#despotism
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to stay its upward ******
One errant step is all it takes
to breach that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless wanderer
who fails to guard his path.
Fragile calderas also roil
buried in darkest hollows of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in molten pools
of self-consuming misery.
To dress and salve our wounds
we sow gardens of reconciliation within
with beauty, trust and reason
and bow to gods of grace and solace.
But a despot’s studied eye
knows just how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot
and reason has no district.
Sisters and brothers of our flesh I pray
we find a holy and transforming alchemy
to convert our heat to light
and shield our sacred calderas
from enemies that stalk us from within.
July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
There seems to be no escape.
The MAGA cult is all queued up.
Tickets in hand, gathering their baggage -
Prepared to board the leaky ship
For a one-way trip to the bottom of the sea.
Their bags are exceedingly heavy -
Filled with their leader's failures,
Formed of laundered cash, ****
Top Secret document theft, fraud,
Abandoned faithful allies
And defenders of Ukraine's freedom.
There are no first class seats on this ship
Because there are no first class passengers.
They long ago sold off all they should value
To stand by a creepy hotel clerk
Consumed by grift and self - idolatry.
Their hero arrives in a three-piece suit
To escort them to their cabins
As soon as he scrapes the mashed potatoes
From his corruption-soaked vest.
But wait - there seem to be empty seats
Many voyagers are turning away
Tearing their tickets as they go.
They tell how they’re finished
With lies and losing and treachery.
Too bad for them - for you see,
There's no place like the ocean floor
To gurgle on the wrong side of history.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 12:37 PM UTC
*I'm not sure there's love or trust in this place any more yet I can't leave
which kind of man would I be to disappear as others grieve
I'm driven by the will to make this place what it was
to stick by my people in time of piece and time of wars
I'm not sure who my friends are anymore
this place is a jungle and everyone's become a wild animal
there's no harmony when some are predators others prey
no more sunshine for the mellow skies are grey
with very thick and expectant clouds of despair and pain
in hearts hopelessly awaiting for the stormy rain
wanted to walk away from these disappointments and hurt
from the start but in this dismal place lies my heart*
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
A tinpot tyrant built a tower tall,
clad in gold and granite and all.
This motte and bailey mocked the skies,
mocked the peasants who’d helped him rise.
Reflected in wide moat’s black waters
he saw a king or khan — not the paupers —
and ruled his lands to rack and ruin
until he faced his own perdition.
The tyrant’s chiseled name fades away
dissolving with each rainy day.
All that’s left of this despot’s schemes:
the wreck of his peeling gold leaf dreams,
this tower the barest token of his trying will
upon that lonely bald abandoned hill.
Now none remember the tyrant‘s name
whose broken tower was built for fame.
Feb 5, 2025
Feb 5, 2025 at 7:08 PM UTC
The tyrant built his tower tall,
set straight to work a-cutting through
the golden threads that join us all
to hoard them in his mental zoo.
Its bricks were baked of stolen clay
in his kleptocratic kilns’ cracked moulds.
Their stench of sulfurous yellow stays
as mockery of our cords of gold.
He covets the gleaming ties we share
to gild the cavern in his tower.
The pit that’s fed with his charm’s snares
cannot be sated with this gold of ours.
His true name is as it ever stayed,
be it Xerxes, or Julius, or Wilhelm, or Don,
this ******* hybrid of hubris and hate,
who feeds on sycophantic fawns.
But despots have their own red thread,
a truth of iron wrought long before:
Each one will end encased in lead,
entombed beneath time’s deepening ****
The tower topples, his memory fades.
He takes his place with Hades’ shades.
Nov 12, 2024
Nov 12, 2024 at 9:20 AM UTC
"Special Military Operation"
"Kinetic Strikes"
We know it's ******
Some people's heads need to be on pikes.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 11:25 PM UTC