Saturday, November 23, 2019
George Held -------- poem
“To Hell in a hand basket”
“This is the end, my friend”
Only clichés and other folks’ words
come to mind in the lowering dark
of a world gone to pot or to black,
as the pot calls the kettle,
but what are clichés for if not to bring
succor to us suckers who long for light,
not necessarily at the end of the tunnel?
But there’s no light in sight, none.
We who are doomed to die salute you
who motor on in the face of bomb
threats, mass shootings, frightening
policies drawn up by crooked governments,
you who warmly welcome a new child,
you who go to church, synagogue, or mosque
to pray, to receive succor, you who feel divine
peace in the presence of God, a god.
But no god’s in sight, none. So what
if I can’t pray or find peace without,
only rarely within, where there’s no
light, just a reptile response to life?
That’s no question for a lyric;
save it for an ode or an epic
or a drama; stow it away
from the gray light of a new day.
By koon woon - November 23, 2019
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