"donors" poems
Genial poets, pink-faced
earnest wits—
you have given the world
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.
Goodbye, goodbye,
I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,
neutral fellows, seers of every side.
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.
And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.
It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.
Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,
your loaves grow moldy,
a gulf has split
the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving
behind you the cherished
worms of your dispassion,
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle
for joy ...
5.3k
*with all these advances
in neuroscience
it’s time you numbskulls
learn a little about your brains*
1
First up, you must know
your brain’s made of the
right hemisphere and the left hemisphere -
and what do they say to each other
when they can’t agree with each other?
“Let’s split.”
2
You know the neurons
(no, not morons – neurons, you ***** –
now, why do they love emails?
Cos they love sending and receiving
lots of messages, these neurons do
3
Now, you 100bn-deficit no-brainers -
do you know what
your brain does
when it sees a friend across the street?
Yes, it sends a brainwave…
And when does your brain get afraid?
Yep, when it loses its nerve…
And be alert - never give your brain a bath
cos you don’t want to be brainwashed, do ya?
4
You get fired, baby,
you don’t work any more;
but your neurons -
they get working when fired
5
And for more advances in neuroscience
you might want to consult your nearest
neurosturgeon…
with all these advances
in neuroscience
it’s time you numbskulls
learn a little about your brains -
while I get back to slicing these donors' brains fine;
or making them into soup -
just part of the trade, you know, of neuroscience
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY
YOU SEE MY FAMILY WERE A GOOD CAMPING FAMILY
AND WE HAD THIS BIG ORANJE TENT, WHERE THE
FAMILY BROUGHT TO CAMPING GROUNDS, TO
ENJOY WEEKEND CAMPING, I REMEMBER CAMPING
EVERY WHERE AROUND NSW AND THE ACT
AND AS A WAY OF EXCAPING THE NORMAL LIVES
ME AND MY BROTHER PUT THE TENT UP IN THE BACKYARD
AND HAD OUR OWN CAMPING GROUND, AND I HAVE
SO MANY GREAT MOMENTS, LIKE NEW YEARS EVE PARTIES WITH LYLE
AND YEAH, I WAS LIKE A NORMAL TEENAGER, WITH SLEEPOVERS IN THE TENT
AND HAVING AN ESKY OF DRINK AND SAUSAGES AND OTHER THINGS LIKE
CHIPS AND I GOT SOME GREAT PHOTOS ME AND LYLE ARE HAVING A GREAT
PARTY FOR NEW YEARS EVE, WE CELEBRATED WITH POISON AND DEF LEOPARD
AND LYLE BOUGHT AIR SUPPLY, OH MY GODFATHER, I HATE THAT BAND
I REMEMBER WHEN ME AND MY BROTHER WENT IN THE TENT, WE WATCHED TV
AND WE TALKED FOR HOURS LIKE ME AND LYLE, WE HAD A HEAP OF ****** FUN
YA SEE I REMEMBER LYLE SAID HE WASN’T SCARED OF THE OLD BOOGIE WOMAN
AND I AM NOT SCARED OF THE OLD BOOGIE WOMAN EITHER
AND MY BROTHER LOVED TO JOKE AROUND WITH US
YA SEE, LYLE WAS ENJOYING PUTTING THE TENT UP
AND WE BOTH HAD OUR STEREOS, AND WE PLAYED GREAT TOP 49 HITS OF THAT ERA
YOU SEE, MY DAD WAS A GREAT CAMPER AND BUSHWALKER, AND BUDDHA’S SPIRIT
MADE ME INHERIT DAD’S ADVENTURE BLOOD, BECAUSE, OF MY LAST 2 HUMAN LIVES
BEING GREAME THORNE, AND PATRICK DUNBAR, BOTH KILLED AT 8
AND BUDDHA MADE ME AN ALLAN, TO KEEP ME SAFE
BUT I WAS A KEEN BACKYARD CAMPER, COOKING ON GAS BBQS
AND EATING CHIPS, AND HEAPS OF CHOCOLATES, AND ME AND LYLE BOTH WATCHED THE CRICKET
ON THE TELEVISION IN THE TENT AND NEW YEARS EVE, WE WATCHED THE GREAT
BICENTENNIAL NEW YEARS EVE CONCERT IN 1987, ME AND LYLE HAD FUN DOING THIS AS
WELL AS WATCH GREAT MOVIES ON THE VHS RECORDER,
BUT THAT ALL ENDED, WE RAGED A BIG PARTY IN THE TENT, WITH MUSIC AND GREAT FOOD
I CAN’T REALLY HAVE *** I AM NOT THE *** TYPE, I TALK ABOUT ***** DONORS
BUT ONE THING I WAS GOOD AT, WAS TALKING, WITH LYLE, PATRICK MY BROTHER, SCOTT,
AND MANY MORE, AND THE BIG ORANGE TENT WAS FINALLY BOUGHT BY A FAMILY
I THOUGHT I SAW IT AT THE ABORIGINAL TENT EMBASSY, IT COULD’VE BEEN
IT LOOKED LIKE IT, AND IT’S GOOD THAT, IF IT IS, THAT POOR PEOPLE WITHOUT A HOME
ARE ENJOYING THIS TENT AS A HOME
GREAT ALLAN FAMILY CAMPING OVER
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
.ha ha! of course they'd be the ones asking for money! what did you expect? payment by peanuts?!
digital beggars...
nice term... nice...
very nice...
digital
beggars...
& ***** donors...
whatever
the **** that means...
replica to a d.n.a.
continuum?
seriously?!
go ahead... ******
oi! ****** *** Goliath!
that one song,
garbage's song...
stupid girl...
sing-along ballerina
happy...
aged 18 / 16 and thinking
she's a ********* fest...
last time i heard...
that was the legal age?
no?
Ficklestein was on board?
APPLAUSE!
APPLAUSE!
you want the opposite ratio,
of the *** galore of
the black swan ************
impromptu, introducing the french
into the conundrum?
no?
by now?
i'm so past giving a ****
that, giving a ****
is an act of conspiratorial neglect...
no... **** it...
you're on your own...
now watch my face;
pretending to assume the
****** expression of
being, bothered.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC
At What Cost?
This Purchase of Our Future
*a thousand answers + variegated shadings, a summation:
∑
of millions layers of our owned chosen complexities,
so many possible outcomes, it makes infinite randomness
seemingly simpler than our googolplex crazy preposterous
notational choosings, our owned decisions which though false,
cause nothing is tandomn random except for love at first sight
it’s all just ******** we conditioned from pre-birth,
the expectations subtly subsumed into the woman’s womb,
overlaid by the ***** donors whisperings that you will be a
great third baseman, or a great bass player, or both, but
“your” fate, ha!
is anything but yours…
to purchase!
if you were born to live in a home with no heat, and water was
obtainable by walking 100 yards away, you would still be a
pianist, writing notes of plaintive need, grand desires, musical
words of agonizing delight just as when
you first blushed when the brain
connected yellow rays with a word,
sunrise,
and an experience was synapticaly imprinted,
that real things could be defined by an ordering of letters and sounds
and you were tongue burnt by a need so great
to collect these pleasurable things and put them in a right order
of your
peculiar
particular
personal
inherited inputted
design
=
and
you yet debate
what is my instrument,
knowing that the multiples of your fingers
are the engine of your existence,
and on any particular day they, your well connected perma-crew,
will pick which is the chosen one,
and
no matter which,
for you had nothing or little purchase,
it was coded in your pre-history
just as you prepare a transmission list
of your own,
when you daily first touch your face,
closing the sensory sensual connection tween
the ephemeral and the physical
and
the new combinations
that you will imprint upon
someone’s flesh,
that is your right,
that is you write,
that is what you were
predestined,
to
create
but,
(what the heck)
you get
to-pick the instrument of the day…*
(
that,
is your purchase, your only cost,
everything else has been
pre-paid
)
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 8:54 AM UTC
I've never thought twice about winks.
They've never really meant much to me.
I guess it's because I have no feelings for those donors.
Whenever boys wink at me, I brush them aside
the same way you brush my hair aside when
you lean in to kiss me.
I've never thought twice about winks
until I had the honor of receiving one from you.
My heart stopped for .02 seconds because
baby you looked so desirable at that moment.
I had to resist myself from throwing myself at you
and the look you gave me
and your smile that said:
..."I know you're craving me right now."
And you were right.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Pausing briefly, gathering further instruction
The evil Eye of Baar reflects
Upon a memory, near complete conception.
With all hearing soul and forming sensors
The evil Eye of Baar absorbs
Only pertinent waves from its passive donors.
Passing shadows, focusing hard detail
The evil Eye of Baar perceives
Enough truth to know how not to fail.
Come the distant death and lengthening span
The evil Eye of Baar flaunts
Just future birth to compliment an evil plan.
Plans shaped, Spontaneity becoming colder
The evil Eye of Baar warms
To eventual visions and power growing bolder.
Sold on tyrannical tactics and plotted course
The evil Eye of Baar dims
To possible defeat and attack to its source.
Intuition dying, reflex receded by design
The evil Eye of Baar succumbs
Unlike mortals, helpless in death, forced to resign.
Sep 30, 2009
Sep 30, 2009 at 3:32 PM UTC
My mind drifts
As I swiftly move my palms
To the rythm of my beating heart
Township beats
And Beasts smoking tik
Life blows and age ticks
We need some soul donors
Odors in th air
The dogs compete
Everyday we repeat
When shall we retreat
I'm incomplete
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My people have seasoned the art of begging
They don’t want to beg when begging is necessary
My leaders have compelled our people to beg
Begging that what they have leeway to graft
Begging is couth only when it’s necessary
But not because there is plethorae
Of willing donors who are not even better
Addiction to begging is a political syndrome,
Africa has to stop temerarious begging
Otherwise the burden of debt will erode
Your sons and daughters away
In to the ocean of facelessness
For the slave master owns controls
Only labour of the slave
But in contrast to the borrowing vice
The debt master controls the soul
Of the borrower.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Am tired of living
At the mercy of others.
Feeding from the hands
Of the donors.
Following their plans
For they are the leaders.
If my destiny would falter
For they are the vultures
Preying on my dreams
For only I possess
The power of the dreamers.
Am just tired of living at the mercy of others!
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Kiriaki Olivia Eleni Mada-lozi
from Piraeus Greece Billy
ugly Marcia, Sherry Shriki, Darni, Judy Gim, Alb- tch, Jeff Albr.. Henry Robert W
Impotent ejaculator precosē. Charles manson's advocates; Henry Robert narcissistic
your sociopath psychopath nurse from hell in LA CA.
You aren't above the law
Poisoners sterile hainas
Susan WRat no.
**** human predators human traficants to hell with you all- ratas inmundas! Emilia Velazquez thief IHSS should put you in jail And immigration take your green card stealing my savings and stimulus money cashed. Shame on you rata inmunda ladrona.
Filthy rats
Creeping animals
**** of life
Shoddy monstrosity.
Subhuman
Spectres of Hell
**** vermins
How much damaged you've done to me and my daughter's
Poisoning them with hallucinogenic metamphetamins psychotropics without them knowing
Then, blackmailing them to give up their parental rights to sterile haenas jealous medeas
Add insult to injury to my family forcing psychiatric pill intake to hide your ancient crimes
Your hate crime is now public susan ra-t-ano hell *****
You bought my grown daughter from the human predators I had escaped from
1982.
Coward filthy **** *****
Vermin word raitano
Poisonous serpent
Waste of life
I hate you and despise you.
Two-legged rats
I'm talking to you all
because creeping creatures,
even being the most cursed,
compared to your evildoers
vermin human predators,
a creeping snake
stands taller than you all.
**** leeches
**** cockraoches
you who infects with bites,
who hurts and who kills.
Slanders trashing whoever
is holy good and precious
You Vermin
Poisonous serpents
Waste of life
I hate you and despise you.
I bind to you all my motherly pain I curse you in every life time.
Two-legged filthy rats,
I'm talking to you!
because a creeping creature,
even being the most cursed and ugly, in hell, on Earth
unwelcome in heaven,
compared to you **** brains.
stands much taller.
You're listening to me
useless
Hyena of Hell
How much I hate you and despise you!
**** leech
**** cockraoch
you who infects with bites,
who hurts and who kills.
Vermin
Poisonous serpents
In everyone's paradise.
Waste of life
I hate you and despise you.
Two-legged my filthy rats
I'm talking to you too ***** donors madalozi charms.bos henry welonek.
because a creeping creature,
even being the most cursed compared to you
You stand even smaller.
~~~~~~~
Repost.
By Paquita del Barrio
And Karijinbba.
1976-present
All Rights.
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 9:35 PM UTC
i didn't donate blood today. i could've, but i didn't. my friends did. all day, people talked about the donors like they were heroes. we watched a video about donating, about a little girl whose live was saved thanks to a donation. my friends' blood will save lives. but i didn't donate today, because my blood is thick with misguided bits of you and to burden someone else with that would be to condemn them, too, to hell.+
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
if you give donations
to a political candidate
this will obtain favors for you
which so satiate
Mrs Clinton doth wish to become
the next Whitehouse resident
with the largesse of George Soros
she'll be under his cash compliment
***** deals and corruption
will spread like veritable wild fires
as Mrs Clinton is held
captive to power hungry desires
the American people
are the ones who'll have the final say
as the 2016 Demorcratic Presidential candidate
is thoroughly swept away
George and other wealthy donors might find
that they've backed the wrong nag
should they put their wads of money
in Hilary's nomination bag
one Clinton in the Whitehouse
proved to be one too many
and if donors are smart with their bucks
on Mrs Clinton's campaign they'll spend not a penny
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
If a tree falls in the forest
and someone is there to chop it down,
did it really fall at all?
And is a tree only a tree when its roots are deep in the ground?
What then, when the man cuts it down?
Does it still exist?
It is dead when its roots are shriveled up.
When we die, we no longer exist.
Or do we?
Are our roots still extended?
Our connections remaining while we are gone, though not for good?
Are our souls still around,
to strut around the town?
Wait, does a tree have a soul?
Or is it really gone, when it's gone?
When it turns into paper in a factory,
has the tree disappeared, destroyed?
Or is all that paper still the tree, torn up and annoyed?
So what happens when we're gone?
Are we cut up in a factory and packaged up
to be sent to stores all through the town?
They call us ***** donors.
Are we written on and doodled upon
like a worthless piece of paper?
People talk, they gossip, hurt us with words,
label us with their judgments,
make us feel worthless.
No one should feel worthless!
Even a tree.
But isn't a tree just a thing?
It isn't a person, nor an animal.
But it is alive,
moving, trying to strive,
for recognition, just like the rest of us.
It reaches its branches higher, higher,
only to be sliced apart and turned into a flyer.
If I was chopped down,
and just as I was working my hardest,
I'd be sad, I'd be mad, I'd be crushed inside and out.
I don't want to be like paper, used,
crumbled into a ball, abused,
if asked, it would be refused,
"Can I cut you down?"
No.
Never.
Stop, stop, STOP!
A tree is never asked, "Is this okay?"
They're just cut down, there's no other way.
And we're the same, even today.
We cut down others, we go and say,
"You ****** You freak! No one likes you, go away!"
HEY!
These words are ugly,
not like the people they're aimed at.
No one deserves to be made fun of,
to be hurt,
stepped on,
chopped down like a tree.
And those bullies will see.
It'll come back and then they will be,
cut down and hurt, just like a tree.
If a person is cut down,
and no one hears them cry,
do they still exist?
Do they still matter?
Of course they do,
though they feel like they don't.
Everyone matters, even when they don't think they do,
even at their lowest low,
when they won't know where they should go,
there's a place, a safe haven,
out there somewhere.
In the arms of friends, family, neighbors.
No one is ever truly alone.
And do you know what?
Neither is a tree.
When if falls, someone will be there
and someone will care.
Everyone and everything matters,
everyone and everything has a purpose.
Even you and me,
and even a measly tree.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
Here's to those who suffer voluntarily,
who rise above the mean and merely momentary
pleasure that we feel sitting on a couch,
eating Cheetos, watching reruns of "The Brady Bunch";
those who exercise, walk fast (raising weights
with their arms in rhythm to their feet),
jog, or actually even run --
as long as there's no clear goal in mind,
no Olympic medal, no short-skirted cheerleaders
proffering kisses;
residents of Blakely, Georgia, and Moosejaw, Saskatchewan,
who steadfastly resist removal to California
and similar climes, knowing intuitively
that delight in perfect weather is born in sub-zero winters,
in summer's humid swelter;
those who do without air-conditioning,
using the money for a violin
or books or trips to the local swimming pool;
those who fast, mortify the flesh, --
or at least skip breakfast occasionally,
refusing to indulge every ****** whim,
letting them ripen, at least now and then,
into actual, robust hunger;
monks in solemn Kentucky silence,
some, I suppose, are misanthropes, here I speak of those
with a normal affection for chat and hubbub
who restrict themselves to a reverent silence,
speech being used only in extremity;
blood donors.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 8:27 PM UTC
walking through artificial American Dream
where the air tastes like $100 shirts
and the fraternity of extravagance
the light shines through the perfectly spaced trees
to turn everything filigree
and all of the people
walking tall and confident
like plastic action figures of success
the silver spoon tastes bitter
when it’s been in someone else’s mouth
just like the $30 dollar entrees
and the four story department stores
these people are not my people
my people sport scars which they wear like tattoos
my people sport second hand cars with junked up speakers
A ferrari engine sounds like a the cries of every young kid
who falls into ghetto trappings of big dreams gone unmatched
and even the homeless people were eating ribs
drinking starbucks
with cups filled with ten dollar bills
the prestige drips down the wall
like fresh spray paint
to drip into storm drains
where diversity goes to die
this alien land of hostile takeovers
and university donors
where the **** is non-existent
but ******* cirroc, and xanax
flow freely
chemical castration of the lazy philosopher
an injection of man made ambition
where the hands on the Rolex
keep tight around throats
because being late to that meeting is no option
Children being driven around by chauffeurs in Bentleys
women being driven by the promise of security
I think to myself
I’ll never see the benefit in the scheme
which leads to El Dorado
and Atlantis is just a myth
maybe I just bleed the black and Gold and Richmond
like the ink dripping off my hungry fangs
to see the benefits of injecting a syringe
of Hoya blue liquid sapphire
to get so high
that I lose sight of the ground forever
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Why don't more Aussies go and give blood
It's all very easy there's never a flood
Of life giving fluid always it's short
And as all will know life can't be bought
In other parts of the world to-day
There are some folk who bleed for their pay
It's got to be much better our way
So let's keep it free forever to stay
A pint's all you give for some poor ill soul
The feeling you get is like kicking a goal
They'll test you too for all manner of sin
And that too is free each way it's a win
When all is done you'll lie around for a while
With biscuits and tea fruit juice and a smile
A stick you'll get to whack on your car
A white bandage too to show what you are
A donor of blood it's said you are special
To give of yourself and not take a shekel
Pleased be with yourself and all will admire
The giver of blood let no life expire
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
Was Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens'
Christmas Carol purely fictitious?
No, Scrooges live today,
Equally greedy, cold and ambitious.
They represent Scrooge before
He earned our admiration and saw
That human compassion came only after
His ice-cold heart had begun to thaw.
His transformation showed him his former
Cruel disregard for humanity
And let him see that miserliness
Was nothing but a heartless insanity.
Modern Scrooges fail to see
The light of compassion that brightly outshines them.
Their greed prevents them from seeing the moral
Bankruptcy that clearly defines them.
They couldn't care less about
The hard-working and struggling masses.
Their main concern is that each law
That benefits the wealthy passes.
Some of these Scrooges you will find
Working in Congress, eagerly serving
Wealthy donors who give them money
And feel as though they're more deserving.
Creating laws to make their pockets
Overflow: that's their aim.
To them the parasitical poor
Deserve bitter contempt and blame.
One wonders if these greedy misers
Find it hard to resist the temptation
Of saying, "Then why not let them die
And decrease the surplus population?"
“Aren't there workhouses?” and “Aren't there prisons?”
Are what these Scrooges appear to say.
“Concerns of the poor are not our business;
Why can’t they just go away?”
Ebenezer Scrooge was lucky:
His transformation showed him the light.
Will wealthy Scrooges running this country
Discover compassion and be less tight?
-by Bob B (12-28-17)
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
You answered with a synapse
Startling my resolve with unrest
As I felt the change in the make-up of our ties
To each other. We'd built our nest
With texts and forgotten half-smiles -
Layered them with shadows unkempt
Leaking from our darkest sides.
It was an approximation to love, an attempt
By unwilling donors with unhurt prides,
To win the privilege of touch
Without losing sight of the lines.
Gossip didn't bother us much
We'd focus instead on the sighs,
Beats for our particular choreography.
But you've cut short our supply
With this silence, and now, awkwardly,
We fumble words, waiting for each other's turn.
In synapses like these, I ask myself what are we
When the memory of your skin still burns
And I miss your shadow on me.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
The summer of self destruction:
Mars bars serving pints of red death
On the rocks...
Craters filled with miscreants and misfits
Lined with ***** donors and sounds
Reminiscent of the wise and powerless Buddha
Drowning in a pool of *****
Doorknobs turn counter-clockwise
When the sun hits them from the west;
I crave the raven's guileless depth
As it rips the flesh from off my chest.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
1.
the wind is prone to grand festival
if you cook your own food
by burning your hands
in the day time
at night
then you will be also eligible
for having a ticket
this train will not stop at any station
then how would you get on board
why
then do jump in front of the wheel
the door gets open automatically
you would also be a companion
of that joy
your name will also come up
on the list of the blood donors
with blood there will also hang
pus and spew
the colonialists
with a black face
will wind up their indigo-factories
in the fire of the intellect
the undergarment will burn
there will come running
bolder and bitumen
the road is made
your lipstick will be
sometimes deep
sometimes light
tearing open the yellow afternoon
a storm will take birth
there will be no darkness
in the amloki-grove
2.
the ship is scheduled to start
from jetty no 3
i come to stand on
platform no 13
when i get on board the carriage
standing near
it takes me and runs to a vast
run-way
there are the lines of
sweet briar
i do not feel the pain of detaching
from the soil
when i am flying
through the smoothness of the lotus-leaf
i see a musk-deer was also running
in a parallel line
she stretches her hand
to take me
to the valley of her flesh
we are turning round and round
to enter into a volcano
and the flow of its eruption
is carrying us towards a ever-snow land
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 5:35 AM UTC
We are two halves of a broken heart
but we belong to different donors
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 12:47 AM UTC
My skin from
Arrival gifted through DNA donors
Don't hate
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
The weekly news
For the past 5200 weeks,
Fills like the undug dig.
Famine, disaster, disease,
War and ruination
Are piled and plied,
Recycled and reused,
Familiar and alien,
Storied and spun.
Beheadings aren't new or news:
Meathooks and blades
Are rusting beneath the surface,
Dug and brushed off
As relics of our century.
But digs never give the whole story:
The Acts of Kindness,
The ***** donors,
The designated drivers,
The visit of a friend,
The holding hand,
The unexpected gift,
The touch at the end,
The altruism.
We don't lose these;
We don't bury them.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
whatever happened to the quiet time
of advent before Christmas day or eve
is certainly remarkable
no other time of our year
has managed to become so noisy,
commercialized, stuffed full of special sales
with permahyped unique occasions
that only last for a few hours
Black Friday has become national hysteria day
people camping out overnight before the supermarkets
to be the first
waving on television
diving into the pool of wonderful things on sale
victoriously placing them under their Xmas trees
the stress this timely acquisition
requires from the donors
just adds another extra to the planning of their days
no time is left for quiet contemplation
and so
what used to be the day to celebrate the birth
of our Christian savior
has turned into a goods exchange
where size and value of bright packages
are meant to substitute
affections muted by the daily chores
maybe a more spiritual mood
might take us back to the original wonder
a legendary birth in that old world of yonder
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC