silhouette of mountains

 Whenever This May Be

I sleep in a little longer
in hope that something
has occurred in the night --
what a fool!

The commonsense of politicians
translates into fear among
constituents and panic
is the new golden rule.

I wonder how much
hoarded is now beyond
use?  The clutching heart
is as useless as a broken tool.

This may be the time propaganda
is truth, any history a dead
art, those in control 
waiting on the death of the soul,

all art, all song, all story,
all poetry for a meaningless order --
this we must survive
and with a razor edge sing the blues

until a new dawn arrives.

One Thought on “Whenever This May Be”

  • “The clutching heart/is as useless as a broken tool.” This poem has the bright mirror surface of a pond: and the depths that lie beneath! You achieve a lot in a few lines.

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