the ides of cult

this is me for you pounding pavement this I do this is me for you this is for the bluebird hanging in the sky this is for the shrew whose habitat survives through pounding on the pavement this is what I do this is me for you in the tales of Dickens compassion resides in

The ghouls conspire/ The women gather

The merchants of war            but                   I love the world issue decrees,                                                     how it used to be when sycophants plot                       

Hymn

The only truth that I can see in this thing called history is man’s inhumanity to man and mothers on the outside looking in as their children are taken far too young from their never ending love. Despair is common in this world beset by human sin it is easier to sink and drown than

The times we live in

There is always a bite to looking different whether mild habanero or sharp like the ghost the flesh is game to be dragged across man-made barriers invisible to nature which never divides the difference. The twitting of words that brings out groans is a venom that looms over language profound, the poet can but wander