Pressure below the ground began to build
Smoke and ash billowed into the night’s sky
The earth’s crust shook and became fire tilled
Over the next few days many will die.
In this place where happy children once played
Omayra is locked in sunken debris
Her precious new life is no longer safe
Scared and lonely she struggles just to breathe.
Hearing her cries many gathered around
She faced death with the smile she put on
But no one could pull the girl from the ground
After three days Omayra’s life was gone.
The earth was angry and took her away.
Omayra’s sweet smile lives on today.
Gaslights gloaming deep amber rhetoric A train-wreck in reverse derailed in time Casting alternate darkness over hope Death and delusion with every pen’s stroke. The desert’s sand thick with my brother’s blood Boots on the ground children in harm’s way Our body and mind no longer our own Jackals from afar secured his gold throne. Constitution of the people not of one president. RESIST all that’s not true there is no alternate.
Not unlike a brazen giant of freak fame,
With transplant faux hair and a bad spray-tan;
Here at his brain-washed, iron-clad gates shall stand
A mighty moron with a torch, whose flame
Is the persona of gaslighting, and his name
Betrayer of Exiles. From his beacon-hand
Glows world-wide “No-Trespass” sign; his eyes scan
The bridgeless harbor that his sinful cities frame.
“Return to your ancient lands, you matter not!” cries he
With puckered lips. “I don’t want your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses scheming to steal from me
Such wretched refuse shan’t set foot upon my shore.
Send these, the homeless, back across the sea,
The light’s off and I locked the door!” by Hugh A Tague
Changing our world and all who live there
marching against ignorance and hate
his only weapons were peace and prayer
that was what made this King great.
Equality for everyone was his only plan
a kind soul who dared to dream for us all
given by God, taken away by man
on that dark April day when we saw him fall.
Every human need embrace his just plight
the lessons he taught, we must forever sing
men, women and children, black or white
a nation and the world mourn the brave King
Our father of hope, with the angels he flies.
Now it’s up to us to keep his dream alive.
Thor forewarned me of the impending storm
his hammer thundered in the distant sky
from a gentle breeze the strong wind is born
whipping up the sea as it blows on by
spray from the gale-charged whitecaps sting my face
great swells pound the pier beneath my feet
mimicking foot steps, the waves keep pace
timbers trembling as they run past me
specters of warriors invade the shore
the angry surf crashes upon the beach
sounds of mortal combat with shield and sword
it seems their victory is now within reach.
The sighted can see, all that can be seen.
In blindsight I feel, what all things can be.
Would you deny his ardent touch, if you could?
Has he brought wisdom as well as great pain?
Vanity’s cry in your reflection withstood
Your ignorance washed away with his rain.
Foolishly thinking you can take back your night
Each minute belongs to him and him alone
With the same voice he turned your hair pure white
His hold is deep-reaching into the bone.
When you thought that he couldn’t be watching
Closing your eyes, you feel his grip release
Slipping into a place no clocks are ticking
His reign upon your life will never cease.
Hate him for keeping you within his shroud
The Reaper’s touch, you will not disallow.
Who boldly trespass in the dark of night, leaving only etchings for me to see? Eluding detection, hidden from sight, truly clever intruders they must be. Gravity to them simply does not apply, frolicking about on my sideways pane. Is it magic? Or perhaps they can fly? Ah yes! Flight is the secret of their reign. Visions of whimsy, my mind’s eye beholds. Dancing and skating upon my window’s ice. Seemingly boundless, thriving in the cold; who’s impressions vanish with the new day’s light. As I sleep, they flutter about my home. I take solace, in that I’m not all alone. ~Hugh A Tague
My eyes look upon the land of plenty.
From this shelter of canvas and timber.
And still our stomachs are all but empty.
Feelings of happiness are hard kindred .
My breast near empty of life giving food.
I take what I can, that came from the field.
Little comfort for the youngest of my brood.
Mother Nature’s wrath has lessened the yield.
For my children, what future lies ahead?
Will they prosper in the land of the free?
Will I be there? or will I be dead?
A few of the thoughts that keep haunting me.
Thankful that I get to see the sun rise,
And the love and hope in my children’s eyes.