The Plea

Dear Mr Candle, find me a spark,
That will set fire to your wick,
And chase away the dark,
Elusive it may be,
Destructive and vile,
But find it for me and let it eat you alive.

Dear Mr Bull, find me some meat,
 That will roast on the fire,
And give me something to eat,
Elusive it may be,
Your thigh makes great steak,
So give it to me, to burn at the stake.

Dear Mr tree, find me some wood,
That will light up the evening,
Make sure it burns good,
Elusive it may be,
But trunks are the norm,
So give yours to me, that I may stay warm.

Dear Mr Voter, give me your vote,
That I may live in comfort,
Don’t let me gloat,
Elusive it may be,
Your life seems fair game,
So give it to me, and bear all the blame.

Hypocritical Hallucinations

Severally we hear that the ones we hold dear,
Were born on such a day not so long a go,
So we facebook and tweet and say stuff so sweet,
Just so their egos we can blow,
It's hey hey hey,
How you doing hbd and what have you,
And though we texted and we called
We never cared at all,
What happened to that person all year through.

Word On The Street

I left my bag open,

And my poems spilled to my feet,

I tried to gather them up but all in vain,

Now they say there’s word on the street.

There’s word in the alley ways,

There’s word on the windows,

There’s word under the card board box,

Other wise known as home by the man they call homeless,

There’s word on the doorsteps of millionaires,

There’s word on the soles of the brave,

There’s word in the hearts of the weak,

There’s word on the windshield wipers of forgotten classics,

And on the wise bumper stickers of overused rust buckets,

There’s word on the pulpits of empty churches,

And in the aisles of crowded movie theatres,

There’s word in forgotten car manufacturing lots

And in over accommodating slums,

There’s word on the knick knack paddy whack that gives a dog a bone

And swimming around in the yolk of the distraught humpty dumpty,

There’s word on the backs of the whipped,

And in the eye of the oppressors

The word is out there,

Spreading like a virus,

My feeble efforts to bring it back,

Can only but fan the fire,

I left my bag open,

And my poems spilled to my feet,

They called it littering, little did they know,

That’s how word got to the street