It is as if the world is constantly surprised
That those who most ardently profess
Religiosity are often those who commit
The most egregious forms of wickedness.
Those poor, poor children: could we permit
Their suffering to be ignored, be pushed aside?
#585 On Mommy’s Nightly Games with Puff Puff
Every night, she jumps the shark of
Felt necklace and twirling string.
With eager anticipation of leisure,
She is a blur of black and white, swirling
In tune to mommy’s fierce fantasia.
Each evening, a declaration of love.
#584 On Your Subtle Benediction
Benedictus,
Beneath the humdrum throb of daily life,
I can almost hear the silent bassline
Of your Music: the constant and active
Act of Creation that disarms the knife
Of Chaos and repels the saturnine
And the unjust and the invidious.
I close my eyes; I will away the intrusive
Glare of vile, idolatrous strife.
I surrender to Your Music: subtle and benign.
#583 On This Portapotty Existence
Glassy-eyed, we walk past these corridors,
Chasing numbers across our yawning days.
A hamster’s hunt through the glass doors
Of swanky corporate offices, scurrying past
Our portapotty cubicles, our diurnal homes,
Like defeated castle gnomes, downcast,
Eking out one final groan, one final chase.
What kind of life is this? Who made this so?
How did we submit to this existence?
We who are made in His image, we who know
Better - we who are mirrors reflecting His Magnificence?
#582 On Your Torrent of Lies
Torrential stream of bilious lies
To try to smother unkind truths
To fulminate and to disguise
Your cruel intent, devoid of ruth
In disbelief I witness gall
Your chutzpah keeps your cult enthralled.
#581 On The Game That Was Lost
What was the meaning
Of all that strife? We were bound
To lose from the start.
#580 On This Land of Dearth
I sink into this
House of mirth - a laughable
Parched desert of Dearth.
#579 On The Petulant Stallion that You Rode On
You rode on your horse
A rough, petulant stallion.
Now? You're on your knees.
#578 On Rule by Fist
Against tyranny,
You raised a fist in defiance.
Now, you rule by fist.
#577 On The Curse of Being Born into Luxury
It must be nice to
Be born into luxury
A sweet, lulling curse.