petersironwood

The Impossible

Sunless Sunday of Faith

You gave me no fangs

23 Saturday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

earth, ecology, greed, humanity, life, poem, poetry, sustainabilty

Photo by Sayantan Kundu on Pexels.com

You gave me no fangs.

You gave me no wings.

You gave me no claws.

Just a bag full of flaws,

And leftover things.

photo of boy in black and red collared shirt

Photo by Mike Sangma on Pexels.com

You favored my brothers;

You favored the others,

Left me only these brains

To fend off the beasts

And fend off the rains.

person riding a bicycle during rainy day

Photo by Genaro Servu00edn on Pexels.com

Cainly, I search and destroy

All my brothers and sisters alike.

With an efficient surgical strike;

Pop them to bits like a bustable toy.

Photo by Somchai Kongkamsri on Pexels.com

I chew off my paw,

But see if I care.

It’s the Law, the Law,

Though my cupboard grows bare.

Photo by jamie he on Pexels.com

I foul my teeny, self-built cage,

But I don’t know & I don’t care.

I’m all in, in a self-imposed rage,

And nowise will dare to learn to share.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Unbalanced and crazed, my genius so stable

I comfort myself with a reckless fable:

That Father will Save me, Save me at last

If I destroy it all in a nuclear blast.

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You seem so bewildered and oh, so amazed,

That I’m so unfit; so roundly unstable,

Yet, I’m the one whom you ceaselessly hazed

Then pushed away me from the well-stocked table.

Photo by kelvin carris on Pexels.com

Mother, you made me; you made me this way.

Stay and play for the final slay.

I’m loonery toonery sure as I’m shootin’!

Lunatic Fringe? You’re damned well tootin’!

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

So here I go with my terminal act.

Self-destructive and as fat as a fact.

We could’ve had earth as an Eden instead

But I guess I’d rather be greedy — and dead.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Snowflakes

The Impossible

Snowflake

08 Friday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

brotherhood, Democracy, fascism, globalism, love, pandemic, peace, plague, poem, poetry, snow, snowflake, truth, UN, USA, world

Snow.

Made of Snowflakes.

Snowflakes.

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

Everyone comments: “Every snowflake’s different.”

It’s a cliché.

However amazing that may be,

Amazing still is every snowflake’s sixfold symmetry.

“What’s so special about that,” you say.

How does the three millionth molecule out near northeast

Know what the three millionth molecule out near southwest

Is doing?

Photo by Jill Wellington on Pexels.com

I’ve a story to explain:

Once upon a time,

Everything was One.

If truth be told,

It was a boring too much One of Oneness.

So,

As matter is wont,

We Big-Banged Ourselves into this far-flung Universe:

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A multi-colored,

Multi-facetted

Extravaganza of galaxies.

And yet,

We (not just you and me)

We (meaning all of existence)

Seek that underlying, undying,

Unification.

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

Hence,

The mystery of gravity.

(Why else would everything

In the universe be attracted to everything else?)

In between the ting and tang of bells;

In between the yin and yang of all;

In between the sweetness of the notes of song;

In between this moment and the

Next…

In all those in-betweens we glimpse:

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Reality.

Universality.

We are all One.

And always shall be.

So quell your fears of Worst.

Slake your thirst.

Let the snowflakes,

Fall, fall, and melt upon your tongue.

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Wars? Scars?

Hate? Fear?

What chance do they have

In the longest run of all who run?

Division is but the ignorance of too few years

Brewed into flat, stale, tasteless beers.

Routed and touted as though it were a fine wine

Touched by Heaven’s Gate – a touch divine.

Photo by Elly Fairytale on Pexels.com

The Mad King shatters all of US

And all the US of US

He throws each one of us

Under his failing falling galling bus.

The roads all darken with the dirt and blood and salt.

man in black jacket and blue denim jeans standing in front of yellow bus

Photo by Zichuan Han on Pexels.com

“It’s not my fault! It’s all your fault!

And you and you and you and you — you all must lose.

And I will lie and check and slay all day.

I sing the electric assault.

I sing it’s time to kill my foes.

I sing it’s time to burn the world!”

And all the while, each snowflake shows,

Each flag unfurled,

Each insult hurled,

Turns the earth a greener hue;

Turns the air a cleaner blue.

In the stillness and the in between,

We now begin to see

That we are we.

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

Bound thus together by our common scenes

And bound together by our common genes

We reject the clown’s inept inanity.

We see so clearly now that we are one humanity.

And all the screaming, scheming, double-dealing

Gets rightfully confined to back ward dreaming.

All across the world, humanity is teaming.

This is one large, deadly test

To see if we could see

That we are we is manifest

For all humanity.

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Let snow abound.

Our unity is found.

We very nearly drowned.

Our feet at last are touching ground.

Our voice: at last a singing sound.

Prometheus at last unbound!

Our truth at last is found!

Our world is very clearly round!

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

————————————————

The Impossible

Mother’s Day

Index to Pattern Language for Cooperation

Timeline

03 Sunday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, health, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

coronavirus, COVID19, cruelty, despotism, Dictatorship, fascism, Feedback, life, pandemic, plague, Putin, testing, treason, truth

1/22/2020: 17

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“…totally under control…

“It’s going to be just fine…”

And dandy,

Like dynamite lit

But under a bowl

You don’t see much

If you are such

That has no spine.

Nor half a wit.

Death tastes like candy!

close up photo of woman holding lollipop

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

2/1/2020: 304

“…we pretty much shut it down…”

No need to frown!

We’re the best game in town!

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2/8/2020: 813

“…so we’re in very good shape…”

I like to rape,

The younger the better!

Epstein, my buddy: quite the jet-setter!

Jeffrey WHO?

Him I barely knew!

He mysteriously died

Before he could squeal

‘Cause we had a deal.

Billy Barr is the best!

He’s on my side!

Kills on request.

DCA8FC9A-F229-4538-9EA2-D9E13D4796EB_1_105_c

2/22/2020: 2460

“…stock market looking

Very good to me…!”

And books, I’ve been cooking

Ever since I was wee!

Which reminds me of pee!

Which starts with a ’T’

Which stands for Trump

And kissing my rump.

Photo by CDC on Pexels.com

3/8/2020: 3826

“The risk is low!”

And I oughta know!

I’m a genius who’s stable!

(I watch Fox on cable).

I go with my gut!

(Nearly as big as my butt!)

If they die in far places

Why should I care?

Not even white races

Just people to spare.

Here in ‘Merica, we’re still sitting pretty.

Only 22 deaths, it’s a drop in the bucket!

The snowflakes are getting amazingly petty!

But I don’t care and just say “#### it!”

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3/22/2020: 14,739

Thank goodness for ME!

My ratings are high!

Among my slaves it’s 509

Do not whine!

Do not cry!

Plagues enrich the Crime Family!

E056DBCD-67B8-415B-9ECF-A7DE15F7164F_1_105_c

4/5/2020: 72,535

There’s plenty of testing as you can see!

For everyone willing to bow to ME!

American deaths are sitting quite pretty!

Though some will call for tears and pity.

It’s just a ten K.

It’s AOK!

64AC5B76-C6C3-40D5-A26D-9CB06754678A_4_5005_c

4/19/2020: 167,788

Let’s open up and re-elect!

We can’t have a down-ish DOW!

I’m the ONE the Russians select!

Letting everyone vote is a sacred cow.

Arm yourselves and demand to be free!

To do what I tell you fanatically!

Americans dead? Only 41 thou!

Photo by Erik Karits on Pexels.com

5/3/2020: 246,943

I grade myself: with every A!

And who knows better than brilliant ME!

I dotted each ‘i’ and crossed every ’T’

And jumped at each opportunity

To watch Fox News on my TV

And Marrow-Lago’s? Golf’s place to play!

Photo by Jopwell on Pexels.com

Go drink some bleach!

And crowd on the beach!

We’re falling behind in the USA.

We’re only just now at 68K!

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Come on people! Show your master!

I need an even million dead — and so much faster!

Putin’s telling us all to hurry

Don’t stay home with your chin all furry.

Get those tattoos, massages, and cuts!

If you die it just shows that you had the guts!

To follow “Der Fooler” right over that cliff!

If you don’t like death’s smell,

Then don’t take a whiff.

Stay under my spell

And before this year’s end,

I’ll have met Putin’s quota!

You shouldn’t care even one iota

How many fell or now live in hell.

Family dead or perhaps a dear friend?

Who gives a damn when I’m having such fun!?

My race to dictatorship nearly won!

And when at last all power is mine,

I’ll rewrite history so you will learn,

That it’s fine to torture and great to burn!

I can treat everyone just like swine!

My ego will swell! So all will be well!

Hitler’s reign: a mere thousand years!

More important: his tally of ten million dead!

Vlad and I have work to do,

But our being happy depends on you!

We’ll only be happy when few are fed

And we can feast on trillions of tears!

Shut away your childish fears!

Believe our lies, however absurd.

I’ll abandon you as quick as a Kurd!

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

But you’re not allowed to see what’s true!

Or look beyond my invisible hue!

Watch my glitter as you fall down and die

Give “Der Fooler” one last sigh

Love me tender and call me ‘great.’

As you fall and die — but don’t be late!

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

It’s all a hoax that’s been brought by the left

Who’d open the borders and make you all gay.

Just believe in me and you don’t have to think!

I’ll take your cash and leave you bereft.

I’ll make you work for a dollar a day

While you wallow in filth and smell the sick stink.

But that’s just Donald: me being me!

So know your role; increase that toll!

Help me reach that golden goal!

Let’s destroy democracy!

Let’s fashion a world where I am supreme!

And everyone knows their proper place.

I’ll drink the milk and all of the cream.

But you can be happy that I’ve lived my dream:

When I die — take the whole human race.

Once you’ve given your all and all you have to give

When *I* die — why should anyone live?

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Let’s go lackeys and strive for the best!

Make America Great and lead all the rest!

Make America end with a big loud BANG!

Help me sharpen COVID’s brutal FANG!

A million dead at the end of the year!

Me on my throne without shedding a tear!

12/31/2020 (world): <2,000,000

12/31/2020 (USA): >1,000,000

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

You Bet Your Life!

Trumpism is a New Religion

Abandoning Adulthood

Just Tommy being Tommy!

Donnie Gets a Hamster!

Mother’s Day

02 Saturday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, poetry, Uncategorized

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

death, life, May, mindfulness, Mother's Day, poem, poetry

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I only have a few days left,

The radio screams;

The television blares;

The spam-mail claims;

I only have a few days left,

To order flowers for Mother’s Day.

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Only Mother,

(Against all the rules of the game,

I thought I knew so well),

Mother

Is dead.

Like Father,

And Grandfather,

And Grandmother,

And it makes me wonder:

How could all these characters

That made up the landscape of my childhood,

The very fabric and the backdrop of my life

Simply walk off stage forever?

Who wrote this script, anyway?

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But that is just ego talking,

Ego that sits like a huge blind egg

Atop a pedestal of its own design.

That is just ego pretending

To be the end-all and the be-all of existence.

In reality, the fabric of life continues;

Rip, repair, rip, repair, rip, repair.

The river of life keeps flowing

Finding another channel where one is blocked.

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

The blood that ran through my parents

Flows through me and my grandchildren

As well as Sir Tulip Tree saluting the morning sun,

And those three awesome wild turkeys strolling beneath;

That humming, zipping dragonfly;

That laughing marigold.

This

Flower is for you, Mother

And

This

Moment

For you and me and all the ancestors

And all the descendants

And

The Now

Of three yellow tulips:

Bulbs brought from Amsterdam

(Where you never journeyed,

Content with my stories and pictures)

Photo by Paul Khlistunov on Pexels.com

This now, I enjoy for all the world,

For Mother,

For Mother’s Day.

The chaotic spiral path of earth will journey my egobody

Away some day too.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Meanwhile,

Do we not owe it to that host,

That multitude of ancestors

Stretching out behind us into the net of proto-life,

Do we not owe it to them

To watch the golden flowers glow,

As intently as we are able?

Certainly,

That is the attitude of my wise cousins:

Dragonfly, turkey and tree.

Should I do any less?

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

Life is a Dance
The Truth Train

Comes the Reign

Hi-Golf-Ku

23 Thursday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics, psychology, sports, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

cheating, golf, haiku, poem, poetry, Tennis, winning

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One of the reasons we decided to retire in Southern California was so we could play golf year round. But once we got here, we ended up playing tennis 5-8 times a week, leaving little time for golf. Now, neither one is available.

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Many others are in the same boat. While the act of actually playing golf is probably relatively risk free, getting a pencil, a score card, a cart, paying, picking up a stray ball, going to the toilet, picking up the flagstick could be problematic. Meanwhile, we can still enjoy the memory of golf. And what better way to do that than with a few Hi-Golf-Kus? Feel free to add your own in the comments section.

Photo by Thomas Ward on Pexels.com

You live on the edge,

Fall instead! You’ll be safer

Off that fearful ledge.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Putt: Why do you go

In, around, and out? Afraid

Snakes may live below?

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Driver, you drive me

Nuts! I swing you straight. And yet…

You go your own way.

Photo by Frank Cone on Pexels.com

Bunkers: small, sandy.

Beneath grains lies mud, concrete,

Netting, rock, Surprise!

Photo by nicollazzi xiong on Pexels.com

Golf rules are many;

Bound by one Great Principle:

If you could, you can’t!

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

A rose is a rose

Is a rose. But grass? Grass grows

Inconsistently.

Photo by Emily Hopper on Pexels.com

The price of golf? High.

Enjoyment of golf? Iffy.

Addiction? Certain.

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Golf advice is free!

Given — two stroke penalty!

Taken — two strokes, too!

Photo by Jopwell on Pexels.com

New white ball glows bright!

Hides in grass just like it’s night.

Burrows out of sight.

Photo by Kaique Rocha on Pexels.com

Cheating’s not rare; yet —

Only Trump claims wins when he

Didn’t even play.

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—————————

The Winning Weekend Warrior (The Mental Game for All Sports)

Winning by Cheating is Losing

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Choosing the Script

21 Tuesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, health, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

art, COVID19, fiction, horror, leadership, life, pandemic, politics, sociopath, story, truth, USA, writing

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

A gentle knock upon my door,
Merely this and nothing more.

The man looks vaguely familiar — or even kin.
I don’t care much though for his thin-lipped grin.

“Hello” he states in a warm friendly brogue.
“Hello” I hollowly repeat. He looks like a rogue.

A longish pause between us billows.
Like upside down H-Bomb pillows.

“May I help you?” I ask polite as I should.
“Do you not recognize me, Mr. Ironwood?”

I must admit, he looks familiar yet…
I do not know…perhaps…I do forget.

“No, I do not think I have made your acquaintance at all.”
Feeling all the while that I am being overly formal.

“Henry Holmes. Pleased to meet you in person, at last.”
Here he sticks out a fatty sausage-fingered hand to clasp.

Photo by Edwin Jaulani on Pexels.com

“Very funny. Where did you find my manuscript, my story?”
“I didn’t find it. It found you. And, now, you’re lost. So sorry.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I don’t know what kind of joke this is, but…”
“No joke, I’m afraid that you’re written out of the action.”

“Well, excuse me, but I think you’re confused. I wrote the play.”
“Well, excuse me, but I think you are the one confused. I wrote the play.”

“Nonsense. I am the playwright. You are a player…or more precisely, villain…”
“You are suffering from delusions of grandeur. I wrote the play; it’s full of killin'”

“Whoa. Henry. Wait. You are not Henry a person. He’s a role in my play.”
“Very funny. But the bottom line is this: the editor has cut you out today.”

“Ha-hah. Why am I even talking to you? It’s ridiculous. Who are you?”
“I am Henry Holmes, playwright. And, here I bid you ‘adieu’ …”

“Things change, Mr. Ironwood. Things change. You’ve been switched over to a parallel universe where cruel clowns are put in charge. You know the kind of clown I mean. Like the one in Stephen King’s IT. Only instead of the people of the town recognizing the evil, that the clown embodies, a third are worshipping the clown.”

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“There’s no such place! What are you … that was also fiction. No-one in the real world would put an evil clown in charge of a whole town!”

“A town? Oh, my. You are in for a surprise. It isn’t just a town. He’s the leader of the free world!”
“Nonsense! No parallel universe would be twisted enough … it couldn’t survive long … with a cruel clown at the helm!”

“Who said anything about it lasting a long time? Of course it won’t. But anyway, that’s the world where your new role is. They’re filming right now. Better get your butt over there or you’ll be written out of that script too!”
“Who writes these scripts? Shonda? Where are you going? I didn’t invite you into my trailer!”

“Oh, Peter, you are too much! It’s my trailer now. See, I brought the name plate.”
“Henry Holmes. Well, that doesn’t prove anything.”

Peter watched as Henry walked up the stairs inserted a key and unlocked the door. He nearly closed it but stuck his head out to say, “Ta ta! Lot B over at Universal. Tell them Henry sent you.” He cocked his head sideways in a Henry Gibson impersonation and flashed a wide toothy grin much like that of a psychotic circus clown.

Then, he was gone.
The trailer was gone.
Warner Brothers was gone.
Universal was gone.
LA County was gone.
USA was gone.
Earth was gone.

It didn’t explode.
It didn’t erode.
It crumbled to bits.
Without any plans, without any wits.

gray industrial machine during golden hour

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

It fell apart at the seams,
Like shattered dark dreams.
Like a mask full of holes,
Or a lawn full of moles,
A land without souls,
Filled with A-holes.

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And then there were none.
All were lost.
Everyone.

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Everyone:
Not a world where we want to be:
Where Henry Holmes
Is free and roams
And rules and checks and slays.
You’d like it better in one of my plays.
Where criminals lose and end up in jail.
Clowns may try but they all fail.
Responsible leaders rule with compassion
And no-one falls for a Fascist fashion.
In that world, it’s true that death may come.
But not of sickly embracing what’s dumber than dumb.
Not of enslaving oneself to the yoke,
Not of repeating the words of a joke.
Eschew the fascist fantasy,
And see what leadership can really be.

Photo by Life of Wu on Pexels.com

If Only…

The link below is a work of “pure fiction” however — the protagonists (one of which is Henry Holmes) and their “back stories” are true. The story linked below, however, takes place in a nearby but parallel universe.

https://petersironwood.wordpress.com/2017/07/28/if-only/

Tales that Explore Real Leadership

You Must Remember This

19 Sunday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, health, poetry, Uncategorized

≈ 24 Comments

Tags

Climate change, COVID19, ecology, environment, greed, life, pandemic, poem, poetry, truth

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

A breeze flutters the leaves of the tulip tree
It seems to me
They wave, they warn,
“Remember us. Remember, that we may come again.
That once again forests of greenery will come to be.”

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Under this clear blue sky,
Under this bright yellow sun,
In this verdant surround, I see, nonetheless,
Long lines of grieving skeletons
Wandering the gray-brown dessert
Searching for food, for water,
For the lost way,
The fallen times.
Someone has lost the memo,
Broken the schedule,
Failed the test,
Not met the ROI.

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I have drawers of papers,
But what do they mean?
And why are they there?
They seemed so important once.
I have closets of clothes
That no longer fit.
I have machines that would buzz and whirr delightfully
If I could find a place to plug them in.

woman in black jacket sitting on rock formation

Photo by Chase McBride on Pexels.com

And, in these dead days of gray on gray,
I must remember, I must tell,
Though few believe,
“Once there were forests here,
Trunk on trunk of thick tall tree,
Leaf and flower, flower and leaf,
Green, green, under a clear blue sky.
We can make it live again.”

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Now, so the story goes, the Devil tempted us with knowledge
And we were exiled from Eden into this world.
But, really, who is this Devil, anyway, I wonder?
What if, drunk on half-knowledge, we left voluntarily?
Greedy for the shiniest bauble,
The sparkliest stone,
We forgot that sunset on lake,
Icy creeks, and snow-laden trees,
Are more beautiful than jewelry.

time lapse photography of waterfalls during sunset

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I see them marching, line on line,
Mindlessly miming a pattern, a template,
Aimlessly roaming, but all in formation,
With no information, but under orders, all the same.
The cadence of the stepping,
The drubbling of the drums,
Makes it all seem okay somehow
As row on endless row,
Over the cliff they go.
Blind are they to the leaves of the tulip trees, still green,
Waving their warning; warning with their waving,
Bending, sighing, singing, in the breeze:
“Remember such as these,
When there are no more trees.
Remember such as these,
After the fire and the freeze.”

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Index to a Pattern Language on Cooperation and Teamwork.

Myths of the Veritas – Explorations of Leadership, Empathy, & Ethics in times of crisis.

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

16 Thursday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 68 Comments

Tags

base, comfort, COVID19, magic, pandemic, poem, poetry, science, superstition, truth

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Sure, I get it.

Fresh-baked from the oven:

Momma’s chocolate chip cookies.

(Beloved of veterans and also rookies).

Whole, fresh milk to wash them down.

You were safe.

Safe with Mommy and Daddy.

Sure, I get it.

You had plans.

Such Big plans.

But then she moved away.

Then the factory closed.

Then a politician lied.

And then your parents died.

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And PRESTO!

A self-proclaimed business whiz appears!

He tells you that your spoiled plans

Are God’s punishment for queers!

He tells you that he grabs pussies

With impunity and gains more fans!

You should hate all liberal wussies!

He tells you armies are massing on the border!

Not to worry! He’s issued another illegal order!

Tearing babes from mothers is all okay.

They shouldn’t have ever come this way.

Photo by Cameron Casey on Pexels.com

Just you believe everything he’ll ever say;

He says he says the truth — every single day.

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Sure, I get it.

So much easier when you get yourself bossed.

No matter how many dollars and lives are lost.

Don’t be worried!

COVID’s no match at all

For the one you worship on pedestal.

But please feel hurried!

Get back to work really soon!

You’ll be safe ‘cause: Phase of Moon!

And Eye of Newt, Thread of Jute!

Eschew all science and listen instead

To the steady drone of an empty head.

He failed at business and blew all his cash,

But it’s fun when he starts to insult and to bash!

So why should we care if it’s Putin in charge?

Why should we care if his soul isn’t large?

We get to pretend that we’re children once more!

He knows how to win by cheating galore!

Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

If we fall down dead, it’s a small price to pay,

When Trumputin at last wins that glorious day!

Warm cookies and milk once more will be doled,

Or, at least — that’s what you’ll be told:

The cheapest way yet to kill innocent folk,

Is simply do nothing while pounding his chest.

photo of clear mug beside plate with cookies

Photo by Oleg Magni on Pexels.com

“Responsibility — oh, that’s a joke!

When it comes to credit? I’m the best!”

Enjoy the milk. Enjoy the cookies. If they ever actually come.

Nostalgia is fun but the day is won by dealing with fact.

You’ve fallen into a vat of gum; no wonder you’re glum!

Photo by Erik Karits on Pexels.com

You find yourself lost in a tesseract

An endless web of lies and deceit.

All he does is cheat!

Photo by Nikolay Ivanov on Pexels.com

Sure, I get it:

If you keep wearing the muzzle

And do his deadly bidding,

Or, think he’s only kidding,

You’ll never solve the puzzle

Of how to:

Change

Your

Mind

Rather than

Stay blind

And let a million die.

Find the key.

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Or, this will be your legacy, your epitaph:

RIP:

“I saluted Der Fooler!

And…

Never even got

My promised milk and cookies.”

Photo by jamie he on Pexels.com

————————————————

Trumpism is a New Religion.

You Bet Your Life!

The Truth Train!

A Profound and Utter Failure

Essays on America: Wednesday

A Tale of Two Nannies

Life is a Dance

13 Monday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 72 Comments

Tags

America, cheating, courage, cowardice, Democracy, fascism, globalism, poem, poetry, science, truth, USA

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

All life is a dance

On a thin razor’s edge

‘Tween rigid and chance.

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off that ledge:

Honor the Truth — or Live out the Lie.

Photo by Gelgas on Pexels.com

You might fight for the right

And still end up dead.

You could turn from the luminous light

You can slink and surrender instead.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

You can wrap a leash around your neck

And hand the lead to a feckless wreck.

Say, “Here you go; I’m your slave now.

Train me how to bow and kowtow.”

He’ll wink and nod and blink, the old sod.

“I want you to do me a favor though.

You see those people; they look so odd.

I want you to shoot them row by row.”

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Having leashed your soul to the Worst of the Worst,

You’ll kill more lives in an endless shift-show.

You’ll lie to yourself; be an elf on the shelf.

Bow to the will of the First of the Cursed.

680174EA-5910-4F9B-8C75-C15B3136FB06_1_105_c

You’ll force a false-faced smarmy smile,

As you shout out your shoddy sickening “Heil!”

Millions may die but you care not a jot.

You’re already dead so you let the lot rot.

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Life is a dance

On a thin razor’s edge

Of rigid and chance.

Photo by Prime Cinematics on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off the ledge:

Honor the Truth — or, Live out the Lie.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

You may fashion a last and desperate try

To derail the Failure that many see wrapped

In the “Finest of Finery” — armored with Lie,

Unable to move — in his own web trapped.

Think and link in a world-wide win.

Throw off the shackles of such shadowy sin.

Refuse to play for the Clown at the Helm

Or his shadowy puppets all over the realm.

They’ll stumble and fall and all turn to ash.

Their only bonds are their hatred and cash.

You’ll join with others across this vast land;

You’ll sing together your fairness demand.

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Those who shrugged and laughed at need?

Protections fall from those slaves of greed.

Even the cruelest of the cruel can bleed.

Fertile fields will fill with thorn and weed.

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If no-one will drive, none will survive.

If no-one will pick — none left alive.

If no-one will cure, bake or douse fire?

Those cruelest are building their own Karma pyre.

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

Life is a dance

On that thin razor’s edge

‘Tween rigid and chance.

Photo by Mau00ebl BALLAND on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off that ledge:

Honor the Truth or Live out the Lie.

84700569-5EEE-4028-A4C8-AD1D62D20320

The dealers of death want to close all the blinds

Shutter out light; squelch questioning minds.

So, poke a small hole — let the light shine through!

The future of freedom? It’s all up to you.

4F969AEC-A579-4A8B-9B35-F773A44B3E8B

And me.

And you.