One Third Were Children

From my good friend in poetry, Thom the World Poet, http://worldpoet.blogspot.com/

The numbers of dead still shocking-
what struck to the bone is this
one third of all dead were just children
who could not escape this
Not boys in body bags from wars still boiling
not child soldiers in wars still fighting
more those poor you see in all Third World photos
born into life as short as they are
gone from us.Never known now.Mass graves,ungrieved
buried at the speed of waves rising on blue days
in random numbers.Held under in waters
rising above their small sizes.They could not run
fast enough away.Their bodies matchstick stay
until burial among all the detritus of this day-
Kyoto Protocols,Global Warming,Greenhouse Effects
and every scientific warning (posthumous)
which locates the source of the wave
and the cause of their graves
in those First World emissions
from SUVs and coal mines
denuding of forests
black strap highways
cities of heat emitting waves
that drown our own children
make Third World slaves
of a dinosaur lifestyle.
They died out too(over time)
Time has run out for our children
and that fossil fuelled motor engine
THOM GRIEVING DECEMBER 29,2004

Bohemian Groves

© 12 December 2004, The Griot Poet

Santa’s tree land…
Row after row of phalanx symbols…
The prophylactic bedecks the representative
Fertility symbols in Trojan ribbed silver and gold.

A pentagram affixed
Atop the green Richard
Plants the seed through
The obligatory
Orifice Holly Wreath
Under the aphrodisiac
Mistletoe.

Flip the script
On the ‘n’
In Santa’s name:
You get the adversary
Up to the same old game
“He comes as an angel of light.”

Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen,
Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzon,
And Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer:
All just Pan without Peter on
Four instead of two cloven hooves,

The messenger, Gabriel
Gave the news to Mary
Of the virgin pregnancy
In the sixth month
Of ELUL,

Superimpose the Hebrew
On the Julian
Calendar – we’re talking
August – September.

Unless
We believe Jesus was a “premi”
That puts the divine birth
In May or June!

This
Is a ritual, kept alive not to pay homage
To Palestinian Prophets
Or Saturnalia:
But to Mammon and to
Maximize to gorging
Fourth quarter corporate profits!

We cannot rail against
Skull and bones
Selections
Masking as elections,
Against world elites
Hiding in robes,

Sacrifices of children
In effigy “cremations of care”
And Iraqi reality
To Moloch’s
Flames

If we are not
Willing to dismantle
Our own
Bohemian Groves!

Opportunity

© 21 October 2004, The Griot Poet

I have the ability to teach martial arts and life’s lessons.

I deliver poetry pieces with the fervor of the preached Word.

Yet, my confession is, when I’m stressing I find the opportunity to stray within reach.

I’d just have to stay mum, publicly treating my undercover like my female chum.

By vanity, I’m flattered that at forty-two, I’ve “still got it.”

My past reality is the memories of empty one-night stands,

Bland pick-up lines that most likely NEVER worked!

Sleeping with the wives of 7 men: one the wife of a very close friend, causing much hurt.

Feeling like a curse or worse, I painted over each reflective surface of my living space with the color of my soul’s mood: black.

For I lacked spiritual insight, as my third eye was blind: “eye wide shut.”
So, I know before we chance this intimate dance where this broad road leads.

Though an affair would renew me; sooth me, like crack cocaine, your pheromones will map their way to my brain, wrapping my medulla oblongata with the “one more hit” refrain, driving a brother insane.

I have a woman that despite these faults truly loves me!

Now, I’ve planted the seeds of men and I want to lead them by my example.

I want to metaphysically pry open their third eyes with ample amounts of Living Water Visine ® – I want my sons to be FREE!

Though by vanity, at forty-two I’m flattered that I’ve “still got it,”

I say this with all sincerity, ignoring my smaller head’s testosterone masculinity as I say this through gritted teeth spirituality:
NO!!!