The Winds of Wars
The winds of wars have shorn the shores where children once had played,
revealing bones of dead unknowns for whom the faithful’d prayed,
to no avail beneath the veil of death where rockets strayed,
for tit-for-tat is where it's at when war hawks’ eggs are laid.
The winds of wars destroy the moors, strew corpses’ burnt debris
which stains the staves that mark the graves (blest signs of victory)
where somber moms are sighing psalms while staring wistfully
upon the past before the blast that doomed their destiny.
The winds of wars clog corridors with folks in search of peace
because, outside, the genocide is giving no surcease;
‘But what the heck, it pays the check’, so say the world Police –
beneath the sky, they slice the pie, each hacking off a piece.
The winds of wars have wiped the floors with foes who won’t obey
(the bombs that fall are meant for all, the bodies ricochet) –
‘The carcass count may sadly mount’ the vanquishers will say,
while hiding facts of heinous acts neath verbal lingerie.
The winds of wars (soon metaphors for hellish deeds, though deeper)
have flattened schools (allowed by rules as written by the Reaper),
and brought despair beamed through the air (beware the ***** beeper)
and, when they slay so faraway, make human life the cheaper.
The winds of wars have spread the spores that taint and mangle minds
with doublespeak and hide-and-seek that closes eyes and grinds
the passive pawns (once mowed like lawns) with servitude that binds,
and while the blight is holding tight, the wider world unwinds.
Postscript
The Wins of Wars
The wins of wars fill warlords’ drawers (some call it charity)
with yellow gold for weapons sold to **** the enemy
and purloined oil from conquered soil and tankers seized at sea –
the poor are billed to fund and build the wartime industry.
The wins of wars are won by ****** who sell their souls with glee
and run amok to spend a buck (for killing’s never free)
and more and more they’ll arm for war (a spiraled spending spree)
until at last the warrior caste’s deposed and forced to flee.
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 8:36 AM UTC
Rule # 0: We alone write the Rules (and We use them as tools when We ****** the ‘mules’)
Rule # 1: Our Intentions are torqued (double Standards well forked as Our Wars are uncorked)
Rule # 2a: what We do defines Legal (no need to inveigle, decrees the Bald Eagle)
Rule # 2b: yes, Our Rules are The Rules (and those rules not Our Rules are de facto not Rules)
Rule # 2c: for Our Rules make Our might (the blind see it’s alright and sleep tight through the night)
Rule # 3a: yes, Our word must suffice (and will surely be nice, laced with sugar or spice)
Rule # 3b: never dare throw the dice (or to be more concise, never think once or twice)
Rule # 3c: simply take Our advice (which is but a small price to avoid sacrifice)
Rule # 4a: once We’ve come We’ll be staying (midst shells ricocheting, and bodies decaying)
Rule # 4b: night and day We’ll be preying (ignoring the slaying, no need to be praying)
Rule # 5: homegrown press heeds The Rules (helping fire Our fuels, by convincing the fools)
Rule # 6: ‘ebon black’ is Our white (definition of ‘light’ in the dead of the night)
Rule # 7a: We’re the cops of the world (with Our justice well hurled, when Our arms are unfurled)
Rule # 7b: if We lose, ‘lose’ means WIN (being experts at spin, need We twirl it again?)
Rule # 8a: what they think theirs, is Ours (’cause We’ve got all the powers to plant them ’neath flowers)
Rule # 8b: so WE loot where We like (and if need be WE strike, thus enriching Our *****
Rule # 8c: Our invasions? defensive (for allies expensive, with sanctions intensive)
Rule # 9a: We can kidnap at will (and if need be We’ll **** while the mocking birds trill)
Rule # 9b: yes, We **** when We chose (in Our faraway coups, where We’ve nothing to lose)
Rule # 9c: and We take ’cause We’re needy (and they? ’cause they’re greedy, which seems kinda seedy)
Rule # 10a: join Our new ‘Bored of Peace’ (thereby helping Us fleece; Our pale palms need the grease!)
Rule # 10b: costs a billion, not more (supporting the war for the company store)
Rule # 11: best abide by Our Rules! (else We cut off your jewels and feed you Our stools)
Jan 26
Jan 26, 2026 at 5:19 PM UTC
I’ve been asked to explain the words “Never A Gain”!
So I’ll limn it here plain, all that’s “Never A Gain”:
Death, destruction and pain define Never A Gain,
like a pale hurricane, warfare’s Never A Gain,
often wars steal terrain, plunder’s Never A Gain,
even wars on the wane, really Never A Gain,
over ten million slain, frankly Never A Gain.
Although diplomats feign (pretend’s Never A Gain) ,
and abuse might and main (thralldom’s Never A Gain),
trying tricks and chicane achieves Never A Gain.
Where the children have lain, voids are Never A Gain,
limber limbs torn in twain, doubly Never A Gain,
fearful famine, mundane, by God Never A Gain;
warriors say it’s humane though there’s Never A Gain.
Army hordes raising Cain exhume Never A Gain,
bloody battles, though vain, produce Never A Gain,
whether guns or ******* shots wreak Never A Gain;
though the dead don’t complain, dying’s Never A Gain.
Atom bombs from a plane bestow Never A Gain,
lethal neutrons aflame beget Never A Gain,
with a nuclear rain, all’s lost, Never A Gain.
In a sandy domain, victory’s Never A Gain.
Desert blood down the drain? A clot’s Never A Gain.
And though dunes will remain, a grave’s Never A Gain.
Global war, so insane, provides Never A Gain,
whether Gaza, Ukraine, death deals Never A Gain.
In that graveyard domain, regret’s Never A Gain
and a soul’s reddened stain’s also Never A Gain.
Can we learn from the slain that war’s Never A Gain?
YES!!!
Since it’s Never A Gain...
well then, Never Again!
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 7:25 PM UTC
The sinking sun is now undone,
the sky is fading red
and shadows prowl neath cloak and cowl
for midnight lies ahead.
Beyond the heap, the honchos sleep
with bloated bellies fed;
for, yes indeed, no one's in need,
at least, that's what they've said.
Amongst the ones that hunger shuns,
in day's retreating tread,
are spiders black ensnaring snacks
while spinning silken thread.
But as it stands, in conquered lands
a famine reigns instead -
and kids at noon, collapse and swoon
on stones they call a bed.
With aching eyes they fantasize
and dream of gingerbread,
and after while, they wake and smile,
now dining with the dead.
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 12:05 PM UTC
This war, with allies unified
(reminds of German genocide),
leaves mandates, empty, purified,
(as human flesh is nullified),
enticing persons (pale, blue eyed,
through which their minds are calcified
by factoid news that helps misguide
while public critique's stultified)
to let this evil beast abide
(where once the Son was crucified)
with “rules-based-order” magnified
(and base inhuman rights applied).
A damning fact that’s oft denied
(like truthers thoughts demonified,
interred by “free press”, mummified,
or elsewhere where the truth can hide):
“avoiding worldwide suicide
means needless wars must soon subside”
(and death no longer multiplied).
Well, those in power (those who rule),
ignore all legal ridicule
(when blocking water, food, and fuel),
think killing kids is kinda cool
(no need for crib nor crèche nor school,
although the UNO’s judged it cruel),
deplete the dams to fill their pools
(the dregs that died of thirst were fools -
they should’ve drunk the sewers’ gruels),
devise the New World Order’s rules
(to “fix” the foreigner’s “family jewels”).
They fight for land (claim self defense)
against the population (dense
confined behind a wired fence -
so none should really take offense
when crimes in crimson recommence
with fortunes made at their expense).
Some say the body count’s immense
(but who keeps tabs when times are tense?)
in any case no consequence
(those claiming moral precedence
forgive the fiends forever hence),
for justice is but pure pretense
(and nevermore makes any sense)
in deadly days of decadence.
With bombs they teach “what’s yours is mine”
(results, when greed and graft combine
destroying peace and Palace, fine).
Between the sands and salty brine
somehow survivors come to dine
(with grub served in the firing line)
and lose the thing some think divine
(we all have one, though cats count nine,
the Lord says “take not what’s not thine”),
as life and dying intertwine.
A passing dove once watched and cried
“Why can’t these lands be pacified”
(and not expunged or liquefied),
to which a raving raven sighed
“The goal’s that foes be rarified”
(yeah, something like a genocide);
the wizened owl said this implied
“If each one hates the other side
the final end’s humanicide”
(a well kept secret, classified).
“Of course” the top paid hawks replied
(yes, leaving high ideals aside,
and politicians gratified,
and no one dead indemnified).
In future days (when present’s past,
no longer split by class or caste)
will folks look back, with eyes aghast
(at all the horrors we’ve amassed
and witnessed real time, telecast)
and ask themselves, with eyes downcast,
(if, once again, the die were cast)
“Hmm, would I be enthusiast”
(supporting crimes that flabbergast)
“or else, perchance, iconoclast”
(be harried, hounded and harassed)
“or just stand by until the last?”
(as little kids are starved or gassed)?
Afterword
Although this topic’s dreadfully vast,
I’m stopping now, my time has passed
(outside, the world is overcast,
expecting soon the end-time blast).
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 10:51 AM UTC
When nights are dark you’ll never see
the depths of our humanity,
but in the light of desert days
the shades of death will quite amaze.
So if you’ve time to take the trouble
sift just once through wreck and rubble -
ashen bones of tots will rile,
though eyes of rampant killers smile.
While starving at their mama’s breast,
one wonders whom those babes transgressed.
But as the bombs boom, split and splatter,
does it even really matter?
Yes, mothers often pay the price
with holy wartime sacrifice:
in flight, miscarried embryos!
Quite slow as ethnic cleansing goes,
but nonetheless, one must confess,
infanticide’s a great success.
The Chiefs disdain the Rule of Law -
their conscience never seems to gnaw
when dealing peace its last hurrah;
though charged with crime, they never rue it,
persevere and still pursue it,
smile and claim “they made me do it”.
They smoke their own, like cannibals,
with dictates, such as Hannibal's,
erasing also hostages
in so-called rescue carnages.
With bullets flying back and forth
the hungry hordes are driven north,
since promised aid (that’s long gone south)
was empty words from furtive mouth.
Instead of plates of pita bread
the meals are served with plated lead,
and those expiring at their hands
will sleep neath sheets of silent sands.
On fallow fields where kids once played
you’ll find a random hand grenade,
the only one that didn’t explode
the last time that the lawn was mowed.
As prancing children cross the roads
sometimes a tampered phone explodes.
One wonders what the future bodes -
perhaps some elegiac odes!
Where are those boys that threw a stone?
Well, some were shot; and some were not,
but whisked away to place unknown
and in the meantime... left to rot.
Within dark tunnels, bad guys hide,
beneath the clinics, far and wide,
so missiles raze them to the ground -
no bodies of the bad guys found,
but upstairs in debris, instead,
lie doctors in the ER... dead.
Twelve bombers flattened Ah-tross City
showing no remorse or pity;
now survivors hide in tents
in fear of further ‘accidents’.
But where are those with screams that gags?
Brought often back in body bags!
No need for sorrow for the slain,
since after death they feel no pain.
Today are waged uncivil wars
which burst the dams and breach the shores
to empty vital reservoirs;
with water less than hitherto,
(and lacking coke from Timbuktu),
they’re left to lap the sewage brew.
This glance at barren battlefields
reveals the peace that killing yields,
evoking shadows time transcends
when man’s existence finally ends.
EPITAPH
While Jungle Jim the Jingoist
embroils the world, and wars persist,
pale Peter Pan the Pacifist
pleads “Can’t we somehow coexist?”
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 8:22 AM UTC
A little bird has flown the nest
to seek a world of wonder
and spreads her wings 'neath skies possessed
by lightning bolts and thunder.
She flees approaching hurricanes
her feathers, white, aflutter,
and travels over vast terrains
of broken stones and clutter.
And though she swoops to skirt the curse
her hopes are torn asunder,
for on the ground’s a universe
of raging death and plunder.
The sands below have hid all trace
of olive trees and clover
where splintered bones now span a space
which rolling dunes pass over.
In search of silent secrets stored
by enemies uncertain
the loons will surf with waterboard,
well masked behind a curtain.
Beneath the bats that flee in fright
from hell that’s in the making
(so hot, the corpse of night ignites),
the thread of life is breaking.
A sudden burst and numbing noise
(replacing sounds of laughter)
lead army boots o’er children’s toys
debouching towards disaster.
Barrages break and rivers bleed
in everywhere down under
but nonetheless there’s flesh for feed
wherever buzzards blunder.
The aged, youth and embryos,
through wanton death, are waning -
the vultures, hawks and ebon crows,
well fed, are not complaining.
As carnage spreads (like ancient plagues),
a virus cruel and schlepping,
the lanes are lined with shattered legs
where e’er the goose was stepping.
A ducky quacks in hot pursuit
while seeking help and shelter,
but wizened owls give not a hoot
in worlds so helter-skelter
The consequence of pillages,
where love of man surceases,
are craters, onetime villages
reduced to tiny pieces.
The gardens, white, where lilies bloomed,
now fallow fields of ashes,
are catacombs of cities doomed
'neath sonic booms and flashes.
Survivors traipsing place to place
like nomads forced to wander,
are searching for a piece of peace
within the distant yonder.
A savage world in smithereens
with olive branches burning -
disgruntled doves endure these scenes
through endless years of yearning.
The Gods of birds are of no use,
inept like Those of others -
so foes attack, with blessed excuse
{both sides claim right inside the night!}
while earth, in embers, smothers.
Epitaph
The cuckoos covet kingdom come
while roosting on a rafter -
there’s food for all, though only chum,
in birdy-land hereafter.
Apr 3, 2025
Apr 3, 2025 at 4:28 PM UTC
Pursuing springtime walking sprees
beside our dog, beneath the trees,
I oft detected some unease
amongst the birds and buzzing bees
as echoed by flat monodies
of clicking, clacking, knocking knees
(forsooth, reversed parentheses)
resounding pained discordant keys,
confusing triplets’ twos and threes
as if the tunes were meant to tease
with awkward stilted harmonies.
I asked a doc with med degrees
if he could, somehow, kindly, please,
suggest intensive therapies
that maybe might perhaps just ease
strange syncopations such as these
(you know, those eerie melodies
that echo from my noisy knees)
before my family finally flees.
At last my doctor said “oh geez,
this is the worst of maladies,
so I’ll replace those knobby knees
(they look like half moons made of cheese)
with stainless steel or manganese
or other metals such as these
as used in all such surgeries.
I’m sure the outcome won’t displease
(you’ll stand on legs, isosceles)
although there are no guarantees”.
Now that I’m fixed, I stretch and squeeze
with exercise my coach decrees
to aid me flex my new born knees;
and should I suffer agonies
he soothes the strains with frozen peas
or cubes of ice that make me freeze
and says “I hope my expertise
has helped to heal your injuries
and if you must, feel free to sneeze”.
With chiseled legs on racing skis,
I now can sail as does a breeze
o’er nearby alpine apogees
(and view those sites that no one sees,
alive in eagles reveries)
and when in Vail, win jamborees
upon my new non-knocking knees.
Feb 17, 2025
Feb 17, 2025 at 7:39 PM UTC
I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.
I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.
I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten
the demons of the night.
I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.
I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.
I go to church each Sunday,
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.
I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.
I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.
I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.
I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?
I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.
I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.
I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.
I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.
I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.
I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.
I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.
I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.
Dec 14, 2024
Dec 14, 2024 at 12:55 PM UTC
The world today is split in two
… or three... or four... or maybe more,
but nonetheless, one must confess,
all wage their wars as heretofore.
While blunderbusses prey for us
within our world where gods deceive,
atomic war, white phosphorus
and ****** gel that burns, bereave.
Yes, Tweedledumb oft beats the drum
and pokes the pig and baits the boar
while tongues are wrung as songs are sung
distorting hymns of ‘Nevermore’.
And all the while the hordes defile
forgotten ghosts who haunt the coasts
awash in tears of crocodiles
who’ve lost the least but rue the most.
And Tweedledumber, somewhat glummer,
fills the sheath with claws and teeth
to arm the hacks and maniacs
who’ll dance the dance that death bequeaths.
Though blood runs red amongst the dead,
along the track the holes are black
and filled with human flesh in shreds -
for wily worms, a midnight snack.
In distant days, hell’s breeze ablaze,
death’s final wreath will sink beneath
ould yahoo’s wicked words that raise
the underworld from underneath.
But Hannibal, implacable,
is something weird and far more feared
by captured pawns within the squall
of sorry souls who’ve disappeared.
The devil deals the dead man’s hand
to Tweedledumber, Tweedledumb
who gamble in the promised land,
fill kingdom come with martyrdom.
Both Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber
slaying for more living space
have churned the chum throughout the summer -
carnage in a crowded place.
They worship warships, tanks galore,
cool macho stuff that’s sent to ***** –
along the shore the cannons roar,
some loud enough to call God’s bluff.
While passing over fields of clover,
every breath still smells of death
that’s dropped by drones and other rovers
shaming freedom’s shibboleth.
When phones explode and lawns are mowed
while Tweedledumb, the reaper, strums,
royal boats on River Styx are rowed
by moneyed men with calloused thumbs.
When Tweedledumb can’t overcome
the famished flocks midst sands and rocks,
or clear the slum to rid the ****
he’ll talk the talk to hard-nosed hawks.
And they in turn, with naught to learn,
will flap their wings and pull the strings
of those who yearn the quick return
of sandbox kings that victory brings.
Yes Tweedledumber makes him happy
sending BB guns and bombs,
maintaining armies tough and scrappy
killing kids, their dads and moms.
Because the Tweedles have no qualms
effacing foes’ knees, heads and toes,
the pious pray and sing sad psalms
the while that thousands die in throes.
Nov 17, 2024
Nov 17, 2024 at 4:10 PM UTC