“The Statue”

In the midst of untimely ocean waves

a tiny continent sits and broods.

Crabs silently click along the sand

seagulls perch atop leafy palms and look down

where old turtles peek out from their shells

and monkies pray and shout, dropping fruit as tribute.

They all stare at a misshapen rock,

jaggedly odd from the surrounding boulders,

stone obsidian and form terrible against the sun.

From the base of dirt rises, first, angled horse legs,

stout legs that daily conquer field and range.

The body is a dashing rock frozen in time

and the mane a sharp grey shriek of war.

The nostrils two scents for the damned,

the teeth a murderous snarl,

the eyes regal and intent.

But the beastly terror is owned

by two other legs jutting from its slated ribs.

Army boot and calvary thighs twist into

tall and straight back indented slab of black.

Symbols molded into the chest,

palpitations of a stony heart,

medals of honor to duty of country.

The right hand salutes across the brow,

gaze fixed toward sunrise, horizon, and sunset.

The eyes themselves,

calm as a mother’s,

cheeks, soft as a bride’s,

the smile, could be a woman’s too.

The hat is a double edged, rimmed, ancient sword

and the curvy hair a scream trying to break through tomb.

And the left hand seems to hold an extention;

Shaped like a finger of judgment,

a long gun unmolested by pitiful rain

points its barrel at the soldier’s brain.

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“Red Ocean”

The sign post reads: Red Ocean

ruby tears rose sickness cherry eyes crimson knives sanguine hatred grinning sharks

fireworked heads sunrise rifles grinning sharks vermilion hours hateful fire tomato saws

grinning sharks scarlet screams bloodshot cannons clothes-hanged apples fearful fever stopped hearts

carmine teeth cardinal laws loving axes grinning sharks strawberry iris sunset death

ketchup cars chestnut chests boundless blood dying stars grinning sharks pain with no exit

auburn life grinning sharks veins in waves ginger metal melting apples eternity in wine

Grinning sharks

“Guillotine”

One by one I sever their heads,

one by one I answer their calls,

and one by one I stifle their cries

and end their lives.

 

The feminine crowd,

bathed in blood,

worships me,

The God of Revolution,

born in 1789,

The French Evolution.

 

Robespierre walks his hounds;

they howl in the street

seeking through all the smoke and noise

some fresh, traitorous meat.

 

My steel tongue,

glittering in the sun,

still strikes: French Fun!

But soon one will ride

whose Reign of Terror

will behead even me.

His name?

Napoleon.

“The Iron Seesaw”

The mountains attest that the world’s uneven;

no smooth plain of plenty everywhere,

no home of eternal, unconditional care.

A side of my face, whole and healthy,

the other, charred and worn,

while some laugh in the winter

and others weep in the spring.

 

This intolerable, heart-breaking canyon

splitting nation from nation,

fellow human from fellow human.

How daunting to the dreamer!

To the one longing for balance,

for Heaven to exist and never Hell.

 

A shifting monument stands in the world,

made of steel, coated with blood;

an iron seesaw,

fit for innocent kids who dream.

On each side and every pendulum wave

a childish chant: “I win! I win!”

 

So long, so long they play,

seizing their own moments of glory

when they touch the sky

and see all the world before them

laid out like a money-making blueprint.

The humbled somehow humble the proud

and the proud humble the humbled.

 

All you can see is the old, red metal

jaggedly pointing above dusty ground,

all you can hear is the screech of metal,

a life twisted into death.

 

 

“Poehomonym #5: Bat”

I traveled widely in the world

when I met her for the first time;

I should have know then,

from the beginning,

that she was an unpleasant woman,

full of evil and darkness.

But her lying tongue and

fluttering eyelashes drew me in.

Over the years,

though slow I was to realize it,

I was the pottery on her table,

one she could mold and shape

anyway she wanted.

One night,

after a much needed win

on the slugger’s field,

I caught her with another man,

molding and shaping sweat and flesh.

I smashed my bat across his head,

then I slapped her with my palm.

She showed no remorse.

I almost hit her too,

but thought better and just threw her out.

At my own instigation.

Yet little did that victory

for me, this mad man.

For not a night goes by

that I’m not tormented by her,

all she did to me.

Like being bitten by a dark, winged creature

whose flight always escapes my swing.