Monday, March 14, 2022
Once removed perhaps,
But relatives in blood and bone.
History, though written on the page
By conquerors and politicians,
Is savagely grafted upon the bones
And burned upon the minds
Of blood witnesses,
And upon the souls of children.
Childhood ripped from the innocent,
Festers and grows
Among the weeds of savage gardens.
Bright memories of freedoms stolen,
Tarnish and darken.
The patina of acrimony,
And the verdigris of vengeance
Wait, in silence, clenched among the shadows...
Beneath your bed, Putin.
Cultural memory can be a long-suffering and potent enemy. Putin's progress may produce his doom. He thinks he can rewrite history, but doesn't credit everywhere it will be written.
Posted by Mick at 3:45 PM
Wintry cold and tolerant
Of whispered plans and planned technique;
Please rescue me with wonderment.
Cold font of possibilities,
And frigid cornucopia,
I cried last week, upon my knees,
For rescue from dystopia.
I sing the song of chill Monday,
And as the dread weight I eschew,
Stretch forth my hand to grasp the day,
And gladly reach to start anew!
I never understood the dread with which so many approach Mondays. It's a chance to begin again, to start a new week and discharge the detritus of the week before.
Posted by Mick at 1:43 PM
Tuesday, March 01, 2022
Lies smirking on his limb;
Sucking marrow, grease, and fat,
From bones of children killed for him.
His tiny orbs, his lizard eyes,
Grow darker with each bite.
He relishes their plaintive cries,
And loves it when they fight.
He thinks that he is Khan reborn,
To conquer and enslave
A peaceful people tattered, torn,
With one foot in the grave.
One hopes the world will understand,
The nature of his sin,
And lead him by his slimy hand
To jail, and lock him in.
This came to me in the middle of the night and woke me up. It appears my nightmares are in Russian these days.
Posted by Mick at 12:34 PM