Thursday, October 6, 2011


Wood burns like yesterday in the hands of children
Turning minutes into lifetimes
As they carve themselves into them
Leaving marks of freedom
And daring god to wash them away
Daring the streets to stay quiet
And the flickering window panes to stay open
Chanting and stomping
Like Pan and his Indians
They don't know 
That none of it is true
Until you get to close 
To the ticking clock
Inside the belly of a beast
They don't know
The cowboys have cancer
The range does too
It is in the barbed wire fences
On which young men are hung 
And the old dirt roads that get them there
So mamma,
Don't let your babies grow up
Because we are hangmen
Angry men
Empty spaces beneath rib cages
Ticks of the clock in our own bellies
They don't know
The meek don't always inherit the earth
And that the strong
Are sometimes
They don't know
People are animals
In sheep's clothing
Like needles and dark corners
Our streets are full of ghosts
Their pockets are empty
While god is at war over oil
I don't want to tell them
About bullets

Submitted to dverse poets open link night


  1. dang - great imagery here - sometimes we just don't want to see it...close our eyes, make it look good until the facade crumbles and we see all the disaster and state our world is in way too clearly..

  2. I have not decided if we should tell children exactly how it is or allow them to slowly absorb the chaos as they grow..Chaos is what we have now and your poem nailed it to the tree..

    many strong, hit you in the gut lines here..
    well done..

  3. Yes the chaos all will either find out or be told, but until it is seen it may not truly sink in, great write, so truth hitting.

  4. i still have hope that we can change it...i think that at some point the children have questions and we should be ready to answer them...sad as they may be...

  5. this is sad, powerful highlight on inner city poverty and struggles.

    hope that this changes eventually.