Our Destiny Speaks Boldly, not We

(Ben Heine © Cartoons)

Let destiny speak boldly, loudly, clearly…
So its audience might hear.
Let me speak plainly with a bard’s tongue;
"We are bursting; heavyhearted of war."
The place of our end marches not with our beginning;
Crashing planets were not man’s doing,
Creation was and is not ours;
Stars, rain, wind, snow, ice-
None of these are our attainable.
Even in our imagined freedom
We cannot lower or raise them on cue.
Our fate rests not with the inescapable mysteries,
For they cannot instill such impending, reckless tragedy.
They bring not our minds `round to staging murderous war.
Of our antagonist stained creature they cannot torture,
Beyond this, we’ve only ourselves.
Incapable of stunting our malevolent beast
Or tongueless, limbless horror sleeping in our cave,
Stars shine, rains fall, snows waft, winds blow, ice holds.
Does man not see he shall not shape it, the world’s plot?
That the end of its play’s been written in the air?
That nature moves outside our paper and pen?
If tomorrow the stage were emptied of killing and war
And McDonalds and Wal-Mart and poets
And boys and girls and men and women
And daughters, sons, mothers and fathers
And fowl and fish and animal and terror,
The world would be quite powerless
To impede such a roaring ovation.
We’ve set it down to man’s actions, to humanity’s grace,
And only as the curtain drops shall our horror enter the light.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman


Our Anger Fouled

Let us take steps to confront our butchered age;
Cross the plains of reason, peering over the chasm.
Do not now upon time’s ripeness wait. It is here;
Black and bleeding, pulsing malevolence most foul,
Most ready… Take heed! Take heed! It is near!
Do you not sense its lunging forth of breathing
Like some blood-worn madman stalking gloom?
Bringing hair to mount in mockery our withered will,
Kicking our heels apace in pursuit of indifference,
Chiding our conscience, spurring us toward hell?
How can we learn of journeys taken upon this world
If we’re wholly numb inside our vacuous ideals?
How can we be so empty of splendor, we sever this;
Our very thoughts to spite the deadness, rotting flesh?
It is here! Our fetid love! Our anger-fouled civilization!
It is here! Goddamnit! It is here!
Holding our linens bleached of blood’s residue
We don the slippery and soiled scabbard of our end…
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman