Angel’s Wings

Angel’s Wings

The monster of the west takes off its mask
And bares its demon face for all to see.
And now the deeds it did in darkness are
Exposed to light for those like you and me.

But does the public in the homeland flinch
At seeing that their nation long was ruled
By those of devilish heart and mind, who yet,
That public, with their call for “freedom”, fooled?

What freedom was it then, as it is now?
The liberty to ravage lands afar?
The freedom granted then, and vaunted still,
To crush resistance with the force of war?

Alas! The public now is split indeed,
But mainly, from the news we get, between
The ones who’d crush a country A and those
Who’d bomb a B for reasons most obscene.

And still those reasons aren’t fully shown.
What’s said in private, in the central rings,
Cannot be heard by those more distant, who
May think their devil still has angel’s wings.

And so we race towards apocalypse,
With minions cheering as we near the brink.
The hounds of horror, scenting mayhem, bay,
As those who fed them hear and nod and wink.

The hunt is on, across the globe, for those
Who still may dare to try to curb the beast.
The monster of the west has bared its face,
And who can stop or slow it in the least?

2018 April 30th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------------------------------------
 

http://candlefrenzy.com/yankee-candle-angels-wings-candle/

  

The Warning

    
The Warning
 
There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn and it does not augur well.
It whispers of calamities, on which I would not dwell.
The schools are due to open, for we’re almost at September –
And memories return, of things we’d rather not remember…
 
There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn, and the streets are wet with rain.
It thundered in the evening – and it brought back scenes of pain.
The tides of men are turning, and the lull we’re in won’t last –
And in this mist, I wander and I see the visions past…
 
There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn, that is gentle, like a kiss.
And yet, I sense a tension – and that something is amiss.
The schools are due to open.  Soon, that horror will begin –
Yet hopefully, we’ll smile at kids, amidst the sea of sin.
 
There’s a mist tonight in Brooklyn and I’m walking in that mist.
And in the city’s silence, I can hear a warning hissed.
But what that warning whispers, I cannot truly tell.
And if I understood it, it’s not on what I’d dwell.
 
2014 August 31st, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Spirits

    
Spirits
    

When, in the past, I've wandered in the woods,

That still remain upon these western lands,

It seemed a lurking, phantom figure watched –

And when I turned, would hide behind a tree.

At times, it seemed to be a wandering child,

Who still was looking for its parents, gone –

At times, an elder, slow to move away,

At times, a furtive woman – or a man.

And were they real – or my imaginings,

The workings of a conscience not yet stilled,

I do not know – but since we're spirits all,

Perhaps I sensed my fellow beings past.

I even found, by chance, beside a stream,

A footprint – shaped like a moccasin's sole, it was.

And feathers, I have found – and shells on strings,

And bits of cloth with patterns faded, worn.

But all of these might be explained away –

But not that sudden prickling of the skin,

That ancient warning from the times when we

Had still such hairs as could enlarge our size.

And in my life, in things more personal,

With those I cherished soon to pass away,

I've felt a warning, strong and clear like fact,

But which I still, from reason, had ignored.

So there are organs, that we still possess,

That sense, like present, future things and past –

And plumb such distances, as senses five,

That we acknowledge, simply couldn't span.

But though we've parts connected to the whole,

Those parts are not possessed of human speech.

Like mutes, they warn by gesture and by touch,

But disappear, like phantoms, when we turn.

But surely, we can hear without our ears,

Be sensitive to subtle messages –

And those so clearly strong, which logic says

Cannot be right – and yet so often are.

In Iceland, people still believe in elves.

Perhaps we too should hark to spirit folk,

For what they whisper, fading in and out,

If each would hear, we all might profit much. 

2013 December 27^th, Fri.

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn