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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: poetry

The Last Gleam of Twilight

14 Thursday Aug 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Democracy, life, love, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA, writing

How does it feel?
Let’s keep it real.

How does it feel?

To sell so short the American Dream?

To sell for a song your family and friends?

To sell your soul, your heart, your mind?

Pretend no monsters around the bends;

Pretend that cruelty actually is kind.

Pretend putrid muck is a clear flowing stream.

All so you can kiss the rings

Of swine who would be kings

Who promised a world

Enshrined in shiny pearls

In golden leaf and diamond swirls

Who delivering instead

A worm in your head

A reign of radical racist hate

A frosted fog of friendless state.

A razzle of maniacal dazzle

A dazzle of frankly farcial razzle.

Oh, say, can you still see

With no light at the dawn

When the Law is a pawn

That once we had Democracy?

Red ink galore,

Red blood and gore, 

Torture and pus:

That’s what becomes of US. 

Instead of courage and captains to lead

We’re told obey the maggots; worship cancer

A Dancer Obese, a Necromancer

A boastful beast, a prideful prancer

Turned on by making children bleed. 

A warm summer rain 

Which washes your brain 

Then soon turns to ice

Trashing everything nice.

Pretty, petty falsehoods fill the air 

Making it hard for you even to care. 

So you join parades

And welcome charades;

Salute the sign of the twisted cross.

Pretend what matters is Glitter and Gloss.

How does it feel?

Let’s keep it real.

How does it feel:

To sell mother, father, sister, brother?

To sell into slave-hood your own hopes and dreams?

To cater to cons and kowtow to killers? 

Pretend wrong is right 

Pretend dark is light?

To cover your eyes and feign you’ve no sight?

Defile the planet we need to survive?

Destroy the work of thousands who strive

Break all the glass 

And act like an ass?

Let melons rot in unpicked fields.

Let felons pick US for human shields. 

Let science die upon the vine. 

Let’s all burn witches one last time.

Oh, say, can you still see

With no light at the dawn

When the Law is a pawn

That once we knew Democracy?

When drunken rage has broken every mirror

You don’t have to look at what you’ve now become;

No need to admit your decisions were dumb;

No need to reflect; instead, just deflect.

Cover your face and pretend you’re not you.

Smother your feelings and revel in cruel.

How does it feel?

Let’s keep it real.

How does it feel?

To destroy our parks to make wealthy folks grin

To burn down the forests and drink crystal gin?

Rape underage children and blame someone other? 

To laugh at the tears of each desolate mother?

 

A warm summer rain

Destroys your brain

Floods away courage 

From the land of the brave

The rain turns to sleet 

The sleet turns to ice 

And soon a sheet of sordid lice

Covers with slime, the trust of the truth 

And duct-tapes all our scream-blistered lips

Sinks every one of our sailing ships; 

Airplanes fall from smog-filled skies

Shot down by rockets made of lies.

 

What was once a land of love and life 

Striving toward a fairer, grander prize

Becomes a muddy barren ice-filled waste. 

Everyone sprints in a hasty race to taste

The few remaining crud-crusted crumbs

Seeks the momentary thrill that numbs.

Let’s get real.
How does it feel?

How does it feel? 

There has always been a part of you that knew:

The lies were lies; the con was con. 

There was no prize;

No prize—

Except the short term rush of kill

Except the hit of heroin thrill.

You watch the lovely rockets red glare 

As they stream across the pounding sky

How pretty they look as your shark eyes stare 

As you crane your neck so far so fair

Like a chick upon the chopping block

Just one of a fear-filled feckless flock

Choking on a lifeless lump of lie

Right before you dissolve and die. 

As your severed head plops upon the ground

You sense the booming dooming sound 

Of bombast bursting in polluted air

Maybe this is your final dream: 

If only you care to care.

If only you dare to dare,

Your country won’t die in rockets’ red glare

Your flag will still be there. 

Be there! 

It’s twilight’s last gleam.
Help save the dream.

Be there!
Care to care
Dare to dare

In twilight’s last gleam.


D4

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

At Least he’s our Monster

Dick-Taters

Essays on America: The Game

You Bet Your Life

Wednesday

What about the Butter Dish?

The Stopping Rule

Where does your Loyalty Lie?

The Truth Train

Plans for US; some GRUesome

Imagine all the people

Peace

Dance of Billions

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Just Desserts?

04 Wednesday Jun 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Democracy, faith, fiction, greed, life, love, poem, poetry, politics, USA, writing

Photo by Pexels on Pexels.com

The greediest people of this world

Will never have enough. Enough.

Times be good.

Times be tough. 

Furniture made of finest wood.

Furniture made of glass and steel.

The finest ever made! 

Furniture of jade?

Furniture of gold? 

Furniture of workers’ teeth?

Furniture of … 

Never mind. 

It’s always too unkind.

It always makes their blood congeal

Unless more cruelty’s part of the deal.

AI-generated from this prompt: “A photo of earth from outer space. However, the earth is actually giant orange pig.”

 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

Weather is too hot.

Weather is too cold. 

A world of green and blue 

Beloved by me

Beloved by you. 

Must be destroyed. 

Must be replaced. 

With empty rock 

And endless sand. 

Sung and swung by robot yuck.

Rhythms of the cyber band.

Ugly as a Cyber Fruck.

Wrapped in packaged poppycock.


 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

Times be good 

Or times be tough. 

There’s always more to steal from me and you. 

No matter breathable skies of crystal blue

Are turned to grey and brown and goo. 

The endless quest for perfect life

Always ends in war and strife. 

Always ends in death and muck. 

Always destroys the innocents. 

Always destroys innocence. 

The very greediest people in the world 

Don’t give a damn. They patiently explain

Lives destroyed mean even more to gain.

Everyone else’s skin’s too dark, 

Or, they’re living homeless in the park,

Or they fled their homeland on a raft.

Can you think of else that daft

Just to skirt enslavement, death

Just to try to take another breath. 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

To fill their hearts with love and mirth

Even when they rape and force a birth

Forests are replaced with parking lots. 

Even when their plagues and wars and crimes

Farmland fog becomes the mustard killing fields 

Village squares become the hanging place.

Every Saint will fall from grace. 

No amount of power, gold, or greed. 

Fills their dark and empty place.

Vodka, ketamine, or world’s best weed

Power kills and easily as speed.

Cruelty fills no empty souls. 

Fooling fools gets really old.

Original Masks by Sarah Morgan
Original Masks by Sarah Morgan

 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

When all along they missed the joys of life

Aside from those that come from winning strife.

Along with the millions they inevitably kill

A life of lies; mindless greed always will. 

Instead a tuning in to what we are

A tiny leaf upon a giant Tree of Life

Every living thing is family

A Tree of Love far more than strife.

Cancer is outside the loving tree

Afraid, alone, aspires a star. 

The very greediest people in the world

Will never have enough. Enough.

Enough.

Enough.

———————

D4

The Orange Man

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Interview with Putin’s favorite DOG-E

Stoned Soup

The Three Blind Mice

The Ailing King of Agitate

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Math Class

Imagine All the People

Peace

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Dance of Billions

The First Ring of Empathy

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

Travels with Sadie

Plans for US; Some Gruesome

Dance of Billions

To Be or Not to Be

Autocrat: Putin’s Evil Traitor

26 Monday May 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, life, poem, poetry, politics, USA

AI generated.

Life is more about cooperation than about competition.

Cancer always loses in the end:

A stupidly selfish ploy

That destroys life but never ever wins.

AI-generated.






Born to wealth but weakened by his sins;

A spoiled toddler incapable of joy;

AI generated

A silly little boy

Who lies and whines but never wins.

Liar, felon, con man, rapist

Cowardly and inept

Tangerine Man

Toxic to America

AI generated

Oh, say can you see the danger

Of a POTUS corrupt

And destructive

To everything beautiful?


Where does your loyalty lie?

Donnie watches a Veteran’s Day Parade

The Declaration of Interdependence

The Self-Made Man

Their Dead Shark Eyes

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

D4

Essays on America: The Game

Siren Song

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

The Orange Man

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Dance of Billions

Imagine all the People

Co-Travelers

19 Monday May 2025

Posted by petersironwood in poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

life, love, poem, poetry, truth

I see a she-ro on our garden trails.

A partner holding hands across the years—

A friend for life whose friendship never fails. 

Through miles and smiles; through passions, fashions, tears.

She lopes along the ledge of midnight light.

She leaps across the gap I did not see.

She wields a shield of sharing, insight, right.

She wings through air; derives infinity. 

Through every turning twisting happenstance,

Through ice and fire; though melody rises and falls;

Progressions of rhythm for intemperate dance—

The hawk still sings and swings on echo walls.

 

A “Destination Wedding” it was not.

Co-travelers for our life is what we got.

———-

Life is a Dance

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Take a Glance; Come join the Dance

Dance of Billions

Roar, ocean, roar

Namble Mamble Jamble

04 Sunday May 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, life, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA

Emotions, commotions tripping a-jumble 

The DOW in a stumble; downward in tumble

We must do more than a bumbling grumble 

Responding to this epical fumble. 

AI generated image

A fuddy-duddy huddle cuddle 

Won’t fix the thrashing jaw-maw muddle

Or sober up the Hag-Seth’s fuddle;

Prevent his pistol’s pissy puddle.

The Bumple babbles as he bloviates, 

The Brumple brags as he prevaricates.

The Lumple laughs as he disintegrates.

To Putin Plump ingratiates.

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

To every crooked coward co-dancer:

You’ve partnered with a deadly Cancer.

You pledged to serve our nation, not Cancer.

Your greed’s beyond reason—for treason you’ll answer. 

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

Your eyes dart darkly; never sparkly or true.

Your face is betraying the naught that’s now you.

No shred of ethics and you haven’t a clue:

Obeying a Cancer brings ruin to you. 

AI-generated image

——————-

The Ailing King of Agitate

D4

Dick-Taters

The Game

The Orange Man

At Least he’s our Monster

Stoned Soup

The Three Blind Mice

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Imagine All the People

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Dance of Billions

We Won the War! We Won the War!

20 Sunday Apr 2025

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, psychology

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

Democracy, life, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA, war

We won the war! 

We won the war!

Their flag we tore! 

We evened the score! 

The bugler toots!

The hooter hoots!

We destroyed the Other!

Avenged sad mother!

We ruined their crops!

We severed their tops!

It’s all so great!

We feel so fine!

Congratulate!

We’re nearly divine!

The hooter hoots!

The bugler toots!

We’re all so brave!

We screamed our rave! 

We killed them dead!

Left others unfed!

Our deeds were bold. 

We left them cold.

The soldiers who died.

And civilians who tried

But failed to find a good place to hide.

So what else could we do but kill them too?

(AI generated image to the prompt: scared children huddle in rubble while bombs burst around them)

And, now, we come home at last to find 

The promised dividend of victory, it seems,

Was not at all a peace of mind.

Instead a sleep of nightmare dreams. 

The hell they say is war doesn’t seem to end.

It seems instead to seep around every bend. 

I would listen again to that big brass band 

I would heed again the call throughout the land.

But the bugles of the brass got rusted.

And the leaders whom we trusted

Turned out to be but bubbles busted.

I will dance away my last regret.

But my legs are no legs. I mustn’t forget. 

Still we killed them in bunches so that’s a great thing.

That at least is something we can sing

About. At least, you see, we won the war.

So, there’s that. Those of us still alive 

Can say definitely and with no hesitation

That our nation benefited because we won the war. 

Photo by Mykhailo Volkov on Pexels.com

Don’t you see? We won the war.

And though the rich amassed more riches 

And the land got bombed to muddy ditches. 

We won the war.

We won the war.

Most definitely.

Don’t you see?

We won the war.

Our finest hour

When we called for power

Over truth so we could make the richest richer.

And he could brag about the gold. 

Even if we shiver in the cold.

Even if we wear but worn-out tatter

It doesn’t matter

Because so does our enemy

Who suffers even worse than we

We who won the victory

And we have twice as many moldy crusts of bread

As we would have had if we’d lost instead. 

So

We won the war.

We won the war.. 

So…?

——————-

Imagine All the People

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Dance of Billions

Life is a Dance

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Declaration of Interdependence 

The Crows and Me

After All 

After the Fall

Life Will Find a Way

Corn on the Cob

Silent Screams of Dead Men’s Dreams

30 Sunday Mar 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Democracy, fiction, life, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA, writing

Two Golden Doodle Dogs cuddling on the couch

“It’s a dog eat dog world”, so they say. 

“No time to think! No time to play!

Lie and cheat and steal and slay!

It’s natural” — so they say. 

“The Law of the Jungle is take it all for you. 

No matter if you rust the sky of blue. 

No matter if you kill the trees; pollute the breeze.”

brownish polluted skies
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

So they say.

The greediest few would hew to death each living thing; 

No longer use mere megaphones to amplify their voice.

They’ve bought the wires, satellites and airways too. 

Not just a megaphone—a zeta-phone an omni-phone 

To scream that deadly dream—a constant stream

That teaches every hour words of hate and take and kill.

AI generated image

Bending you and yours to evil will, their wordy shrill:

“The only thing worthy of your love is More and More and Most.

If you don’t own a gallon of gold, you don’t deserve a drop.

Live in the cold. Eat the old. We’ve got the most which proves we deserve.

We’ll capture and pretend to conserve and serve.

We’ll tell you lies while we steal what little you’ve got left. 

Might makes right and we’ve got might.” 

pig with orange hair
AI generated image

So they say.

The silence is the sound that kills. 

All that’s left, so they say, are cheap and cheaper thrills.

Money bends all wills. 

So they say. 

The silence is the sound that kills. 

Allowing cancer yet to grow

And spread from head to foot to heart and soul. 

Because the story that they tell compels. 

The rot in food and air just hides the smells

“It’s all for the best, just wait and see.

Sure, we’ll have a few lean years but who cares?”

AI generated image

A rocky desert, lifeless sand, and endless smoke

Await the winners of this race to death.

“It’s not cancer, not at all! 

We’ll all be better! Don’t you see?

It’s best when everything belongs to me!”

AI generated image

So they say. 

 
The silent screams of deadly dreams.

The silence is the sound that kills. 

—————————

You Must Remember This

Imagine all the People

Life is a Dance

The Dance of Billions

Essays on America: The Game

Roar, Ocean, Roar

The After Times

After the Fall

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Stoned Soup

The Three Blind Mice

Come Back to the Light

A Pattern Language for Cooperation

The Orange Man

At Least he’s Our Monster

Poker Chips

The First Ring of Empathy

Destroying Our Government Effectiveness

The Ailing Kind of Agitate

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Travels With Sadie 8 – Singing of the Rain

12 Wednesday Mar 2025

Posted by petersironwood in nature, pets, Sadie

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

life, love, nature, poetry, rain, story, truth

The San Diego area has famously good weather. Flowers blossom forth all year round. I like it! 

But that doesn’t mean it never rains. In fact, I’m glad it does rain. Without some rain, it would be much less pleasant. Fewer plants would grow which would mean fewer friends from diverse parts of the Great Tree of Life: fewer butterflies, fewer lizard, fewer rabbits, fewer crows, fewer hummingbirds and fewer bees just to name a few of the critters I see almost every day. 

On the other hand, I was supposed to play tennis this morning and that had to be canceled. We can’t really let the dogs out by themselves to play in the garden because now it’s too muddy. I have to take them out for a walk even when it’s raining. It seems to me that houses should be built with multi-species toilets that would allow humans, cats, and dogs all one place to go without causing a mess. It doesn’t seem that difficult a design problem. 

But in our actual house, the toilets are only for humans so it’s important to take the dogs out several times a day. And that means I end up walking in the rain. 

It’s wet. My feet often get wet. If it rains hard, I get wet on my head, my back, and my legs as well. As for the dogs? 

They love to go out—rain or shine. 

Sadie, who is now nearly three years old, often looks up at the sky when we begin a walk. I talk to her about the weather, the airplanes she spots at night, the moon, the stars, the planets. Perhaps she doesn’t understand every word, but, honestly, neither do I. I don’t know “why” there is gravity or how it relates in some way to the strong and weak nuclear forces. I’m not even sure there is a “why” to it. 

What I do know is that Sadie does not just tolerate the rain. She loves the rain. She cannot change the weather. So why not love it?

Nor, for that matter, can I change the weather. 

When it rains hard, the nearby storm sewer provides a mystery: a never-ending rushing gush of water! She looks up at me as though to ask: “Where does the water go?”

“The ocean,” I explain. To Sadie though, it remains a portal into another universe.

On its way to the sewer, the water rushes down the gutter and the raindrops cause bubbles to appear in the stream! Bubbles! Sadie snaps at each bubble and destroys it. Perhaps she does this in case they are tasty fish, but I think more likely she does it for the same reason I used to like to pop soap bubbles: sheer joy.

The moisture changes the intensity of smells and provide her with unusual odors. She likes to drink the water on the street which I discourage since the water probably contains more gas and oil than is good for her. Soon, I think, my water supply too may be too polluted to be healthy. 

The passing cars make more noise in the rain. If it’s a hard storm, the wind blows the trees which she often looks up at as well. She does not wear shoes or boots and seems not to mind at all splashing through the cold puddles on her way to the next novel aroma. 

These days, I’m not a big fan of the rain. I’d rather play tennis. I’d rather take pictures of the flowers in the sunshine. I’d rather not get wet. 

But Sadie helps me remember an earlier time when I desperately wanted to go outside in the rain. I loved to splash through the mud puddles and wade in the just-born streams of the gutters. The deeper the stream, the better. I tried not to let the water spill over the rim of my boots—not because it was unpleasant to have the water suddenly soak my socks but because I knew my parents would be quite upset. Sometimes, I came home and managed to hide the fact that I had waded into too-deep water. That, in itself was a pleasure.

 

Even though I’m not as much of a rain fan as are Sadie and her younger brother Bailey, I’m something of a fan. The raindrops on flowers are beautiful. I enjoy Sadie’s enjoyment of the rain. 

Why not love it? 

Yes, we do teach our dogs. 

We teach them tricks.

And, the dogs teach us. 

They teach us to love and to live and to sing of the rain.

————

Travels with Sadie 1

Travels with Sadie 2

Travels with Sadie 3 

Travels with Sadie 4 

Travels with Sadie 5 

Travels with Sadie 6 

Travels with Sadie 7

A Suddenly Springing Something.

The Puppy’s Snapping Jaws

Hai-Cat-Ku

A Cat’s a Cat & That’s That.

Sadie is a thief

Sadie and the Lighty Ball

Math Class

Author page

The Unread Red

25 Tuesday Feb 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Democracy, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA, writing

(AI generated image)

The Red

The Tie

The Long Red Tie

Unread

Uncaring

Under the Pute

Does not Compute

Under the Pute

Of the Uncute Suit 

Who got him put in

His color is Red

Blood Red

Chopped the Roses

Though they have thorns

They’ve flowers too

What a waste

Cut them down

Bleed them dry

Send them away

Pretend save day

He’s Red

Unread

Uncaring 

Unaware

The Tie is long

Not strong

His power’s thin

A string of lies

And hateful ties

Threats for cowards

Easily cowed

The string can break

The mob can spot

The smile is fake

All it will take

To breach the dike

Is acknowledge the real

An empty suit

Thwart his pursuit

The Tie is Red

It’s made of thread

Thread can unravel

It might take travel

It might take pain

It might take many

It might take few

It might be soon

But not too late

The bells are clear

The signs are sure

The traitor is red

He’s out to destroy

He’s not too coy

The cadre of liars

May hide in briars

May bay at moon

May celebrate

A loony toon

May relish the rot 

Of overripe melons

May pardon the boys

The violence of felons

(AI generated image)

The tie is Red

The tide will turn

His crowd will learn

And they will spurn

The unread Red

Who seeks to bleed

The nation dry

Who seeks to cede

Our love and joy

Who hides in dark

An undead shark

A putinate boy

A noxious weed

An empty suit

Photo by Ben Phillips on Pexels.com

A tie of red

The land will bleed

If we let grow

Cancer will spread

Till all are dead

Bursting shells

Poison wells

Tolling knells

The tie is red

The truth unsaid

He knows not you

He knows not me

He knows naught

But nasty thought

The tie is red

He’s out for blood

Turns water to mud

Kills parks and trees

For parking lot fees

(AI generated image)

The tie is red

And made of thread

Thread can unravel

And tyranny flushes

Down the pipes

It’s up to you

It’s up to me

Restore the free

And liberty

Restore the brave

Forget deprave

Pull the threads 

With a mighty heave

The tie unravels 

The good word travels

We see the lies

Remove disguise

Beneath red ties

We all despise

Deadly surprise

Unravel red ties

We all despise

No-one will wear

A golden crown

Certainly not

An orange clown

Remove the red

Unread undead

He’s been caught

Never been taught

A million fought

To build us up

Don’t let red 

Don’t drink the cup

Of poison and lie

Don’t be shy

Shred the tie

————

Where does your loyalty lie?

My Cousin Bobby

The Update Problem

Essays on America: The Game

Absolute is not just a vodka

The Ailing King of Agitate

What about the butter dish?

Life will find a way

Roar, Ocean, Roar

The Dance of Billions

Life is a Dance

Take a glance, join the dance

At least he’s our monster

The Orange Man

Stoned Soup

The Conned Man

The Three Blind Mice

Drumpf in the Garden

You Bet Your Life

Wednesday

Dick Taters

The Self-Made Man

Poker Chip

The Ides of February

17 Monday Feb 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, politics

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Democracy, life, poem, poetry, politics, truth

I took a trip to buy some eggs today.

I hear the price of eggs put Hate in play. 

The promises of “Cheaper!” filled the air. 

So loud that no one cared if lies are fair.

AI generated

The eggs were not at all a cheaper buy. 

In fact, the price is headed toward the sky. 

But that’s okay because at least we’re free

To be like Putin tells us all to be.

AI generated

As all our allies, all our friends depart.

The air begins to reek of rancid fart. 

We’re told to care about ourselves it seems.

Our solemn promises were merely dreams. 

Photo by Charles Parker on Pexels.com

Photo by bigworldinalens on Pexels.com

Instead a dank and Musky stench so foul,

It must have come from Satin’s belching bowel. 

An odor permeates the land and sea. 

The stink of sweat and swill — false sanctity. 

Photo by Zafar Mishkat on Pexels.com

As cowards “lead” who never fought a fight.

Betray at every turn to wrong a right.

Where once grew trees that perfumed healthy breeze 

A parking lot and chopping plot. Disease.

AI generated

Behind the teeny golden glove of hate,

The puppet strings of puke and Putinate.

Beneath the empty words, the lies, the screams. 

I hear the hushing rushing of the streams.

Photo by Aleksey Kuprikov on Pexels.com

The air and water sing their song of love.

A secret sauce dissolves an iron glove. 

We’ll think a link and find a way to join

With those whose highest goal is not mere coin. 

Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

For cancer always loses in the end. 

The raging bull can’t see beyond the bend. 

The dance of life cannot be stilled for long.

The Evil falters, fails when faced with Strong.

The Age of Darkness cannot dwell and last.

The growers and the pickers holding fast;

Explorers and the builders and the rest;

The singers, dancers, counters—All are blessed.

Symphonic teaming all across the land.

A polyphonic omni-chromic band 

Will drown the clang and clatter of the brats

Who scream without rhythm, reason, or rhyme.

AI generated

Their song of “ME!” and “Gimme!” is no song at all.

No act they take can ever make them tall. 

Be gone! Crawl back into the Void of Hell.

The people hear the symphony, the knell. 

AI generated

That noise you bang upon your broken drum?

The people see it’s humdrum, glum, and dumb. 

We sing to each and organize each note. 

We work Together for the Good, not Gloat. 

The people seek their choral symphony;

Forgo the rancid raunch cacophony. 

The plumber, builder, doctor, driver, aide;

Accountant, artist, seller, teller, maid.

Photo by AfroRomanzo on Pexels.com

The people want to work to make life good. 

Contributors through history who could

Made our life better; who would not do such? 

The greedy few cannot begin to touch.

Photo by artawkrn on Pexels.com

Cooperation is our human gift. 

Our speech is there to bridge the natural rift

Of experts taught to see from different views. 

We cannot let the greedy slant the news. 

Some day, some year, some time that’s yet to be:

We’ll feel the power of humanity. 

Each working, playing, helping, each to be.

A World of Worth, of Love, and Dignity.

——————-

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Essays on America: The Game

Dance of Billions

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Imagine All the People

Dick-Taters

As Gold as it Gets

Math Class: Who Are You?

Life is a Dance

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

You Gave me no Fangs

Snowflake

Come Back to the Light

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