SnapshotHere's a snapshot of the day, in words, not pixels.
Spring has come, according to the calendar,
But there's no sign that things have changed.
The fields are brown, the tangled tree limbs
Leafless still. The air is warmer, but not warm,
And rain, not snow, is what approaches.
Like the land, my heart's still cold, as my love
Remains far away, and all the jetsam that arrives
By word, by TV or computer, chills it further.
Everywhere, the meek are set upon by thugs,
Who scorn and rob and often kill them.
Plutocrats and racists rule. Jails are full,
And mouths are gagged. The quantity
Of battlefields has grown too high for me
To count. I sigh, and stare down at the river.
If you were here now, I swear that this
Is what you'd see.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 208 times
Written on 2019-04-03 at 16:21
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email