Requiem for Commercialism

In light of the usual chaos of Black Friday(Possibly the most stupidest day of the year) This poem addresses the worship of commercialism and materialism that surrounds it.

Requiem for Commercialism

Commercialism is dead, and we have killed him.

Our thanksgiving, generosity and material contentment

has shut off its resuscitator, ending any last will it has to live.

The failure of unrestrained capitalistic and free-market

attitudes has breached the corporate granite guard,

striking vulnerable nerves that make Commercialism’s

might seemingly untouchable, uncovering the unsustainable

idea that one’s wealth is measured by how much he or she buys.

Yes, Commercialism is dead, and we the consumer have killed him.

Always in November

 Always in November

November should be the child’s month,

as much as June or July.

In those fraternal twin summer months

the joy of summer vacation

has often worn off to be replaced

in late July by high temperature

boredom and monotony.

In November, Fall’s blood and gold child,

the mind and body are trained as one

in the classroom, Football field

and soccer pitch.

These equal involvements, sport and school,

are features near December; always in November.

There, too, is the seasonal sensation I’ll personally

claim to be the same as diving into the community

swimming pool or blue and ochre ocean:

squealingly bombarding a poor leaf pile.

In the company of brotherly buddies

we would leap in, dust hang-ons

from our smokey wool jackets,

reform the pile and leap in again.

Subway: Copley Square

Here is another urban (or city) poem that I didn’t add to the Urban portraits series I did  a some posts back. If the Copley Station described here looks inauthentic that’s because it’s done for a reason.

Subway: Copley Square 

The Green Line whistles

to a momentary pause

beneath Copley Square.

As the doors hiss open,

one can feel the underground

heat stick like velcro to

one’s clothes; smell —

the warm sweat hanging in the

air like a noose, the violent meeting of

hissing wheels on archaic tracks

and somewhere close, the delightful

stench of morning coffee and baking pretzels;

hear — a blind saxophonist blasting his breath away,

rats scurrying on the tracks, dim light bulbs,

busy shoes and the railcar doors hissing shut behind

me before chugging off — to where I can not tell.

But he who daringly jumps the turnstiles before me,

his aim, if not his end, can be assumed.

In tow, the policemen’s whistles blow.

One can only observe them leap over a law

so stringently enforced.

The turnstile-jumper sprints, he leads the chase,

barreling toward the approaching pit…

He halts, leaning over the yellow safety line

as the next train clocks frantically in,

and is cuffed and hauled away.

Thus concludes another hour in the subway,

this sub-city street wonderland.

(Where things are more exciting

below ground than above.)


I believe that every Christian and non-religious person faces the pressure to turn away from the straight path they laid themselves to one that is crooked. For Christians that crooked path is sinful habits; others, it may be addictions left behind. The temptation for self-destruction exists for everyone.


When I was a child,

I acted and reasoned

like a child.

When I became a man

my actions and reasoning

matured – I put childish

ways behind me.

Yet even in maturity

I still look back

to the days when childish ways

controlled me.

Its rattle rings in my ear,

drawing me near

to the times I cast aside.