by David Bolton.
Sometimes the poet must play the role of Cassandra, warning about what may come.
Wind spins jagged, purple wings
Flame blasts from the crocodile mouth
The green beast sails over the street
shifting north and south,
chasing the sun, stars and planets
Come full moon purple bleeds into silver
I awaken to an overcast sky
enveloped by a familiar sadness
Nature seems distant… not in the moment
A current of dread courses through me
This triumph of ignorance and lies
backed by the Court & the shining city on the Hill
In legislatures across this divided land
the infection spreads, not just Covid
an infection of the soul permeates
Like Berlin in ’33, people cheer the loss of democracy.
Yes, lovers still create magic
vowing to stay till the end of time
Children still play in the garden
Think of a Mozart symphony
flowers in spring,
the sprinkle of snow some Christmas eve
But alas! War, plague, famine and greed
the four horsemen ride their steeds
What would MLK say?
or Bobby and JFK?
The saints go marching away.
Meanwhile, armies of might muster East and West
Nukes are back, must modernize death
Like Slim Pickens, would I ride the dragon over the globe?
The holy books say the world ends by fire, first the flood then the fire
back to the beginning again
The wheel turns and Shiva prepares her dance.