A Science and Conscience Limerick

The world has been through times like this before and mankind has survived. That said, I am a baby boomer who could have never imagined what is happening in the world today.

Let the Sleeping Monster Rest in Peace

First published in my blog, http://www.fleetingmuse.wordpress.com, on August 2 , 2018.

Buried deep inside
In a corner dark
Lurks the monster
Trying to rip my soul apart.

Perspective

The plight of sane souls
In a mad society
Is insanity.

Spring of renewal – “freedom”

Where do the roses go…

when the thorns, in life,

vanquish all your dreams…

Smokestack Hypnosis

Frothy foam floating atop steaming chemical vats
Boils, becoming warm white clouds
Climbing up cold concrete columns,
And billowing forth from icy smoke stacks.

I Rise, I Fall-We Rise, We Fall

I rise, I fall

That is the mode of life – i’m told

Never knowing where next to fall,

I glide along with society,

for that is the code.

 

Modern Mania

We are in a free state

our words are rampant,

abundant, thrown with fury

as our fingertips express

what our eyes might easily hide.

Touch Me Not

beware! touch me not
to human feel, I am thorn
of temper, boiling hot
in fires of dry desert, born

sundays are my suicide days

In the pit of your stomach,
miracle pills dissolve
to consume your liver
like a vulture.
When you die,
they will pluck your eyebrows
and turn your eyelids
inside out.

Collecting Dust and Spite

Old and glamorous
The antique machine
Sits idle, and off
Unused in the warehouse
It possesses the long forgotten mating
Of form and function

save your scissors

Some die like the trees,
with splintered bones
and too many wool hats
to keep their dreams safe,

beneath a swollen sky
of broken glass stars
jingling like keys
in lint-lined pockets

Interlude: I’m Not Angry Anymore

I’d melt my disgust if I could,
and pour it into their hands.
Maybe then they’d find
another train-wreck back home,
so I don’t crave
the way they suffocate themselves
in buckets
of low self-esteem.

[It’s not my fault
that I can’t hurt like them.]

Prove That You’re Still Human

i.
There’s a whisper
puncturing the emptiness
of ellipses and parenthesis,
where lips stopped imprinting
tender cyberspace solar-systems;
shattering the window
to an exposed pelvis.

ii.
It’s that moment of intensity
when you step on a sliver
of stealthily-placed glass,
that chunk of pain designed
to prove that you’re still human…
Because people want record
that white blood cells
really do exist,
even when you’re trying to dazzle them
with tales of misery business.