they say it's a god-given right
a necessity, meant to be
a part of the American life

but tell me, do you know what it's like
to have to the cold steel of a barrel
pressed between your innocent eyes?

My name is Martha and I'm very tired
my patience as such has long expired
so you don't want my brown skin next to your white
well madam I'm tired so I'm sitting tight
it's hot and I waited my turn in the queue
and I paid, just like him, just like her, just like you
you can carp, you can moan, you can cause all kinds of fuss
but lady I'm keeping my seat on this bus
because I'm tired

The world is a dark and complicated morass,
Wherein countless lost children pass
In and out of the shadows and greet each other with a smile or a nod.

Isolated, lonely little hearts playing
With complex emotions in a word staying
Abreast of all the troubling events for better or worse.

Light and laughter dwells but a moment
In tender unions just before fears foment
A cascade of ****** worries filling up the eternal halls.

Then a single flame at first finds another
Huddling in the dark over scraps Mother
Left for kindling a fire in the depths of destitution.

At first the two but soon three and more
Shelter the faltering fire taking hold for
Reviving communion among the distanced souls.

As more join a bonfire starts and talking
Not just of pleasantries you hear while walking,
But of sincere connection between scared children discovering they can conquer the dark.

Some children still pass in the dark hall,
Knowing not the darkness nor how small
They really are in the scope of the full extent of the world.

But every once in a while, more often as it grows,
A child stops and really sees what the others chose
In banding about a fire fueled by the scraps of a difficult time.

Are there any eyes that won’t burn
When it comes their turn
To be watchful throughout the sea of lies
To watch over a child that cries

Crying for the father that never returned
Or that rejected any stone turned
Will this children’s eyes burn
Because of the tears, or because it’s now their turn

Their turn to watch smoke paint the sky
Turn to watch the seas rise
Their time to watch their kind’s demise
Burn from watching other tearing eyes

Will the eyes of the wise be blinded?
When he has no more wisdom and has to be reminded
Will the eyes of mothers turn to ashes in the air
When they see the world they left is only more despair

Will a white dove cry
When it can’t see the sky
And its kin have turned grey
And there’s nothing we could say
To make them stay
So it’s now the turn to our eyes to burn and cry
For there are no doves in the sky

The ***-bellied Mercedes squealed
As Meursault withdrew and
Marvelled at the flames
Licking
The air
Like marigolds on Ritilin.
'Raymond would have no reason not to admire this act.'
He stopped by a shimmering sea of Ubers.
The scrape and drawl of siren made no impression on him.
Leaking smoke reminded him of
Snow White’s Cottage
Where he had taken Marie when Lucie was born:
The place where he would go out at dawn to chop wood.
He liked the way her roses played
With the restlessness of children.
Then he thought: 'if only mother could see me now.'

how many protests have you watched now?
how many devolving into riots?
via violent actors, on either side
what was gained, for those we lost?
was it in vain?
did the pay outweigh the cost?
or was our venture defunct?
would civil disobedience had been better sought?
or a more brutal insurrection,
to rival those we've been taught?
just do like they'd wish
and lay down and die

Can Morning forget the violence of the Night?

For gentle dew to replace emboldened strikes
that a bird's song answers echoed screams
and glittering haze overtakes peppered smoke

Does Night whisper through the day
found in streams of pressure
empty gallons
torn paper
discarded masks
shattered glass

That Night's ***** fingers
grasping
clawing
scratching the surface of a past
carefully hidden
bleeds through pristine learned pages
to words unspoken

bandages wrapped
milk poured
least the wound bring feared change

the silvered light, a true new Morning
true dawn bursting forth in honest reconciliation
not forgetting
not forgiving

but forward

Morning and Night
pushing

but can Morning  further meaning of Night

Come to me surreptitiously like fog comes in December night
I will hide you by the news of discontent and discomfort-
Engulf and surround you with fear of loom,
The country is going to dust now,
Master has become maniac puffing the ***** of 'Power'
deeming good into bad and bad into good,
The books affirming violence his students seek,
The guardians and protectors stand and watch
the clashes like sadists forbidden to inflict pain;

I lament the plight and plunder of my sacred home,
Hoping a dawn of summer amid chilly winter.