read a poem

Be careful, the silent matadors are approaching again
Succeeding a suffocating life of long captivity.
They are ruinous and free of moral chain,
Hence, invincible to invade our sensibility.

Responsible they are, for wars and blood-shedding,
Capable of mincing integrity in a moment,
Compelling us to bow down to their heartless lading
And their freedom can make us morally indigent.

Either we are foolish or over-optimist in thinking,
Lunatic to discover a reciprocal state of freedom
And block head as intellectual feelings are shrinking
To realise the consequences of over- optimism.

All the noses, the suspicious critics may sneer,
The babbling tongues may become more sensible,
In shame the faces may catch with fire
But the shameless eyes glitter and remain accessible.

A rudimentary society of the previous earth
May uncover the freedom of Homo sapiens,
They were set free because of the dearth
Of sunlight, reformative knowledge and emotions.

Slowly light started flourishing with civilizations
To measure everything by their importance
And captivity was started by the rules and regulations
To resist the matadors and their bitter sequence.

Alas, again they are made absolutely chainless,
We, the hilarious, break all the fences of dignity
And the overconfident bring only the darkness
Of hurry-scurry decision to enjoy care-free liberty.

I wish I had a personal mute button
To silence people as they are speaking
If I don’t like what I’m hearing
MUTE- you’ve been cut off

Another pathetic excuse to throw a party
And eat a lot of crap to constipate you
For days
My team’s not playing
And even if they were
All this fake patriotism
And high fiving
Just give me a six pack
Or a bottle of vodka
And some non Super junk food
And leave me the hell alone
In my usual misery

Ok, somebody had to do it
Might as well be me
The silent protest against LOL
The assault on the norm

Lol is way overused
And laughing out loud
Can be rude
This is your alternative, LTM

Go ahead and try it
It won’t bite
Be original
You can even say its yours

I sing the song of the shepherd–
As evening shades the hill–
Though flock I’ve not nor even flute–
To play the peaceful stillness
That surges from the valley
And wanders from the sky–
That tells the starry self- the truth–
Yet questions never why.

More at http://www.firestonefeinberg.com and http://www.verse-virtual.com.

Unto the world a stranger I–
Who never did belong–
Too obvious my sacred lie–
Too odd my secret song.

But never did I so regret
My status as it be–
Nor do I now, nor will I yet–
Make apology.

More at http://www.firestonefeinberg.com and http://www.verse-virtual.com.

the New York boy
found his country falling in upon itself
like an earthquake stricken high rise

the empire state’s enigma
shaken to his core
as the mountains disappeared

and the water tasted stagnant
the Midwest called his name
as he spit out foul liquid
from his beleaguered brain
when pastures diluted themselves
and he deluded himself
that cows always come home
instinctively

but tremors keep happening
aftershocks of a young life
spent in concrete shoes
asphalt tension of sparse blades of grass
waiting to wither in oppressive pondering

thoughts rise higher than those buildings
he couldn’t climb
as his fear of heights impedes
those steps he couldn’t take

when he found the cows had gotten lost
in his mind
and the seismic deformity of his spirit
deflated the needle on his compass

until he disappeared within himself
never got to drink the potent
ale of growing old–

the New York boy
still without a country
but understanding doesn’t need a flag
to identify the experience that
will follow him to his grave.