hiding in the siren silence
within sight of invites of violence
in the sky the plight of tyrants
righteous mighty fighter pilots

biased bombs in flights of guidance
goliath might, the fire of giants
without a fight or try of defiance
set alight in frying alliance

in the final piles of subsidence
the dying cries of compliance
the price they paid is the highest
the siren silence finally quiets

Writing is not unlike fishing.

You take up the instrument
of your art, cut a raw chunk
of your heart for bait, cast
as far into your imagination
as possible and wait for
something likely to strike.

Then you reel it in, slowly
and with craft. With luck
you have caught a poem. But
quite often, just when you
think you've got it, it simply
slips away, leaving you alone,
frustrated and bewildered,
but still hoping it might be
only another cast away.

Poetry is ephemeral;
difficult to catch
when sought. Hard
to hold onto and
easily lost when caught.
All you can do is
keep the poem in play
and hope to land it
another day.

  ~mce

it's great fun
when young
drink hard
inhale often
talk merrily
laugh deeply
pass out on
a strange couch

but when older
the terrible
price you'll
pay is only
a fluttering
of eyelids
away