He kisses the forehead of his blank-faced son.
just murdered son.
his first born, only son.
touches his fingers to the freshly drawn blood
spilling from the bullet hole in the young
thirteen year old heart.
He brings it to his lips and tastes hatred.
Hatred clouds his bloodshot eyes and
he staggers to his feet with his hand up to God.
Here was his son unjustly martyred
who shall be dully revenged.
Here was his enemy’s father’s father
himself at last avenged.
Animosity of yesterday dwarfed
by the blinding bloodlust of today.
And broken hearted father
crosses his own hardened heart.
Peace is obsolete, peace is ridiculous.
The philosophy here is simple—common sense.
You killed my son
indeed I shall take yours.

Last month I found the gun
In the safe, it’s lock undone
Grinning silver, gleaming gun
I put it in my pocket to show someone.

Ten years ago they made me cry
Told me they could make my lunchbox fly
Took it from my arms as I let out a cry
Threw it out the window, at the sky.

Yesterday they took my clothes away
In the locker room I hid all day
Praying for someone to help me away
No one came and there I stayed.

Five years ago they pushed me around
Taped my mouth so I wouldn’t make a sound
Twisted my hand all the way around
Knocked me hard upon the ground.

Today I took the gun out
Which I didn’t leave for school without
Bang bang and I took them all out
Put it to my head and let it shout.

Black and white
Everyone is right
Egos aflame
In life’s sadistic game. 

Opposites repel
Send the other to hell
As the shades of grey
Are strained away. 

Evil and just
Cannot and must
If only we were open
We wouldn’t be so broken. 

He flashes a toothy, twisted smile
His finger up–he has a point
Manic expression clouds his eyes. 

“Science!” he exclaims. 
He had found an answer 
“Science is the explanation,
God is naught.”

He wags his finger. 
“Men are from monkeys
Miracles are false
Science can be seen
It is the only thing
Worth believing.”

His wife shakes her head
Prays for his soul. 
For who planned this world
What power gifted life
Who created the universe
In equilibrium and perfection?

Science?

Little girl

So tiny is she
So scrawny.
Skeletal body,
Saucer eyes yearning,
With straggly hair,
Whipped across her face.

Hungry child.

Ate last–no memory,
Clean water,
Never tasted.
Flies in her eyes,
Too listless
To brush them away.

Poor orphan.

She has no one
Nothing but pity
From worthless pennies.
Aged far beyond her
Impoverished form,
She hasn’t long to last.

The Convalescent

War-torn struggle has left you
Broken,
Young soldier of lost brawn and heart,
But words of defeat you have not yet
Spoken.

Festering wounds, lice, and you are
Sick,
Gangrenous veteran of honorable forfeit,
Those gashes are maggot-crawling at which you
Pick.

Heart and soul of yours cruelly
Belittled,
Despairing once-lover of robbed passion,
Infidelity at your absence has made your courtship
Futile.

But you are youthful still and
Strong,
Resilient convalescent of hope,
Your will to live is puzzling, almost
Wrong.

For what have you to live for with everything
Leavened,
Homeless possessor of nothing material,
Why recover over closing your eyes to
Heaven?