Symmetrical

Two temples face
The Taj Mahal
One is sacred
One is just for symmetry
Looking backwards, useless
A showpiece pieced together
A reflection of the other
A mask of a mosque.
It reminds me of those
Who twist the words of the Quran
From its teachings of love to hate,
Who would take Mohammed's teachings of compassion,
That brought warring tribes
Into a fellowship,
And turn it into a war song
Against those perceived as more fortunate.
The Taj Mahal stands white
Stained with the blood of slaves
And the two temples gaze upon it,
One filled with reverence and devout praise,
The other a mere shell, to fool the eye into perceived balance
in a world that isn't black and white.



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Living Poets Society

The first Tuesday
Every month
Congregated around the cafe table.
We share our words in voices
Scarce heard above the grinding coffee.
Every year we prepare
And take our show to the beach.
Our audience is much smaller then our
Cast
And we are thankful to all of them.

The poet and the painter

A poet and a painter

Went walking along the shore

Of a river.

They talked of their lives

And their art.

The painter proclaimed 

After drawing deserted squares

And war torn buildings

He had repainted borders.

In his own hands

Taken the brushstroke

Lithely and sharp.

Eagerly he had

Redrawn maps,

Whitewashed societies ailments,

Drew divisions so deep

Into weak psyche

That even after his final strokes

Were laid upon the canvas

There were people who

Believed his art as truth.

The poet laughed 

And in a rehearsed voice

Recounted how he had rewrote history.

How the verses so bold in imagery,

Had raised armies and toppled religions.

With words craftily slanted

Set revolutions of starving people

Against their own,

Simple psalms that echoed

Into the minds of the vulnerable;

Drafts generations took as god.

Moreover he spoke

About his feats of literature

Overcoming question, propagated to the point where truth was changed.

Rewriting a nations language and policies into a police state.

How his poetry echoes still through the institutions of learning,

His picture lauded by millions.

The poet and the painter

Arrived at a gate

The three headed dog bowed

Welcoming them to damnation;

For these were his masters

Who had sent so many his way

Through pretty words,

Grim paintings,

And false promises.

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The Greed of Infamy

The greed of infamy

As the  scavenger media

Drags fresh carrion into spotlights.

Well geniuses suffer fame

The ignorant and weak

Are so desperate for affection

They do unspeakable things.

In a high school world

Of popularity contests

People believing to be known

Is better then to be loved.

Shoving the envelop

Blood drenched parcel, 

In a culture full of deranged strangers with illusions of grandeur,

Encouraged by cultism.

Victims trapped

Attacked by egotist supremacists,

Cysts of a society on the catalyst

Of devastation 

If we continue to feed scum

The attention they crave.

Apprehended and given grand jury

Consideration,

When they should be taken out

The back door and shot.

What need for fair trial

When the perpetrators guile

Is sociopathic pathetic pleas

For cameras and headlines.

Dissecting the causes

Flawed individuals premeditating

How to become world famous,

Glorified defying all logic

Deaf to the cries of the dying.

Bereft of understanding 

the dying know no pain,

But the void of the lost

Can never be filled again.

The living suffer the circus

As the hyena plays its game

Laughing madly in the camera

Flash bulb burnout.

Every one too exceptional

For the common sense

This is a warning about no one,

To those who would seek

Infamy over fame,

Reputation is a tattoo nothing can erase.

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