Garden of Curious Fates
Do bones chuckle at their own mortality?
Do they find comedy in the way God calls
them to the dust? Eternity speaks bitter
truths in riddles tucked between lines of, text like:
“The First will be last; the Last will be first”
Age cackles like a grey jackal in the bush
while life is a flame pursued by time’s winds
whose immortal gusts smite it on and on.
In the dying light of cemetery strolls
I hear old bones speak from coffins far below
like stand-up acts, they joke how they had to go:
One slipped on soap; another fell off his chair;
a third failed to see a bus veering his way
Their words make life seem so painfully feeble
like a vase distorted from its first accident
while laughter still dissipates from ash headstones
I walk through this garden of curious fates
indifferent to my own; still listening
to these loud relics as night’s curtain falls again.
Between an end and beginning
I’m sure he lies there resting
coiled tight within the rock.
It is Saturday, when one week dies
another comes to life.
I’m sure he lies there thinking
recounting Friday’s traumatic trial.
It is a reflective time of grace,
mercy and a time of sacrifice.
I’m sure he lies there listening
as authorities rejoice his brutal failure.
Outside the law stands firm
expecting no miracles.
I’m sure he lies there waiting,
anticipating Sunday’s redemptive sunrise.
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.
Our hearts and minds have synthesized
from concern to in-difference.
Briefly, the red-stained headlines invoke
spontaneous outrage, briefly…
Only before the turning page
followed by the next day’s live events.
Few are chilled by the stunning stats,
shattered limbs in black body-bags,
scintillating, debris-strewn streets,
And in other news this fine day…