callousness poems

The Affair | Shelly Blankman - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

The Affair | Shelly Blankman

You’re in bed with the NRA,
shades drawn, door locked,
no one can hear, no one can see,
but we all know it’s lust that drives you.

Dollar signs glow like gold as you gaze
in their eyes, entangled in covers, flushed
in their web of deceit, blinded with promises
of cash with your tricks.

Your web spreads past the walls of your
tryst, where schoolkids are killed
while you’re getting paid and dams of tears
burst while you seal the deal.
Blasts of gunfire by the mentally ill
still ring out like some sick New Year’s
welcome as you toast your new flame
with wine the color of blood.

Doomed by Caprice |  Roy Pullam - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

Doomed by Caprice | Roy Pullam

Another elm fell
In the park
The buzz of chain saws
Mocked the fifty year
Growing cycle
Of the stately tree
I watched
As its expanse
Fell with a roar
To the ground
How many birds
Had called it home
Making nest
In its noble branches
I looked at the stub
Still anchored to the earth
Counting rings
50 bunched close together
Identifying the age
Nature’s carbon 14 test
Unlocking the mystery
Of when planted
Rough sections of wood
Stacked randomly
Just waiting
For the dump truck
To haul them away
There is a sadness
In the bareness
Of the side
Of the hill
Not the pride
When first planted
Just an old unwanted tree
Someone decided
Had no right to live

A Familiar Truth | Gil Hoy - A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by Contemporary Poets

A Familiar Truth | Gil Hoy

For so long as the NRA
controls Congress

With its pumping

Mutant
Pecuniary
Poison
Lifeblood

Corrupting souls
Buying silence

Innocents will
continue to die

From high-powered
Weapons of War

Bought in America
like a bag of groceries
from a grocery store

While Wayne LaPierre
Scribbles his want list
for Republican

Bought and sold
baby-kissers counting
their bankroll gore.

If Congress had lead balls
in its hearts, brains
pelves

If images of dead
school children grew
so palpable, so intimate

That their fever
opened a passageway

To eternity and back
Would the madness
Stop then?

Would lone wolves
Still sing their rancid
Noteless songs

A Witch’s Brew of shrill
staccato tempo

Tentwentythirtyfortyfifty
Pigeons intheblinkofaneye

That numbed ears
don’t see anymore

That tastes forgotten
and too familiar
anyway.

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