Irises

MISBEGOTTEN NIGHT

Behind lead skies, the day is mourning.
You are like the day, dressed in dirt,
in grey, in cold dreary mists - you are bored
exploring the dregs of your depression.

I see your Narcissian flare. But, if in your caprice
you choose (though others may not) to swagger
where folly loiters in the street-
What is that to me? Lovely stiletto, you hunger for a wound!

Hate glistening eyes in electric daylight,
predatory with your lust for human flesh....
Drunk on power and greed,
with you anything goes: morose and malicious;

look at what you've become, black shadows, bloody dawn-
each nerve of your taught body quivers with repressed excitement.
Listen to your incantation, "Dear Devil, see how we adore you!"
The proof lies in your actions!

A MERCHANT

A merchant of lies, he spoke the truth
that mean spirited man with the mephistelean grin,
and, with an invocation to the morning star
he said, "Heaven? Don't worry about it,
do whatever it takes, eat the fruit,
for "yours" is the kingdom.

Young men go everywhere and do anything,
young women have golden honey
and Delila shears,
and old men direct it all, with vicarious pleasure,
reveling in the greatest aphrodisiac of all- power.

But what is wrong?
How is it, in spite of our fanatical zeal,
we feel somehow, someone's forgotten?
Why do we feel the ancient terror, in front of virtue;

when all alone, by accident
we see a graveyard,
or hands clutched as if in prayer,
or two sticks lying prostrate in the form of a cross?

ALREADY

Already there is a law
that requires a child sex offender
to register with the local police,
so that the neighbors
can be notified and warned-
a modern scarlet letter.

The fact that this seems prudent
is self-evident, but did you know:

that there are those who deliberately
pervert individuals into becoming
child sexual molesters?

One might question the wisdom of this.
Or, wonder why anyone would
create a situation
where innocent children
will be sexually abused.

The reason is simple,
they want to maintain,
in neighborhoods across our great land,
a state of high anxiety,
for the sake of children of course,
to better further their own
radical right's special private agenda.

Yes, they even have compiled lists,
of people and politically expedient places:
now I ask you,
who is it that is sick!?!

HOW SMALL

How small are the features
of the little children-
who can see them and not smile?

Little by little
polished smooth
as river pebbles
or a looking glass.

Blind people don't know
that each one of you
is unique
a bright radiant flower.

That everywhere you go
and with each experience
the varied blossoms
become more fragrant.

And even though
there are those
who would bind your feet
and force your every step,

Little children,
know your life
is your own.

Little ones, how can people
see you polished smooth,
and still not weep
at the pain of precious stones.

NESTLED

Nestled back between trees
leans a small deformed house,
its roof, misshapen with moss,
looks like a grotesque growth.

From shadows steeped in gloom
the molting walls look leprous,
and a weed choked yard
completes the desolate picture.

Yet, from one window,
of the otherwise black shrouded house,
faintly glows a light-
radiant in the darkness of night!

I WONDER

I can't help but wonder
where you were when,
finally, your mind finished crumbling:
brainwashed into a bigot's
dirty puddle:
and extension of someone else's will.

Was it staring at a blank wall
standing unnoticed,
like so much of life,
stark naked.
Like so many other stares
have fallen
blind to its blind blankness.

Perhaps it was on a road
four lanes of virtual reality
all empty already
with so many departures-
so many devoured souls.

Maybe it was in an office
where goodbye was said
without you ever even noticing it,
as you sat at your desk
doing your job?

A cloud, the sun glinting
from the shiny metal skin of a car,
the sadistic sneer of your enemy,
and the auger of an owl in flight,
a sign from fate?

Continents of clouds drift across the sky
reminding that all of us
are loved,
and of the beauty and fun of our dreams;
while cruel and brutal people
mentally torture and coerce
others from their civil rights;
until, your mind fled:
a television
only capable of repeating
bigoted programming.

Where were you
when you ceased to be?

WHOSE EYES

Whose eyes spy at the computer enhanced images
generated by the fibre optics put in place by
well paid house breakers?
Do you feel the stare on your naked bodies
on wild October mornings as you dress?

How many eyes will watch you shower this month,
when you pick your prized possessions
from their hiding places, smile with secret satisfaction
and then laugh at your misery, when
with your hands raised for mercy in supplication,
as they receive their pieces of gold?

Oh what heavy breathing is made
by those peeping eyes when the night's
turtle doves rustle their feathers cooing gently.
How many of them are radical right wing whores?
Outside unseen through twisted branches
of old oaks is the setting of a waning moon.

You self-appointed spies
who have witnessed your manipulated murders
and your sick seductions and your perversions:
who wipes the mud from your desires?
Who cleans the filth from your souls?

AND

and I walk over to the table.
Turning on the electric light
I sit down and begin to read.
The walls disappear
and the furniture melts away.
I sit all alone suspended in air,
then I too vanish.
After tiring of reading
I lay down my book,
put on my sweatshirt
and leaning over the couch
pick up the keys.
While leaving the room
I stumble over the doorstep,
and enter the darkened corridor...