Volcanic

Illustration

 

Poetry from me

Is not written,

It erupts.

From fears and tears

And female rears

And out of the morass

Of memories entangled

With the hopes that, perhaps,

This troubled planet

Will not collapse.

Life is a persistent habit

I do not surrender complacently.

My time here seems somehow short.

I know, I know. I should exhort

That everyone here should be loved.

But Christ!

Who could be fond

Of the SOBs now in charge?

They murder millions carelessly

And complain

That others are insane.

Still, still, I’d prefer

To hang around and see

What might occur

And scribble, now and then,

Poetry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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