How many nails does
a simple coffin need?
They hammered another one
today, the largest yet.
We had invited them
to do so it seems.
We were upset by this
but there was nothing we
could really do except
call them out and threaten
to do what exactly
has never been clear.
So we are left to mourn
again the death, knowing
that there can be no
resurrection for Ukraine
and freedom itself
is a step closer to death.
They should have had
an altar, even Abraham
had one when he was ready
to execute Isaac, and the ram
interceded, to his ultimate peril.
They should have had
a funeral, that is just common
sense and decency, but they
wanted no such thing, just
be done with it, bury it away.
I still mourn the death
of science for I know that it
operates without spite, without
anger, with simplicity, making
our world ever more livable.
Perhaps there will be
a resurrection, it has happened
before, although at times
it does seem that it would
take a rather large miracle now.
First published in Pages Penned in Pandemic, 2021
Images inviting tears,
ancient steeples falling,
the evening sky uplit
by flames dancing devilishly.
They all say it cannot happen
that we must stop it, that
we are powerless to act
in defense of a symbol
to the omnipotent, the all
knowing, who dare not intervene,
for our tributes are only that,
beautiful offerings never
requested or required, and more
to appease our conscience
but we both know that from ashes
will eventually arise a phoenix.
We love the flower, more so
if it adopts the brighter shades
of nature’s palette, and even
tolerate the fern, but only if
it truly honors the greens
it is supposed to bear and unfurl.
We save our spite for the fungus
which reaches up to us
with surprising haste, nothing
this day, fully formed tomorrow
as if to suggest a resurrection
from something dark and dank
hidden below the surface.
Still, we turn our back on it,
wish it gone, find it ugly
and never pause to wonder how it
views us in the early light of morning.
an old writer and his words 