new poem

The American Way

With mythical majesty they made their way

To the Brave New World:

The land of freedom and opportunity,

With their bibles and canons and flags.

And they gave thanks to the God of their fathers

For plagues that destroyed,

And emptied the land, to make enough room

For their bibles and canons and flags.

Then the “purchased” more land, to legitimize

A cheap genocide:

Manifest Destiny infesting the coast

With their bibles and canons and flags.

Sure that their cause was right, they marched the masses

Down the Trail of Tears,

Not stopping to care for any Wounded Knees…

Only bibles and canons and flags.

Still, the Pacific’s roar could never calm them,

They had to have more

To “explore”, to exploit and to subjugate

With our bibles and canons and flags.

More poetry

Cry of A Nation’s Heart

            -By Paul Hoard

Amuse me.

Delight my senses,

Tickle me with pleasure,

Whisper sweet nothings

Gently in my ear.

If all the worlds a stage,

Then I am the audience.

Mindless consumption:

For that is why I’m here.

Amuse me.

Dull my senses,

Tickle me with idiocy,

Whisper to me till nothing;

Is all I hear.

Our Generation’s Prayer

            -By Paul Hoard

Our amusement that is ever wanting,

Hallowed be thy name.

Each day I search,

And long for you

At home as I do at work.

Give me this day your freedom from boredom,

And accept my sacrifice of brain,

As I freely give myself to your amusement.

And lead me not into thoughtful discourse,

But deliver me from reasoning.

For thine is my life and purpose for existence

Forever more; to be amused.

Don’t STOP

            -By Paul Hoard

Better not stop

Better not stop

There’s too much to do

Too much to see

Too much to watch

Better not stop

Better not wait

Better not wave

As life runs by…

Better not stop

Better not fall

Better not slow down

Better not at all,

Better keep going

Better keep dashing

Better scurry here

Better scamper there

Don’t; STOP!

Bustle hustle scuttle here

Bustle hustle scuttle there

Can’t be stopped by him

Can’t be slowed by you

There’s too much to do now

Too much to do,

So I better not stop

Better not stop,

Run run run

Gotta keep up

Run run run

Beter not stop

Run run run

Gotta get there

Run run run

Till all I do is

Run run run

Run run run

Right past you,

And into my,

Staccato sanctuary,

Save my sinking soul

From solace and serenity,

At the sacrifice, of sanity.

Older poems

Of But Not In

 
At times I cry for this congregation

Of white washed tombs,

The war wages in the arena,

Yet you will never leave the stands,

Casting your criticisms and condemnation till

No one cares.

What right have you to speak?

The village idiot, you cut yourselves off,

Built the walls high,

Spent time polishing the locks,

Safely sealed away from our sins,

But no one cares.

Don’t associate with us,

We’re whores and queers,

Terrorists and thugs, better not get near us:

Our dirt might stain your pristine robes,

Pay for others to pray for us,

Cause you don’t really care.

You’re so fixated on damning,

You can’t tell you’re yelling at a mirror!

The steeples are tall but the congregation’s sunk;

You’re a brood of vipers licking a cross.

Why should we go near you?

Why should we care?

Straight and Narrow

 We always walk the straight and narrow.

Sailing by so tall and proud,

Calm and cool, we never shout,

The blinders help to keep the Son out.

We always walk the straight and narrow.

Well at least the clean bits,

Pristine and clear with no regrets,

And we always try to dodge the pits.

We always walk the straight narrow.

Unless, of course, the path is blocked:

Those people dying on the sidewalk,

We haven’t time to save such folk.

We always walk the straight and narrow.

Though, for speed, we widened the lanes

And cruise around the mountains,

Going through was just too great a strain.

We always walked the straight and narrow.

But that old route just wasn’t convenient,

Because now we’re tidy and more efficient:

In our polished hearse that’s just magnificent.

And suddenly, you are

His fingers trembled when he lifted the cups to his lips.  You would too if moments ago you were a woman.  Dread swept over the crowd as the transformation took place.  The party stopped and stood still in silence.  Terrifed at what the pencil might scratch out next.

Suddenly, another shape grew character from the party crowd.  What started as a bland, human shape was now male and entrusted with the name Darrel.  Before long, the written words added a crude a mustache and long blonde hair.  The rest of the crowd began to grow uneasy.  Who or what would would next be defined from their midst? 

During this tension, Old Bob was called into existence by the graphite markings.  He turned to what instantly became Aunt May.  “I don’t like it!” he cried, “not one bit.”

Aunt May, having just found that she was much more calm in the face of all-powerful writing utensil, responded with confidence.  “Don’t worry, Bob, we can trust our creator.”  Smile lines creased to form a dimple on her left cheek as the old womans face began taking form.  Her newly existent personality prompted May to place a caring hand on Bob’s scarred and fuzzy cheek.

“Can we trust the pencil?” cried our original personality of now multi-gender capabilites. 

“What else could we do?” whined an obnoxious hag, now appearing form the crowd.  “It sustains our very existence.”

What next?