War Games/Consolation

 
War Games
 
 
More and more
get less and less,
the best sacrificed
to great God Success.
Anger
builds
brick by bloody brick.
Is it a surprise
(“Look!  Into my eyes!”)
when the peasants cackle
resurrecting the guillotine?
Raw power.
Hot metal shooting
unmistakable marks,
burning ragged skin and guts
and glory.
 
Tell me a story, daddy,
about before the war
when water flowed
in abundant freedom,
when the air was pure
of the stench
of greed,
when everybody had
a sacred right
to feel
and believe
and dance in the moonlight;
when we could afford to be
young, untried, open
to possibilities not cut off
by a sacrificial knife
repeatedly, vilely, severing
vital organs
without regard to the waste,
with no respect for place
or the people for whom that space
holds stories.
 
Weapons forged in anger,
shattered layers of
desperate pride, dishonor, grief,
deeply festering wounds
poison the populace
unto the Seventh Generation,
caught up in some grotesque
morality play.
 
 
 
 
Consolation
 
 
A glaze over my mind, my eyes out of focus.
There may be reasons for everything, but they are not mine.
The air so thick with lies, another layer will choke us.
Truth’s shining angel, hovers outside the line.
 
When I try
When I cry
When I enter your room
The lights go out
The blankets divide.
It’s not that I want to rustle your gloom.
It’s that I want what’s inside,
the fear you hold dear
the smile you hide.
 
Long ago I believed in a dream of the future.
I made a wish on the Moon, floating so free.
Rushing on stage, I still miss my cue, for
dreams jumble their meaning, wishes double their fee.
 
I had a song that I sang that once gave me solace.
I had a prayer in my soul I thought kept me on course.
But the poison we’re fed to restrain and corral us
Has driven me hard and too far from the source.
 
I reach out in the dark
past the miles, past the years
I reach out for a spark
still burning despite the tears
I reach out for the words,
to make it all right
I reach out for a comrade in the night.
.
.
.
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