Friday, August 8, 2014




I’ve read at times the poetry you sent,
And even figured out the things you meant.
But honestly, your stanzas, tired and old,
Might need refreshment, of a nature bold…
So leave awhile your peace and love, my friend,
And write instead of wars without an end –
And hatreds too – for that Reality
Cannot be cloaked by all your poetry.
However much you dress her in your fashion
Or rouge her with your powder of compassion,
Her nature, to your efforts, will not yield.
The thing she truly is will be revealed.
So rather than attempting to disguise
That lady with your veils of silken lies,
Let's strip away those layers of attire
And gaze upon her, as she might desire...
And now you see she’s Death and Destiny,
Of visage cold that brooks no mutiny.
Her lips are set, she’s resolute and grim.
She’ll not be swayed by prayer or by whim.
The figure says – a woman, yet it seems
No lover touched those breasts, no eager child
Has ever reached to drink from them…  Those hips
Have never moved in throes of passions wild…
This woman has a twin – they look alike,
And that one is, we’ve heard, a virgin too,
Who still has heart.  She cares and gives of love...
But not this maid, the harsher of the two.
Untouched by sex – and cold, devoid of love,
She has, instead, a thirst for human blood.
For hatred burns within her breast.  Her lust
Will not be sated by a meager flood…
And as you watch, you’ll see how she transforms
And takes on, one by one, her hideous forms.
You’ll see the fire burning in her eye,
You’ll see it light on who is next to die.
Engulfing east and west and north and south –
She opens wide her fanged and monstrous mouth.
And you might glimpse, within her throat, that hell,
Of which you poets rarely dare to tell.

And watch her gaze, directed at the city.
It scans the streets, without a trace of pity.
She sees – and she destroys – a family.
A little girl remains – and you and me...
Behold, how human form dissolves and leaves
The desolation where the orphan grieves…
But even then, that child gets no respite,               \1
As booms resound from more explosions bright...

And in the rubble of the smoking ruin,
We see a form that struggles, still alive –
That child again, disfigured, maimed and torn –
Who once, from parents' love and toil, did thrive...

So from within that vestal throat divine
There springs this hell of mortal agony...
But you've been watching, with your "love and peace",
Your verses marching still in prosody...
So speak to her, whose skin is stripped away –
Who lies there, burned and blinded.  Find a way
To let that deafened child hear meter, rhyme –
If that is how you'd utilize your time…
But see, if you have inner vision, that
Which rises from the corpse it leaves behind…
The one who dies becomes the one who slays.
She now can see, who lay there dying, blind…
2014 August 8th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

1.   Returning from divinity to mundane matters,
      the word “respite” here is meant to rhyme with
     “bright”, as in one of its pronunciations in standard
      British English.

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