Skip to main content

The World Is Not Enough


Old Men declare wars,
Young men die in it,
Then Old Men get the glory and more.

Will it ever end? 

Young Soldier like an Ox,
Tried and true,
Young Soldier now in a Box,
Fried and blue,
Packaged to Mum with endless rue.


This bloodshed has been forever,
We all had a part of it,
The West,
Far East, 
Middle East, 
the Near East,
The bloodbath still lingers on.
Everyday I ask, “What is this beast?”

I’ve lost count,
World War 1,
World War 2, 
The Cold War, 
The Gulf war and all the namelesses,
Little people, little towns totally razed:
I’m sick of it God must be too.

I think God is polyglot,
He must be.
Everyday he hears the cries and wails of mothers,
Inaudible, 
loud, 
in a thousand tongues,
Cries for sons dying in faraway lands:
Yes, God is polyglot.

The world is not enough:
We just have to get some more.

Somewhere a Cleric calls, “Jihad!
Death to all infidels in the land.”

In the name of Jesu Christi,
Crusaders repaint the Streets of Gold in blood.

Or is it for Spiritus Mundi?
Men just hankering for power,

Armageddon is here,
Everyday day new horrors,
The world blasphemes in all grandiloquence,
And we just cheer her on and on.

Are there really any winners?

The world is too much with us,
Everyday Armageddon draws nigh.
You ask me, “why the fuss?”
Again and again I answer with a sigh.

 ‘Tis the nature of man,
He must destroy himself.
For indeed, the world is not enough.

****June 27, 2007*****




Popular posts from this blog

Executioner's Business

I have not come here
To put back together
The Guinea fowl egg
That was broken on Her Majesty's sandals.

I am an Executioner.
The why and the how matters not,
It's the Who.

Those who in malice
Destroy good food in fits of pettiness
Then turn to mock the distended bellies
Of hungry children
Shall know no peace.

But today,
It is not scoffing egg breakers that vex me.

It is,
Those who in silence watched
While the dirty deed was done,
Unconcerned about hungry mouths,
Then proceeded to,
on the miscreants
behalf, plead for mercy,
It is they who stir my bile.

So may I not be blamed
When in swinging my blade
I, accidentally, chop off the heads
Of wailers who stand too close to the guilty.

The Executioner's job is urgent business
I have no time for the niceties
Of giving, those who loiter, final warnings.

***** August 3, 2016*****


Bedtime Epiphany of a Pining Heart

Tonight,
I contemplated
On things that were and were not,
On why
Light retracts different, in your eyes,
Like rainbows randomly ricocheting
Off my intangible thoughts,
Spellbinding...

On why,
Words sound different, on your lips,
How you laugh,
How the sounds take a path,
Across infinite dreams,
Into all my incarnations,
Into all my iterations,
Into all...

Tonight,
I concluded
You are a figment
of my imagination,
You must be...

For
God is not so cruel
That he made a Heaven like you
Then condemned me
To the Hell of perpetual longing
Wanting, and never belonging...

*****September 14, 2016*****


God is My Barber

The sickness that made the Vulture bald
would have killed the Crow.

It is because
the gods are petty
and would not be questioned
about who they show favor to,
That Crows live to,
Squawk hysterically
At Vultures' misfortune.

We have come to understand, that,
when a petty god is your barber,
Crows, who can't afford a razor,
with their benevolent destinies,
will punctuate our precious peace
with their shameless snickering.

but
the Vulture
neither
pays any mind
nor
wages a war of words
with mockers and scoffers;
for the cure for baldness
is not found in the laughter of Crows...

*****April 4, 2017*****

http://morganes-photographe.deviantart.com/
My Second poem about Vultures. I really need to stop this...😂😂😂