On a spiritual hold
Borne of believers
By traditional bold,
Be of meagre ethics
Held mystic of old,
Suggests invocation,
Said for nonbeliever
Be an offer of thanks,
In words that declare
An ever sober prayer…
Hence has us wonder
If sufficient be there,
Despite mans despair
For life giving water,
And breathable air!
Looking to hide
In a ravaged crowd,
Where war has him bide
In rag-torn shrouds,
For all that be left
Of this voiceless child,
Be a mind bereft
Feeling cast aside,
In a torturous tide
Of victims’ loud cries,
As dead bodies fall
From gory guns bane
Of spent soldiers insane,
That no longer recall
Were once poets near all,
Now brain-damaged mob
Be creatures caballed
Who follow a broken god,
Said maker of orphans
Who find shelter in rubble,
A place they’d once called home!
ode to war orphaned children
Words need find
What explains best,
To wayward minds
Ethics to express,
Suffering fixed line
Of modus interest,
In archaic social values
That fails to admit
The painful confusion,
In societal empathy
Held hand me down
Slanted sympathy,
Be but nationalistic abide
Of atavistic coeval apathy,
In which exclusion survives!
Poetry on a Canapé 