The fiercest wind

A protest poem for earthweal.

The fiercest wind

The tiny feral cat gave birth
in the warm spring,
her first two kits.
I put out food,
but the kits stayed small,
then there was just one.

I saw it after the deluge
in the track up to the house,
a dead bird,
a tuft of brown oak leaves.

It trembled,
raised itself on long bones of legs,
stumbled away from the offered food,
mouth open in rage,

and from its empty stomach
rose a deafening roar
against the abject cruelty
of this world.


Never-ending story


I am tired of this cold and this death

time after time the retort

echoing until it is caught

by another and another endlessly circling

buzzards above a blue and green field

Earth suffers shrinks

calling wild things back into the darkness

because this world of light is denied them

trees die charred sticks and we

eat and eat and eat until we are sick

I am tired of hearing and seeing brutish stupidity

hearing the calculating weasel words

of those who could make the change `

set the blue ball spinning in clear waters


each needless death

our own children screaming

bringing us closer to the ignominious end.


The Daily Post prompt is: angry


Anger is for injustice and cruelty,

for crying children with hungry bellies,

and ragged people with dead eyes,

huddled on the street,

for beaten dogs and needless slaughter,

for grotesque wealth

and rubbish heaps crawling with human scavengers.

Anger is the raised fist to say, no more,

and the shout in the throat

when he won’t leave her alone,

and the scars on the earth that will never heal.

For you there is only pain

and a vague regret

that I didn’t see it coming

and take back my love

before you tossed it in the wind.

A mother’s last thoughts

Painting by Giordano


We fear you.
Only the laughing warriors,
With their blood-bright badge of courage,
Pretend to welcome you with open arms.
It is written nowhere,
The place where the women go,
But I know,
We wait in the grey hollows beneath the earth,
Filled with the groaning of sickness and the stink of gangrene,
And the shades of children,
Starving, starving,
The unnamed, unsung dead,
Flickering at the edge of sight.
I lie on this childbed of pain,
Body filling with the white flux of birth sickness,
Holding tight to the tiny life,
Ebbing with my own.
Only endless pain awaits in the shadows,
And clutching forever this still, cold fruit of my flesh
And the stinking flux.
In the grey hollows is heard the sound
Of feasting and carousing from the happy halls,
Joy sent to torment the unblooded dead.
No justice in the world of men,
No more is there in the next.
We fear you,
For you bring only eternal despair.