Dylan Halvorsen
Dylan Halvorsen
May 3, 2016

A trust indemnified by chance to breathe
Gouging ankles keep knots to wreath.
Caduceus' serpents hold fast to feet and leg
A pledge was brought and signed without need or beg.
Grace permeates the steps like weed in field
Almost manifest for outstretched hands to yield.
Benevolent after thoughts bring what share they can
Self-reverent past to wrought things that dare sway hand.

The Satisfaction of Non-Commerce
Daniel Steven Moskowitz

A Collection
Is worth more
If you don't have to pay for it.
So, the Internet provides
The Satisfaction of Non-Commerce

the Sandman
the Sandman
Apr 2, 2016

Lack-luster, in dull
Clusters, tall pylons reign with
Gods that look like you.

Jan 21, 2014

The village dealt in sheep each day
The people loved this difficult way
It caused some fights
But all of them were rites
Into becoming a better whole.

Then one day there was no more barter
The exchange of cold metal made it much harder
To lose in a deal
Or really need to heal
A broken system they found much comfort in

JP Goss
Aug 14, 2014

Two-daughters succession go astride
One hunched in apathy
The other in defeat
I could have seen beauty in progeny
Before it was
By artificial gravity
Smelling of blood-stained pittances
And a taker’s philosophy,
Their lunch-box notions
And plastic dreams
Rattled the bars on a shopping cart.
Do they, I wonder,
Feel their ease at pain? Or luxury, woe?
Though their smiling faces
Were promised, now reach
To Paradise,
I can seem them
Beneath them, too:
Updated, upgraded, brand-spanking new
All they ever hoped to be,

Mar 25, 2015

Bricks and mortar, steel and boards,
Phone poles lined with power cords, on
Pothole streets, where engines roar,
'Neath smoggy skies, where jet planes soar,

Where penny merchants peddle wares,
And news reports pretend they care,
Where vagrants sleep, and children stare,
And people work for lives not theirs,

That's life in the anthill, a tad bit absurd,
Where the ants pine away for the flight of the bird.
Where the pundits stand polished, and speak empty words,
And the artists paint portraits, while posted on curbs,

Where the men push carts, full of empty cans,
And the women spend paychecks, for spray-on tans,
Where the truckers drive loads, 'cross a thousand mile span,
To appease the great gods of supply and demand,

Asphalt and tarmac, girders and glass,  
Terrarium trees in cemented sod grass,
Ripe with the stench of exhaust fumes and gas,
As the choir lines up for the 10 o'clock mass,

While the brokers all scream, at a packed stock exchange,
As the veterans in wheelchairs sit begging for change,
That's life in the anthill, it's just a big game,
But remember you're playing, lest you go insane.

To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment