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Carlo C Gomez Nov 2019
Dinner by candlelight
underneath the stairs, down
in the bomb shelter,
dancing to love, peace, and paranoia.
An evening called quiet
resentment, where there's
canned goods and children's games,
Duck & Cover,
or if you prefer,
Heimlich Maneuver.
Then little sleepy heads
go gently into their bunkered beds.
They might not outlive
the threat, but
the plan has a half-life of a chance.
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2019
In statistics
A population
Is a set of similar events
Which pertain
To a question

Life is not so random
The question is often when (?)
Once the box is open
Stem-and-leaf scatter

Snowflakes
Assume symmetry
Burn eyes, connections
Melt skin, memory

Pollution distribution
The outlier
Survives but one day more
The median is simply
Outnumbered

Variance is valueless
Unbecoming
To a populace
Up in smoke

Count your blessings
Night comes quickly
Hard rain
Kills softly

Supplicate heaven
The top of the box
Stays hermetically
Sealed
Forever

(And a day)
Breon Aug 2019
What could we do, but
Reach out and defy rapture
As the light took us?
Come the fire, come what remains,
Our dust will be together.
Modern fears require modern coping mechanisms.
Tatiana Jul 2019
.
.
.
When you hear the whistle
of the terrible, dreaded missile
shooting far over our heads
and when the birds enter a silence
that not even the morning light can break.
Do you grab the graying hand
of a lover that you did not have
a chance to wed?
As the flames burn us all at once
and leave nothing
but ash in our place.
I whisper to the fierce, man-made winds
and hope my new, clear words
find you in our nuclear world
I will see you again
in the aftermath.

.
.
.
©Tatiana
Dominique Jun 2019
The silhouettes are all the same
When formed by falling nuclear rain;
And that's the real catastrophe:
No difference between you and me.
Without individuality we have nothing :)
Nigdaw Jun 2019
You cannot control the power of the sun
Far less try to hide it behind lies
And reassurances that everything is fine,
While it burns into the retinas of thousands
Who thought they had jobs for life.
The sunsets just don't lie, our life giving
Star sent messages to it's progeny
Writing out the truth across the sky

Pripyat holds the secrets of the apocalypse
Now we know what happens when our world
Ends, nature carries on, regardless, unperturbed
Even after we have done our worst, we go
The way of the dinosaurs, leaving a vacancy
For the next apex predator to ***** up
The world will never stop, but we will
And I think you'll find we will not be sorely missed

Just because one man broke the rules
Causing a reactor to blow it's cool
All so the 'Woodpecker' could listen in
A wall of surveillance powered by nuclear
Fission, now it is a tourist hot spot, everyone
Can go to visit the moment this world stopped
But will we learn from the devastation that's left
History says otherwise, you can't fix stupid
Chris Saitta Jun 2019
Brother, our young summers held us in a long chain like the phalanx of bronzed soldiers forward flung,
And the lion was skinned and hung out to dry like the sunned-fur of the beach at Marathon.
Brother, help me to dream again.

Brother, our yellowed days shook us like serried Hoplites of an atomic age,
Shoulder to shoulder, friction rubbed, all ranks split from the fissioned-flanks.
Brother, help me to dream again.

Storm-footed Titans of heat, dust, and irradiated wind pry from a ruptured Tartarus,
The flanks are an open pulse; the scorch-song thirsts for its sea-cooling to stone.
Brother, the lion lives that wears your skull around its mane.

Brother, dream of me again, of Persian arrows and lances,
And my fallen eyes instead of yours pouring in
With a sea of lavender water and mists
And summers of once-were.
For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at chrissaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
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