"mockingly" poems
The lotus wades
Shallow water
Even and calm.
Her petals brighten
In the beating sun's rays,
Glowing of tranquility.
The onlooker grows jealous
Venom green with envy
While the lotus rests,
Mockingly green leaves.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
the first drop of water
not ice
from the sky
signals the season’s
change
new england
so pretty
looking angelic
drew me in
a venus fly trap
locked in a prism
snow reflecting
back to me
eerie thoughts
shrouded in black
no place for a runner
where I can escape them
locked in by the fireplace
tattered ashes
mockingly laugh
i flee and i run
minus eight reads the meter
frostbitten
returning
trapped with my thinking
blocked in on all sides
the icy walls
fold in on me
forced to see the reflection
looking back at me
go away brightness
banish your glow
i need the shadows
where hidden feelings
quietly cower
another storm coming
madness engulfs me
searching for pen
grasping at paper
salvation
words spilling out
parts of me
buried so skillfully
long ago
finally see light
just for a moment
the respite’s exquisite
then longing for springtime
oh god,
why can’t it rain?
©2016janetaylor
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
Feeling fail.
A shallow discontentment
only brought about
by the success of others.
Challenges conspire.
Everywhere I look
beauty and joy
laughing
mockingly.
My poor body,
weak and restless,
struggling to breathe
under the pressure.
Water surrounds me,
pounding in my ears,
and it is done.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.
It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.
The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.
I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.
And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?
Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -
Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron
Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform
And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
5.2k
The blank page stares at me
mockingly, an empty wishing well
of impermanent desires, my
thoughts a herd of nomadic
feral cats to be coraled.
It is a mathematical permutation
of the identity matrix, imaginary
numbers and exponents,
fractional divisions with
no order of operations.
Solve me for x, given y,
yield absolute value at
absolute zero as my
function crosses Cartesian boundaries.
| x | = y * (universal truth / personal experience) ± squareRoot(-1)
y = zero; go.
Factor in gravity (9.8 meters per second^2),
we have lost cabin pressure.
Please show all work, points will be deducted,
this is a test.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
3.1k
Fleer
to grin or laugh coarsely or mockingly
have you fleered today?
or do you fleer the day
that your greatest fears will fleer
right in your face
I think it’s funny how the word
fear
sounds like
fleer
well not ‘funny’, per say, but in a dark ironic fashion
because, so often we fear to be fleered
we fear to hear cackling
that define our mistakes to be clear
but if you fleer at fear
then maybe,
just maybe,
fear will go away
if you laugh in its face and say
‘I won’t be fleered today,
but you, you fear, will fear the day,
that you become fleered in an adhering way
so stop making me fear and steer clear away
cause once the end is here it will be freaking clear as day
that you fear, were the real *****
the whole. entire. time.’
cause, really, fear just fears to be fleered as much as you do
so fear shouldn’t be feared because it’s just here to confuse you
because the ‘only thing to fear is fear itself’
but if you fear fear then it will trick you to believe something else
because we’re all deprived of the hope that our cards that are dealt
are just another way to make life a hell
so don’t fear, fear, look it straight in the eye
then turn away from fear
because there are miles ahead of you
that don’t involve fear, that involve confidence and security
and your journey is just about to begin
-Slang
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 10:37 AM UTC
i'm searching for something that i can't reach
she sleeps irregularly. she cries and breathes all at the same time
but does not make a sound. her face falls apart every morning when
she realizes she is still alive. the anger coursing through the blood
vessels in her body is not caused by anything, it comes rapidly and
mockingly. she counts to ten and holds the air inside her lungs and
hopes to any being listening that her nose stops working so that the
air inside her can expand and then eventually diminsh so that she
can tear herself apart all over again. she eats unhealthy. stuffing salty
fries and refrigerated microwaved chicken down her throat and forcing
the urge to throw it all out down to her skeleton so that the food
remains in her body, making bumps in her stomach and sticking
out of her ribs like unwanted monsters. she likes being ugly. she likes
that no one ever notices her and when they do they don't say a
word she likes that her own body betrays her and punishes her eyes
when she wakes up in the morning and realizes she is still alive.
she is a phantom. she is a ghost. she is a whisper. knowing her will not
be an adventure it will be a maze filled with poisoned leaves and razor
sharp rocks. her smothering brown eyes will captivate you and
undo every single knot in your body and make you feel like gravity
does not exist. but she will not be pretty. she will never be beautiful.
touching her will be like trying to collect shards of glass off of the floor
from a bottle of wine that you accidentally dropped. she will not
love you. she will not love herself. she will only convince you that she is
happy being a mess, a disaster and you will have no
choice but to believe her because your love is short lived and
only exists when she feels worthless and lonely enough to want
your company. you know this. she knows this. neither of you will
say it. the truth is an ancient phonebook neither of you have
ever heard of. she is not a hurricane, there is no eye in her
(h.l.)
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
This evening, as I travel
Halfway across the city
With the gentle drops of rain
Kissing the window
Reflecting the numerous lights
Of the buzzing town
Lights that stand atop silver poles
Lights that guide speeding vehicles
Lights of skyscrapers and of humble huts
I gaze up at the embracing sky
With just a handful of stars
Smiling mockingly at the land below
Undiminishing and overpowering
I can't look away as they whisper
And I realise
They are the truth
And all that I see before me;
The enticing shine
Are mere, blatant lies
Before the glow of the universe
Before the stardust that makes us, us.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 5:10 AM UTC
"You're gambling death."
The skeleton laughed.
While shuffling a deck of cards,
the skeleton sat across from me.
Grinning.
I was starting to feel uncomfortable..
No.
Maybe the right word is trapped?
How did he get here?
"I don't gamble."
I snapped to the bones that configured the human skeleton sitting across from me...
in my bed.
"That's sad."
He sounded really sincere.
But still he was smiling,
Still he was lingering.
And as of now, I was getting a tiny bit mad.
I just wanted this thing to leave....
"If I were you I wouldn't want to loose this game." He hissed.
Of corse with a skeletal smile
that presented teeth such as those of a crocodile.
I watched the bones of his hand through the corner of my eye as he spoke reaching for a card.
Noticing that the crevices of his bones were flooded with dust.
"Any old memories you want to reminisce?"
He said it mockingly.
He continued,
"Nothing to say, boy?"
"You're covered in enough dust to have plenty stories for us both, bones. Go on head and get us started won't you?"
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
Although I missed you, I didn't miss the yells
And all the times you made me feel unwell;
Whether it was physical or emotional,
Your love was harsh and you made it seem personal.
Your huge hands to hold me, you used to hurt me.
Your warm smile you used to spit fire.
Those hazel eyes were made to captivate me,
And they did just that, in a prison cell was where I resided, forcefully.
Your loud, beautiful laugh was used mockingly,
And the way your words flowed showed me who I was, accidentally.
Your big, warm heart was charred- it beat quietly,
and you passed on the black smoke, unintentionally.
It filled up my mind, my lungs,
And with every breath I took I became even more numb.
Maybe this is why I look for you in every man,
It's all I've ever known.
And although it wasn't the most ideal plan,
Black was the only color I was ever shown.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
There comes a night,
within which silence
changes perplexion.
No longer soft with hope,
but hard with truth.
No crickets to chirp.
No cars to roam.
Just a frigid breeze,
Signaling the setting of summer.
Tonight,
this moon does not shine.
and the stars..
They mockingly stare back,
without any hint of
destiny promised.
But I remember.
I remember what was
once
promised to me.
Warmer nights.
Where a couple would ingite love through storm.
With foolish words, forgiving hands and any efforts that their youth could muster.
I have learned however,
that even a flame once fierce,
can gutter in its own smoke.
Tonight is such a Night of No Return.
where I release a name into wind
and no longer chase the answer.
Where you walk your road,
and I walk mine,
and the crossroads we were once meant to embrace upon,
dissolve into dust.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 11:04 PM UTC
Waking breath ghostly frozen, clang of pot-belly stove opening, cedar crackles good morning, sap sizzles, pops, melting. Warmth finds children sleeping, humid air, mouth-breathing. Smell of boy sweat and feet, young women ripely sweet.
Cats purring, stirring, padding quiet down stairs, weave meowing through mom's legs. Dented percolator burbles better days, snap of toast burned haze, molten mush bubbles burst, fade. Birds early on the highway Paradise-seeking, time, flash-burned, fleeting. Cobalt jay mockingly complains, chickadee sings his own name, coyote wails, thin and plain.
Children rise, sleep in their eyes, squabble over bathroom prize, eldest wins, click, locks herself in. Hurry, hurry the bus is coming, ancient driver, annoyed and honking. Brown-bag lunches crinkled running, feet slapping, seats squeaking, lungs hot and bursting. Ride the dawn breaking, hearts aching for more than this, rural bliss.
Stop sign flashes caution, young lovers in the back seat, bodies in motion. Stop, start, sway on down the highway. Engine mimics hot blood lust, accelerated diesel rush, nothing can stop us. You grab my knee - young, carefree. Brakes sigh and hiss, sneak one last kiss. You mouth - meet me later, we'll sneak out, rush to a future we haven't got, ready or not.
The old road at dusk, frog song accompanies us, bike wheels on the asphalt hum, forbidden moonlight run. Feel your heartbeat on my spine, frantic drumming matching mine. Horned owl hoots, forlorn and bleak, a premonition we refuse to heed, reckless with need. In the clearing young love begins, forget-me-knots on burning skin.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
I wouldn't call them scars. Our bodies are ancient calendars marked with times and places. Tonight, you are not real. You are the desperate ocean lapping at the shoreline trying to take back the secrets in the bottles cast off by lovers, and children, letters to the dead sometimes. They are not your secrets, but they came to you first. They are full of feelings you have once felt or will feel. The bottles glisten in the sand mockingly, beautifully, painfully, like window shopping for jewelry you'll never be able to afford. You never expect to want the glass back after it has been pulled out of you. But the stories inside are your stories now too. You cast them off in the same manner hoping somone better than the sea will find them. The story about your cancer, your mother, the love you feel right now, the love returned, the time you thought of the beauty of a flower, the flower you killed to show someone how beautiful it was, the realization of the importance of stillness. All those stories like broken bottles in your skin. Like jewels encrusted on a big brass door leading to a room you live in. But tonight, you are the ocean at high tide, finally getting your bottles back.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
young people,
they think nobody has the
same thoughts as them
they take great pride in some made up
originality
as if really nobody ever thought up
scenarios of themselves descending
some rope from some helicopter and
dropping in the middle of enemy forces and
starting to shoot around, all movie like ‘an ****
and killing all the bad guys while not
taking one bullet
One man army
or there’s those other thoughts
of being simply the greatest at some
sport and being admired and envied for it
also, the thoughts of *** in all its forms
the thoughts of mindless violence
of saving the day
of being somewhere else and doing something else
all kinds of thoughts
and all the minds who think them label them as original
but they’re not original
they’re every young person’s thoughts
and me,
I also have thoughts I consider original
I think of how it is to be old
pretty much every **** day
I think of me being old and dried up and weak
and waiting for death
it’s not a very pleasant thought
especially for someone in their twenties
but it’s my way of labeling my thoughts original
maybe in some wheel chair
with a nurse pushing me from behind
No kids
no family
no fortune
no achievements
a life wasted
death watching from above
mockingly
and myself looking up at it
smiling
************ you think you got me
but little do you know that
while I was able, while I was more lively than
a rotting carrot
I defied you by ripping apart pieces of me
that will stick with the world
long after I’m gone
Oh, they might not be great pieces or even good ones
but behind they remain as you take me away
and all of them branded with my name
It’s through them that I am
immortal
and there’s nothing you can do about it
great, good
or bad,
you cannot **** a poet
Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 7:11 AM UTC
We're watching you they all whisper.
The trees collapse laughing,
the moon shows it's golden crooked teeth,
and the wolvess raise their heads to the judgment filled sky in agreement.
You're alone surrounded by these things watching you.
Nearby a stream is skipping across the rocks it mockingly asks you,
"Little girl why are you crying? Inside of your cage of bones your weak little heart is dying.
Listen to the mean voices inside your head and maybe they'll set you free, smile for the stars so they can take your picture but smile big so they can't see your frown.
Always be perfect because someone is always watching."
My brain thought up a thought and I finally knew what the stream didn't mean to say.
I picked up my feet and began to run back to the place where I felt all alone.
I raised my head to the judgement filled sky just like the wolves and began to scream at the moon.
"Always be perfect because someone is always watching."
I snarled.
"I'm watching you and you're not perfect."
I howled to the moon.
"Your teeth are crooked and you're a sickly yellow not a gold."
I glare at the trees and laugh
"You are only broken."
I sang to the wolves
"This is your forest, be a king not a follower."
"I'm watching you"
I whisper.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
When I was eight years old,
I overlooked a moment of compassion
And challenged the will of a fellow third grader
Compelled by my ignorance
She gave the most astute summary of my life ever uttered.
When I was eight years old,
A frizzy haired girl asked me an impudent question
A question of infinite importance:
How do you sleep?
How do you sleep at night, since you know yourself?
When I was eight years old, my arrogant mind brimmed with resentment
Reaffirming that I,
I, apart from my arrogance,
Was the best person I knew.
I was eight years old, and a prophet had spoken.
Eight years later,
I long to be swallowed by the sheets
Eyes stare mockingly at the dormant ceiling
Clinging to the handrails
As my train of thought
Careens off the tracks
Exploding in a cloud of terror and regret
Eight years later,
I long for the simple arrogance of my eight year old mind
I long to close my eyes
And remember nothing
Because today,
Today I am sixteen
And tomorrow I will be twenty-four
And the next day I shall be eighty
When I'm eighty,
I'll stare at the bleached walls
Succumbing to the force of the past
As it consumes the present.
When I turn eighty-eight,
I'll look to the end of my starched bed
And He shall smile
Saying, "Well done!"
I hope I lie, when I'm eighty-eight,
Because If I am honest
If I tell the truth
I do not know who he is
And I never have
I will be cast away
because, eighty years before,
When I was eight years old,
I was arrogant
But still innocent
eighty years from death
and eighty years from shame
I could have heeded those words
The words of the frizzy haired girl
When I was eight years old,
I could have decided
I could have had him sing me to sleep
I could have died entirely unlike myself.
Now that I'm sixteen,
I still do nothing.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.
Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.
My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.
Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.
You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.
Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.
I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts from fountain-heads *****
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.
With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.
To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.
When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
You could see the light growing bigger and brighter
when I broke down on all what had been lost on a whim
To sentiments tainted by a vigorous crimson
Blood-shaded hatred directed at no one in particular
But there had been moments of wonder exclusive to us
Crawling inside me like the veins in my vessel
You are my only shelter, grand savior in hell
I traded my soul just to ease all this pain
Of driving your caress and friendship away
Escape to be found where you cannot follow
Contaminated with devils, mockingly teasing
Contemplating whether death will be soothing or bleeding
fear it or not, for it will bring peace upon me
and I’ll gladly follow down the emerald path
Hoping to receive mercy at the almighty crossroad
Facing none other than Her, I’ll stand naked in front of
The indestructible, curious spirit of the auburn-haired Lovegod.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
you don't see life as a game of skill
playing hopscotch on the
white and black checkers
reaching out to infinity with their
comforting symmetry
and severe geometry
you say you're unobservant
but how can you look down
at your calloused mud-caked feet
and not see the
chessboard that is pressing
just as stiffly against your feet
as you reach down
and root yourself into it
burying your head in
the world of fantasy games
without winner or loser
i envy your blissful ignorance
your hope
however misplaced
do you simply refuse to see
how every pensive move
rook to E7
knight to C5
seems to me not an attack
on the mockingly vulnerable king
but an action of
vicious hostility towards
the most powerful piece on the board
so the queen enacts
her equal and opposite
reaction
to slash the entire cosmos to ribbons
an infinite fury of blind terror
that seeks blood
and scavenges the last flesh
clinging to bone.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
i walk up
cigarettes in hand
you already have a conversation going
and i'm out of the loop
something about john's motorcycle
i don't know anything about motorcycles
i can't chime in on this one
i stand and take a long drag
i feel the haze fill up my lungs
let it out slow
watch it swirl and tumble away
i'm nervous
so anxious
i've been off my meds for days
the cigarettes are keeping me calm
-ish
you look at me
eye's bright with intelligence
piercing and i feel like you see through me
but, i know you don't
"right, seville?"
you are being sarcastic
you are always sarcastic
sarcastic and a bit woeful and i like it
"oh, yeah totally." i offer up
matching your mockingly inquisitive tone
i'm in on it now
you invited me in
the same way you always do
the conversation rambles on
i throw in a comment
take some drags
and then another one
we're on car engins now
that's some thing i know
all the while i couldn't care less
because i'm watching your eyes flash while you form thoughts
your lips contort while you make words
your hands fly while you explain
i finish my cigarette
i walk away
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
~
Gumby, Wood Woodpecker and Me
~
somewhere in the mother lode
of a thousand poems scripted,
lies a pen-pained tribulation, an old ode,
to the taming of the shrew,
the shock and awe of my new born,
slept-on hair mode
Ogdiddy,
she says,
rise up quick!
thy self to the mirror dispatch,
see what god hath wrought
upon thy head this brand new morn
blessed am I,
at this late stage,
in posses of a
goodly and shocking amount
of hair au naturel
each of my body's parts has a mind of its own,
my hairs, each one a different opinion and resultantly
an amazing new creation born come dawn
sometimes straight up like Gumby
she quips,
sometimes a shocking tail to one side
in the style of one Woody Woodpecker,
she mockingly cries!
and on and on each daily
a new cartoon characterization proposition,
until one day in feigned wrath I do reply
*just you wait Mrs. Higgins, just you wait,
you will rue the day my do
will be best described and descried by you
as akin to that of one known as
SpongeBob SquarePants*
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 9:01 AM UTC
Barren halls, devoid of children
echo with the ghostly staccato of gunfire
and the mockingly musical tinkling of spent brass.
Specters of children set free through violence
mutely stand vigil over stained tile and carpet,
shocked by their sudden transition.
Parents, siblings, grandparents and family reel
from the sudden void caused by the senseless
and cowardly actions of a 2nd Amendment zealot’s son.
Christmas presents without recipients sit untouched
in secret places – never to light up the eyes
and faces of eager and happy children.
Flags fly in solemn respect at half-staff
signifying a nation in mourning, yet a nation
so reluctant to address the core of these issues
which have made these crimes so common-place.
Bumbling and incompetent politicians – securely
in the NRA’s and gun-lobby’s pocket are quick to *****
the party lines: “Guns don’t **** people.” “My fork and knife made me fat.”
All the while the mentally tormented and dangerous
continue to take up arms and slaughter innocents –
as apparently their constitutional rights are more sacred
than the life of a first-grader.
How long America, will you dip your pens in the blood of children
and write the laws that take their lives?
How long America, will you wrap yourself in a blood-stained flag
and spew the toxic and hateful lie that guns don’t **** people?
How many more must bleed your ink and feed your mill
before we cry, “enough is enough!!”?
© 2012 Michael Hunter
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
you are an oak tree. once strong and powerful, you touched the skies with your rustling sun-kissed leaves and could see all the world. your roots ran deep. no wind could topple your indomitable branches, and the birds found haven in them. the people and creatures of the world would sit in your cool dappled shade while your leaves whispered incredible tales from the east wind, soothing lullabies from the south. when night came, you would reach for the waxing moon, pondering the glittering stories in the sky. you were strong.
now, you are weak and withering, struggling to find respite from the fiery sun and heavy oppressive heat. your naked limbs see nothing and your thirsting roots lie just above the bedrock. life has fled your blighted branches, which crumble at the breath of death. the east wind whistles by you, barely a taunting memory of your life. you turn to the south, but unconsoling silence meets your skeletal branches. night comes. the waning moon stares down mockingly, silencing the glittering stories that once guided your life.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 5:19 AM UTC