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A brick falls
A feather falls

Which hits the ground first?
The brick smashes into pebbles
While the feather hovers down,
Oh so gentlly
Is it the same case with people?
The weight of the world makes us
Like the brick
Guilt, fear, anger
In our hearts as we sink

A feather falls
It makes no sound, no crashing noise
Yet it reaches its destination
With great poise
Twisting and turning
And correcting itself

Watch the brick fall
No twists and turns, no direction
Straightforward, with no correction
It comes with a roaring thud
Known only by the noise it makes
Ignorant of its own mistakes
Pulled down by the haul
Of its own weight


Be like the feather
Be weightless!
It does not mean
You are late touching ground
You just take your tender time
Getting there

Be like the feather
Be complicated!
Without twists and turns
There can be no correction
Recognize mistakes
And learn from them

Be like the feather
Be flexible!
Do not fall so hard
To one destination
You never know where
The winds will guide you

The brick falls
The feather falls

The brick lands
The feather is falling

The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather is falling

The feather is falling
The feather is falling

The feather is falling
The feather is falling

The feather lands
© Thorne J. McFarlane
They say love is a toxic bouquet,
A beautiful gift hides its decay.
Give them a slice of your heart,
They become sickened and die.
Love tears us apart,
Love bleeds us dry.
To lose all we cherish,
All great things perish.

Suffer for your precious display,
Squandered in hopeless dismay,
Selfish love is a toxic bouquet.

They say love is a toxic bouquet,
A beautiful gift hides its decay.
The petals leave a dark residue,
The remedy is so long overdue.
Loud feelings are slow to action,
Love takes but does not ration.
Once lovely, now out of fashion,
A rolling trend of passing passion.

Suffer for your precious display,
Squandered in hopeless dismay,
Selfish love is a toxic bouquet.

They say love is a toxic bouquet,
A beautiful gift hides its decay.
You don’t know the pain you cause,
The grief will put your life on pause.
Sweet nectar is toxic to swallow,
Love leaves the widows to wallow,
Love leads the sinners to sorrow,
A trail of ruin is hard to follow.
© Thorne J. McFarlane
The mind moves mountains.
Poetry in motion proves louder than…
The lies that corrupt our lives.

The stinging songs of society will expire,
Exasperating sighs of the soul will tire,
The truth will triumph no matter the cost,
Before every crown surely comes the cross.

If poetry is the power to end every plight,
I’d gladly say, “This is why I write!”

Before you see through my eyes, walk my line,
Breathe through my lungs and tour my mind.
Travel through my veins, through my very flesh,
You will understand why life is vain, a frail test.

As I’m…
Chased by the many demons in the night,
They compel me to make things right.
The pain in my chest becomes too tight.
And I’m seeing…
Tears that are not my own.
And I finally understand…
That which is sown is grown and eventually mown.

The skill and the will and the futile fights,
To prove the world isn’t black and white.

If poetry is the power to end every plight,
I’d gladly say, “This is why I write!”
© Thorne J. McFarlane
Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket’s lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.

For every person looking to preserve life,
There are four others looking to destroy it.
Though compassion is our signature tool,
Oh, only a handful of us ever employ it.
There is no neutrality when our conscious hearts fail.
If our better angels remain silent, our darker halves prevail.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

Festering in heat,
Moral fabric unweaves.
Desecration,
Denigration,
Desiccation,
The remains of a sacred bond left tattered by deceit.
The sound of a stained glass window shattered by thieves.
Oh, somewhere our better half grieves.

The enigmatic future inches nearer,
An ambiguous choice becomes clearer,
The sound of rattling, an empty heart,
Battling, an empty mind.
The sound of hurried footsteps…
And there are others not far behind.
The blind guiding and seeking the blind,
Oh, somewhere our better half searches to find…
A shelter from all of these two-ton war machines.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

The pain lingers,
Morality rests in tatters,
Miniature death-bringers,
The sound of a bigot’s daggers,
The sound of a depressed man’s gun facing backwards…
After he decides that nothing else matters.
Oh, somewhere our better half staggers.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

The temperature escalates,
Morality thrown out with the spoils,
The sound of tension as it elevates,
The sound of blood as it boils,
Oh, somewhere our better half recoils.
Because everyone has a two-ton war machine.

A guilty conscience, a burdened soul, a heavy heart,
And a two-ton war machine.

Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
© Thorne J. McFarlane
“Husband murdered wife over domestic dispute”

Witnesses say they heard yelling getting clearer
The community is shocked and never expected this terror
A husband was angry over losing his kids to his wife
He drove eight blocks to take her life

He broke into her house and broke many things
She came downstairs and the fat lady sings
He knocks her down to the carpet
At three in the morning the air remains scarlet

He strangles her on their couch
Blood filling up in her mouth
At three in the morning she left this life
Why do we do this to our women?
© Thorne J. McFarlane

— The End —