By
Ken Allan Dronsfield
Death on the Wire
A smoky haze rising higher
smell of hell in refugee fields
dead chatter; stuck in the wire
ode to the brave, body shield.
Earth explodes in trees of dirt
knife won’t cut the metal strand
grips my legs, too numb to hurt
strangling spirit, in deep sand.
I go for food, to the valley below
my wife and family are so hungry
I’ll gladly share all I found there,
just release me from this slavery.
Let me go, captor of my soul
I wish to breathe; no don’t fire.
send me back to that bad camp
don’t leave me in this barbwire.
Kill Thy Mother
In the heat of a summer’s dream
to the sounds of the ceiling fan
I feel the need to simply scream
in response to the images again
From the young to the very old
serenades of lives lost do sing
faith digresses in weak or bold
to the lost or found, rise or ring
The taking of a soul in retribution
seeking honor from family or father
in a world of lifeless hated attrition
of religious right in piety they gather.
In a world lost in your pathetic greed
misguided faith takes yet another life
hide her face; seen, then disgraced
affront to the Son; stone your wife.
Murderous contempt bequeathed;
in scripture, when were you given
the right to extinguish their light?
One born in image; never forgiven.
Soon
a sunrise will ignite as
a wispy, darkened corner
of planet Earth awakens,
a warm blanket spreads
as the King of Light rises,
the unseen now revealed.
Soon…
surging swift waters will
fill inland marshes and
salty tidal creeks as blue
crabs roam; shorebirds
scatter all about the sand
while seeking small meals.
Soon…
to be chased from the edge
of Alabama’s rushing surf
by greedy pursuing waves
keeping Neptune’s coveted
treasures of the deep safely
stashed from view forever.
Soon…
I’ll awaken to chirping birds;
flying past my sunlit window.
the teapot will sing a sonnet
announcing this new day of
circumstance; my praise be
but an alluring whisper here.
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