The Old Songs In The New Day

The Old Songs in The New Day

The song that is playing

reminds me of a long forgotten philosophy,

a former method that was never lost

because it never could be found.

This is not literature from a street corner,

nor is it a contrived notion to put meaning

where it won’t belong.

So easy to forget,

too much to wonder,

question,

ask.

All production, all creation,

just a matter of will,

or privilege.

Discipline is such an ugly word,

and it does not echo.

The song had no echo either.

It gets repeated

and fades more and more

into the background each day.

As the song started long ago,

it won’t stop for a very long time.

It is hard to create

when creation is a burden.

I say we all create.

To make something

something totally from the self,

no matter what motive,

no matter,

another song,

another creation,

another question,

and another echo.

This time it lasts

just a little bit longer.

Wasted Time, a poem

Wasted Time

So do we fall

sweetly against the brittle gunk

and waste the very minutes

of a peaceful ending.

So it was written,

and spoken,

and so shall it be written down

again.

Many sit,

wait,

and wonder when.

Commodity, You Are Not Your Surplus Value (a Socialist poem about humanity)

Commodity

Everything from the human spirit

to dignity

has become a commodity.

Oceans boil,

Flowers wilt,

And blood is spilled everywhere.

We hold the wrong people

to the worst scrutiny,

and we continue to masterbate ourselves

with patriotism.

Commodities,

Our time,

Our minds and training,

Just means to our bosses ends,

only because they have our consent.

We are more than commodities,

we are people.

Earth is not a commodity,

it is our home.

We are not commodities,

not a means to profit ends.

We are not commodities,

we are minds, we are souls and we have dignity.

We are not commodities,

we are creatures, living, breathing, and thinking.

We are not commodities,

we are human beings.