Elimination round
shot by soldiers in a show of severity
a prisoner
the morning wren
the last falcon
we now destroy one another
like kings
infinitely displeased with
our promised life
Angry poems
Angry poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Self quarantine
drum with a hole in it
having one opinion
as a great loser and builder
he knows it is unsafe
in the intricate thriving ruin
of his mind
Power trips
masters who turn
small performances into rage
begin to nest in it
sing behind it
write over it in blood
Vitrioholic
all morning bitter
and full of spit
I find my head
in the ground
and I hope it will come
to a good end
Common Sense
who is against prohibiting knives
to stab people with
or rubbish that hangs in the hedge
god knows we are sad
like an infinite love
carried into the country of distraction
Abusive
like using a rusting
oven for bread
I cannot answer otherwise
than in abuse
betray the words
the very eyes I ask
to just be quiet
The system
workplaces hum
with want of money
our design for destruction
bled the present better
than any noon
when all is done we have done
little worse than the mad
the first rose
to rise perused
our joy, wages,
wear and tear
the war that we take for
a better red flower
the cut-over bed
In shadblow time
The last cattails lose their upholstery
in shadblow time
Men in camouflage work their turkey calls
in shadblow time
I found a flattened snake curled like an ampersand
in shadblow time
I read about the army interrogator who put a bullet through her head
in shadblow time
The world first learned about Abu Ghraib
in shadblow time
Oh sweet Canada Canada Canada sings the white-throated sparrow
in shadblow time
The shocking red of the first tanager
in shadblow time
The talk shows were full of rage
in shadblow time
Undead
If the dead can’t rest,
it’s because we won’t let them.
We storm,
we harry,
we decry,
we implore.
We make them star
in our horror shows
for that surge of adrenalin
that lets us know
we’re alive —
as if they our dear departed
were the ones out for blood.
Back to School (coda)
You never noticed the fine
print on the box
your school arrived in:
some disassembly required.
It’s a learning experience, though,
no doubt. First
you must discard all the memories
in separate, government-
approved locations,
then extract your transcripts as if
they were nests of copper wire
& lengths of pipe
to be shipped off to China.
The bricks must be given passing grades
so they can advance
to the next life. Then
Poem for Display in a Municipal Building
Abandon hype, ye who enter
these sound-proofed rooms:
you can fight City Hall all you want, really,
provided that your words
are bland as water & promise
jobs—drip—development—drip—growth—drip.
Open bribes will not be tolerated.
The voters expect transparency
& paper trails, sometimes even
the anodyne of a Town Hall meeting
where one by one they can stand
& state their names for
the record, that stagnant pool
that reflects everything
but their weariness, their anger,
the way their hands rise
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
Or try: