Some poems are wine lyric
Two goblets Clos du Bois
Others are simple syrup
Just so much blah, blah, blah
Now some too-humble wrought lines—
An old wrenched heart softly pines
Heart-tears gathering inside
Aching to let go and fall;
Words mocking a conscience
Of feelings so cold t’would appall
Terpsichore blanches, and then wilts,
Suffers in her marble a new deep fault:
Who can answer for these deaths?
Young stars ripped from the celestial vault
Haruka and Meechaiel pas de deux—
What are we all ever going to do?
The pain lingers…
The words won’t come…
Broken thoughts slip chalky fingers;
The glib finally struck dumb
How to unsee a sunset?
How to unhear the rain?
Where do we put these feelings?
Where do we plant the pain?
A far lightening pirouettes across your glance—
Dance for Haruka, dear friends…just dance
And we again despair;
All point their fingers
And again getting nowhere.
Find the crux of the matter;
The gun is not to blame:
Babe Ruth was the mighty batter—
But it’s not the bat that goes in the Hall of Fame.
‘That place… is strong with the dark side of the Force…
In you must go. ‘
Broken minds untethered
When will we ever know?
The Mind: an ugly, evanescent thing:
Thoughts! Feelings! Emotions! Cognitions!
Better to leave alone;
O, leave me with my superstitions.
Until we get past this stupid fear,
That leads to anger and such undying pain,
To bring mental illness out of the shadows,
It’ll be Columbine, Sandy Hook, Roseburg, again and again and again and…