Such greed as gathers lucre grows apace
Swelling, suppurating, stifling grace
As, charmed by cheers while giving chase
To gold that gleams, a Stupid God looks on
And grins. It gallivants; its growing throng
Delights, depraved, distracted far too long
From worthy works by wiles ill-minded ply.
I and others often wonder why
The world will work in such a way. We cry
For aid, for answers, for some ease at last,
Seek to see the Stupid God sink past
The deeps, descend, and be from this world cast,
But holding hope is harder every day,
And mouths aren’t made so many times to pray.
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Digging around amid the Furrows I have raggedly plowed into Fields that should be better regulated That came to me in good order I find a seed that I can plant Water with such moistures as I can pour out until A tangling vine springs forth to Thread itself up the brickwork built up over many years Cracking away the mortar as it scrabbles for purchase Drawing from soil long since Refined and reshaped for some sustenance It can use to flower and fruit
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That fruit Plucked and taken in Savored perhaps for its sweetness Or enjoyed for its tartness upon the tongue Or maybe boasted of for its bitterness Bracing thereby whoever ingests it Adds to and is subtracted from Leaving a new seed Replete with new fertilizer To find its own place to sprout Take root And offer the chance for the cycle to Start again
I have feasted on much fruit Whether those sold in the markets Rosetti describes Or such as may well have been forbidden in gardens long since Spread the seeds that I have swallowed behind me and All too often turned to look upon what arises Thinking weeds good crops And plucking grain before it has a chance to grow
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He put something up on what was once called his wall What might have been a bulletin board in another time Or on another server servicing another program altogether Noting the love a novelist long gone would have had for An export from Lake Geneva And I commented in turn Wondering what works would have been Had that export not rolled out onto the grid Into the hearts and minds of many
One of the classics… Photo by Armando Are on Pexels.com
I stand by the comment Knowing the hours and days and weeks and months and years Spent poring over tome after tome after tome Sitting with pen or pencil in hand poised over the paper Sitting and staring at the screen my flicking fingers foist pixels onto Doing my part for the magic Mackay makes a scholarly project Crafting my own small part of a world that lives Nowhere but in memory Mine and others’ Instead of bound between covers on shelves and for sale But I am not sure I would be better for the exchange
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They pay us just peanuts and I am allergic Choking while they say I should be grateful and Point at those who choke from the sprays Foisted in their faces from behind masks When their own masks are made crimes Point at those who suffer no food allergies Who never suffer from them Or from bulimia, either Point at those who suffer maiming and loss and death While they sign the checks cashed in with that suffering Others reaping the rewards of their investments Red fruit left to rot in far-flung fields But, yeah, I ought to be grateful
Such wage. Much wow. Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
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The heavy oaken slab used to
Bandage the wound pierced through the ivory walls–
And it is a wound through which the vital bits
Carrying sustenance throughout the boundaried body
Leak out into the greater world and
Drain the life away from what was never as healthy as was declared
If the pustules filled with voracious white cells are any indication–
Beckons one last time from the edge of the lobby
The foyer that is all the further I fare anymore
Not too far off, no. Photo by Ruben Boekeloo on Pexels.com
I lingered here too long
Even if only ghosting about the edges
Not much more than wallpaper at the best of times
And the best of times are long behind me that I spent in these halls
Thinking that I would have a place among them and deserved one
But I was caught in some of the many cuts
Or one of the sores that rubbed raw and oozed
And dripped out away from that body inside which
I had sought to thrust myself
Expending what I had within me until fatigue caught up
And I could slumber heavily, spent
The disease was already in its bones then
That recently has shown in force
Herpetic outbreak erupting redly across the face and other places
And I have one last set of rounds to make before
I leave behind the doctoring for which I trained so many years
Knowing my bedside manner was not the best
And the success rates for my treatments less than could be hoped
Residency long concluded and fill-in work set aside
So that I could find other ways to pay my debts–
Slowly, slowly, they progress
Terminal conditions spreading leprous and twisting parts before they rot away–
But these last few faces demand my medication
And my prescription pad is already filled out for them
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What delight I found in Baring something I had done to her And reading in reply that She felt just as seen as I felt myself to be Just then !
An image after my own heart… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Who could fail to find pleasure in Writing words such as Provoke such words in return Or Better yet To take away the words that would form Leaving speechless panting in their wake?
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The urge swells in me More potent now than Even the most turgid adolescent lust Memories of which continue to haunt Taunting recollections of the kind of fool I was As opposed to the kind of fool I am And I would put my hand to its ease As I am not alone in having done And to distraction on more occasions than is Comfortable to recount But there is all to little there to grab And my fingers feel too empty when they close Wrist feeling no resistance as the arm jerks Again and again and again Leaving nothing leaking out
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To hammer out some rhythm on the keys And hope the lines flow well together Harmonizing without attention despite intent
Not among my instruments. Photo by Mu00e9line Waxx on Pexels.com
Something given as a task to children Surely cannot be so much of a challenge to begin And it might be thought of little value for that
And yet there are those who will spend their lives Or many hours of many days among them Poring over the keys to find each sound within them Never exhausting them all
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The story is that A shining city on the hill Was raised to serve as a Beacon for the world Lighting the way to Liberty and justice for all And though the ideal was not achieved For many or for long If for any or at all It was yet held up and out as The ideal The goal toward which all ought to strive And no few did more than make a show in that effort
Something of the sort? Photo by Matheus Bertelli on Pexels.com
The story is seldom told anymore Striving seen as to no good end And those who boasted they ought to be better Have let themselves lapse into silence Screaming until throats were bloodied Availing nothing against the cacophonous din Lost amid more dissonance than An augmented fourth or minor second will sound And I do not know if it is a relief that The pretense has gone away or A sullen, sodden shame that The light has been let dim and die out at last
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Elliott RWI 