If conditional you start with
Is definitely true,
Then state the contrapositive,
And it will prove true too.
So, if the contrapositive
Makes sense to no one sane,
Then original conditional
Is equally inane.
And if you think you understand
The gist of what I’ve said,
Then you’re obviously brilliant,
Or at least you’ve been well-bred.
But if you are an idiot
From the wrong side of the tracks,
This won’t make any sense, but
Hey, you’re not alone, relax!
Shall I believe the wind is nought but air?
Consider how the face is slapped and stung,
The body tossed askew as fingers tear
Like furies at a victim scaffold-hung.
Then cries she in the night, the banshee wild,
Unceasing in her moaning, shrieking shrill.
The dying could not help but be beguiled
To rise and walk again, such pleas to still.
Yet comforter is she should heat prevail.
Her cooling touch can quell the ague’s flush.
The rocking in her cradle cannot fail
To soothe the fevered human’s cheekful blush.
And as I walk she’s wont to brush me by,
For as ocean laps the shore, she laps the sky.
Spring in Winter
The calendar still says winter,
But today screams spring.
By midday, the morning fog
Is burned, exorcised.
By three, the last wisps cling
Inches from the surface.
The sun, no longer stranger,
Reclaims his kingdom of heaven.
Across the strait, the white monster blazes,
Dwarfing his petty, upstart neighbors.
My eyes sting and water,
Unaccustomed to light,
And down the beach,
Against the liquid brilliance,
A distant horse and rider
Stand in relief.
They say that all revenge is sweet,
The antidote for pain.
A gun with other gun we meet,
So mingled drops will stain
Our journey into chaos. How the
Ruby rivers run
With rushing blood of mother, brother,
A funeral pyre of firearms rises
Ever to the sky.
The lure of vengeance yet entices
While more loved ones die.
America needs no example,
She has forged her way.
She will the rights of unarmed trample
In her quest to stay
The greatest nation in the world,
For so she does believe
Herself to be, her flag unfurled
To fly and self-deceive.
On Playing Shostakovich
The notes appeared inside your mind
Where they were sorted, mixed, refined,
To leave a taste for humankind.
The phrases fell into their place
Behind the mask of your sad face.
Through them your suffering we can trace.
And in your quest to name your rage,
The counterpoint spilled on the page
To live again on concert stage.
We cannot truly ever know,
We only play. Through this we show
A way that modern man should go
To sense a time that millions knew,
When many died, from which some flew,
While others still remember true.
A time of hell that gave us you.