Canary In The Mine

The lies are dressed
In little pinks tutus.

The scorn is ready
For the masquerade.

The canary in the mine
Turns out to be 
A hummingbird.

The butterfly in my tummy,
A bee.

The laugh really is
A stifled moan;
The tear is shed for sorrow.
The sun is gone because the night
Will breed a bleaker tomorrow.

'T was There The Poppies Grew

The dead of cherished memories rest.
Those lads and lasses; the unsung heroes of the world
Who paid the heavy price for our follies and greed
With their young lives; which otherwise would have promised
Many years of beauty and adventure.


The dead of cherished memory rest.
Those lads and lasses whose graves are the open fields
That received their martyred bodies.
Their ruined corpses and broken shattered bones
Still bear the marks of man's cruel and bestial self.


The legions of the dead, ushered in by the raven's call,
Whole battalions march through hells or heavens doors.
Without grace they depart, hailed by cries and echoes of shells,
Mourned by moans and cries let out at the horrors of death.
Rank upon rank they march eternally.


Unending ranks of the patriot souls;
Sons, who fought in living hell to redeem the motherland,
And daughters, who forsook the peace of heaven for the good of the fatherland,
Now sleep where they last stood; where in pain their spirits fled the world.
Now of cherished memory rest;
Not mourned but praised by solemn hymns sung

To Where Do You Flee?

I thought it wise to bury her
Where no one else could find.
To hide her body in a place
That each of us once knew,
But to which none of us could 
Ever, quite return.


I thought it wise to hide the memories,
The good, the bad and even the violent.
To quench all passions,
To dry our tears and move on.
Never to turn back.


I thought it wise to let her go
Back to the shadows of your thoughts,
And of mine.


Her last words were addressed to me:
"Time, to where do you flee?"

Congo's Coin

How does the Congo coin
Find its way into these hands?


First, it is a mineral that the gods
In their heavenly folly blessed
The land with, for no one man's claim.


Then the Rebel leader took a gun,
And declared it as his own.


Then he killed the youngest men,
Raped the weakest women,
And then he starved the little children
All to send the simple message:


"This land, and its gifted worth,
Is mine, and mine alone."


He took the few that were left,
And he sent them to work with guns
Pointed behind their heads-
A misstep, and the trigger goes
-And just one life is lost.


Then when the best of the diamonds
Are mined, he says again:
"They are all mine."


And then he sells them to the 
Huge American corporation
That makes cool gadgets for you and I.


And then the corporation takes our money,
And pays the jeweler.
Then the jeweler pays the rebel miner.
And then the rebel miner pays the arms dealer,
And then the arms dealer pays the gun-smith,
And then the gun-smith pays the baker for his bread.
And then the baker pays the miller for his dough.
And the miller then pays the farmer for his wheat.


But the farmer pays the coffin maker for the box
In which he'll place his gang-raped daughter's body,
Besides his slaughtered wife's rotting mass,
And his executed son's dusty bones.


He'll dig the same earth on which he worked
When his limbs were stronger, and his mind was firm.
And then he'll plant his latest seed in the same spot,


So that her body (like the others') 
Will work the soil to a new humus,
With which he'll grow his grain
To sell to the miller to make the dough.
The miller then will sell to the baker to make his bread,
And the gun-smith will be fed, and will mint more guns
To sell to the rebel miner,
Who would use them claim another land,
And seek out another farmer's son,
And slaughter his old wife,
And gang-rape his little daughter:


All just to make that one usurping statement;
On the land their gods idly once gave to all
"This land is mine, and mine alone."

Written In Response To Some Bad Music

'T would've been much better,

Had Music now made men,

Than some men make bad music.