OBJECTION, YOUR HONOUR
Ironic liberty caps put him in the dock here.
Plus a system not quite broken but severely bent.
Climbed a sycamore entranced by the texture, the scent.
Then someone comes down the road. Too late to disappear.
This officer of the law – you see his type worldwide.
Worships petty regulations. (i.e. benighted.)
“I proceeded to caution the accused who replied …”
The constable consulted his notebook, recited
“‘Oh, the colours, the colours,’ he giggled and sighed.”
Now the magistrate’s favourite part, inducing fear.
The power to deal harshly with any miscreant.
“Something you wish to say before I pronounce judgement?”
“Beam me up, Scotty. It’s getting rather hot down here.”
Everyone does their best
From their own point of view
Nothing wrong with people
Genocide wouldn’t cure
A Valentine’s Day poem?
Certainly. (Who needs clichés)
He was seventy-two
While she was twenty-eight.
A round number – Perfect!
Though only they thought that.
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
They said not a word
For not a word need be said
A cloud of silence
Always accompanied them
Others looked on bathed in awe
Those who put
The ‘big’ in bigotry
Are those who keep
The ‘small’ in small-minded
The suicide decided after all to cross the river.
Styx a stone’s throw away – Too many thrown stones.
Crossed over now into who knows what or where. Into
who knows beneath all that faith and charity after all?
Cruelly abandoned by us all; backed up into corners.
All those accusatory closed doors, shuttered windows.
Words not the sole way to show a soul’s distress though.
Tiny gestures, reactions, dress choice speak volumes;
sightlessness alive and well among the seeing.
The suicide decided to cross the river.
(Styx a stone’s throw away after all.)
Many too many thrown stones.
And words not the sole way
to show a soul’s distress.