sometimes it is best not to raise your eyes
to the horizon to the world above and beyond
and far to the east and west and north and south
sometimes it is best to keep your eyes straight ahead
to your brothers and sisters and all the children
growing up around you
for I cannot travel far
and I am only a symbol a cypher
to those who hold the reins
who grip the steering wheel
but this is my world our world
and I will welcome all
and I will hold on tight
Talk about peace, talk about war
Imagine either, imagine both
That’s easy enough to do
We watch them on television
Watch them discussed
Whenever it suits the speaker
Fits the audience and the time slot
We turn on and off to their tune
Half the world is burning
We watch children crying
Real children crying – half a world
Away from us, not next door
Those children never cry, never die
Never feel the true force of our words
Talk about peace, talk about war
Imagine either, imagine neither
Distance makes it easier – we talk it
Others get to live with what we say.
That dim beast, heavy megrims on my
Shoulders, my conscience, I admit.
Nebulous, gritty entity, it grinds over
Sand into surf. I watch it bathe and feel
A brisk breeze tingle fingers through my
Hair. And my shoulders never felt lighter.
This is my personal ritual in my covenant
With humanity and nature. I give to the
Local food pantry for my day on the beach.
Looking for a Christmas present for my son.
He wants to be a politician.
Not the merriest of Christmases
nor the happiest of New Years
for politics in America.
Abraham Lincoln is neatly
standing next to Teddy Roosevelt
at our local bookstore
With best-selling volumes
of FDR and Washington
stacked comfortably nearby.
With another somewhat dusty
book sitting far to the right
On another shelf in the non-fiction
biography section titled
“Donald Trump: America’s
Failing President.”
Sitting next to a few dull
panned volumes excoriating
Richard Nixon.
My son is a passionate
progressive Democrat.
He is wondering how a racist
With his money God, occupies
the White House in America
with Christmas coming?
As billionaires get tax cuts,
beggared sick lay dying
in their beds
Anti-Muslim venom spews,
gay pride flags are burning,
the NRA controls Congress.
Did our President really just
tweet that a New York
US Senator is a whore?
Did our commander in chief really say
that Rocket Man will be met with fire
and fury like the world has
never seen before?
Looking for a Christmas present for my son.
Not an easy choice to make. Perhaps FDR,
but he seems so far away.
My son wants to be a politician.
He’s a sophomore in high school
and wants to save America.
He’s always been such a good boy.
At street number 35
In Lawson’s bay colony
There’s a rich boy
Enjoying sumptuous cuisines with
His friends and relatives
Having a barbecue,
Italian pasta, spaghetti with
Prawns and chilli, butter chicken,
Pancakes and orange juice.
Everybody is flooded with euphoria.
A look of ecstasy on their faces
Reminds me of the cornucopia of pleasures
I’ve enjoyed in my life
And then there’s a poor boy
Living on the roads
Of the same colony
Not like the pauper
In the famous novel
The Prince and the Pauper
By Mark Twain
Rather in tattered clothes
With innocent looks and emaciated
In the throes of bitter childhood
Eating their leftovers
From the dustbin
His hunger reminds me
Of the situations when
I really felt helpless
And had no choice.
But to all of us
It’s a reminder of
Our poverty-stricken nation
Our bad habit of
Throwing food away
Forgetting that it can satiate
The appetite of the destitute children
It’s a reminder of our obligation
To eradicate poverty by
Serving the underprivileged.
Endless rows of cement circles
Number after number
The shut away, the forgotten
The undeserving
Society’s trash
Abandoned
Given no name after death
Only a hole in an unwanted piece of ground
Dug by his brothers
The only family he had
At the end
More at https://www.taralynnhawk.com/.
What is their fault,
If all they want
is the same things
as any other child?
Learn and play
live without fear
food on their tables
and a roof to feel safe
Innocent souls
with apprehension and
sadness in their eyes
still, kind and sweet
with the purest of hearts
They don’t know selfishness
and will share what they have
even if only a piece of bread
they will cut it in half
They are happy
playing with a block
of wood on the ground
while your ungrateful kid
is crying for not having the
latest model of cell phone
While you are taking
pictures of your expensive
meals or clothes
they went to sleep
with their stomachs empty
This world is unfair, selfish
full of empty people.
No child deserves
to be the forgotten.
I have a problem with that
she says
But I have a problem
with greed and hatred
with digging sharp claws
of self-promotion into
delusions of control
I have a problem with more
that goes on in “polite”
society than I let on.