch,
still lost in the dark.
Unwilling and unable
to see the light of today.
From candles and smart phones
to the pall of burning crosses.
Taking America back,
in Emancipation park.

Right-wing extremity
for all the world to see.
A car, used as a weapon,
driven by intolerance.
Four wheeled empowerment,
the basest depths of cowardice.
A century and a half
of deep-seated contempt.
Hatred and ignorance,
a stark picture of America,
still in black and white.

Tell me, please, what year is this?

Hate came to Charlottesville
and the president was indifferent.
Splitting thinning hairs,
divided by his loyalties,
shrugging off responsibility
like a coward in the fray.
Puny, meagre condemnation
on a historical, immoral stage.
Commander of the white alt-right,
placing blame “on many sides”,
simply walked out of the room
on this dark and dire day.

 

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Brusque

20170805_142905 


Brusque

Opinions, for the ears of everybody
Words, of a mind for only one
You talk and you talk a good game
When, actually, you have none
A misplaced sense of self-importance
Confident, to the point of delusion
Constantly rubbing people the wrong way
A reality, wrapped inside an illusion

What colour is the sky in your world?
Does the sun only shine when you’re in it?
Is the planet lonely with just the one person?
Does it only turn when you spin it?

An endless list of those you’ve alienated
Astounded, by your condescending tone
An ego, that pierces the thickest of skin
Daggers, from a mind all your own
Common denominator to many problems
Divisor, for those who cross your path
You are 100% certain, and 90% wrong
Little remains, when you do the math

What colour is the sky in your world?
Is it grey and spattered with dots?
Do you ever get to see the sunlight?
Is it overcast, clouded by your thoughts?

You ride in on your high horse
Give the royal wave to all you pass
Those who don’t acknowledge you
Can just kiss your royal ass
You share a seat with your superiority
Oblivious to the ooze that you spill
Sitting smugly beside your judgement
In a sticky puddle of your ill will

What colour is the sky in your world?
Is it showering blood, instead of rain?
Are you sheltered beneath your thin cover?
Or drenched, in the red of your disdain?

It is by no means an overstatement
Your demeanour is your disguise, your demise
Whenever you reveal your true self
It’s like a storm, sweeping the skies
From the nasty depths of self-absorption
Blunt statements, soaked in the odd
Revealed, one assumption at a time
From beneath your shallow façade

What colour is the sky in your world?
Does anyone ever reach you there?
Perhaps someone should tell you?
Would you really even care?

 

Butterfly?

Butterfly?

Epihany

The same stubborn scenario
The same view every night
A silhouette, close to the edge
A moth under the light
The echo of my thoughts
On infinite repeat
A schizophrenic mind field
Of two and a half feet

Turned one hundred and eighty
In a blanketed cocoon
A butterfly to a moth
Under the light of the moon
A stark and palpable silence
An insurmountable rut
Urges, kept at arm’s length
Until my eyes flutter shut

Take me back to my muse
Release me from this storm
From the cold of my creation
The bitter back to the warm
From this tempest in a teapot
 These chilling winds of blame
 The frigid reality each night
The moth back to the flame

An exasperating tug of war
Across a span of diminished hope
There has to be some solace
Near the end of my rope
Nothing that I can do or say
Changes, impervious to gain
The collateral damage is done
A consequence to the pain

So many months, eaten away
The thin fabric of a ruse
Resentful of my own creation
 A moth disguised as a muse
Rose-coloured tunnel vision?
Wishful thinking all along?

For the sanity of lost time
It would help if I was wrong

Take me back to my muse
Release me from this regret
From the pall of uncertainty
That hangs over me yet
From the now back to the then
The difference of day to night
To open arms and an open mind
To a butterfly, in a better light

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