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 na-palm 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 sn-uff –
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 sc-um
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.

The Holy Land neath hammer blows -
           is this what Jesus prophesied:
when sad-sack’s hanged like mistletoes
           the sightless see a suicide;
when thousands fall like dominoes
           the blind deny it’s homicide;
when women fry in thermal throes
           the gents reject it’s femicide
when rockets slaughter embryos
           the fools forget it’s feticide
when children die and decompose
           the dullards doubt infanticide;
when bodies burn with afterglows
           no one concedes it’s genocide.
Whichever way the west wind blows
           leaves morals dangling, crucified…

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.

A light cold rain began to fall, I could see my
breath like smoke in the air, our brief Fall had
become our early Winter, I chill quivered in
response, and zipped up my jacket. Also, my
aging legs required a brief respite, I had not
intended to walk so far.

Taking shelter under a river birch tree, I huddled
and shivered beneath the hood of my rain parka.
The creek less than five feet away flowed briskly
past, swollen with three days of rain, all around
me falling like confetti, golden Birch leaves slowly
fluttered down upon the surface of the creek,
glimmering on the dark water like so many tiny
glowing Japanese lanterns, quickly swept away
downstream.

Within minutes, those leaves that made it that far
would float, or flow into the Willamette River,
and by nightfall some would find their way into
the mighty Columbia River, forty miles distant.
Just maybe, perhaps by tomorrow a few might
actually, find their way West to reach and mix
into the salty Pacific Sea.

What a nearly wonderous journey to behold and
contemplate, one tiny footnote in the many chapters
and story within the pages of nature's earthly playbook.
All things in balance, all with a purpose.