Dirge

I would rather write lyric verses in praise of beauty

Describing the wonders of forest glades or sunsets

But I can’t

I’d prefer to get lost in love and play with cosmic metaphors

But I’m not

I’d like to write erotica about inclined curves and heated passions

Or find the meaning of life in a raindrop

But I can’t

I’m blocked by blockhead politics and hate

Intrusions of evil that turn gardens into killing fields

That never go fallow with rest and disuse

And the only renewable that gets attention is fear

So I won’t praise beauty today

Or dally in love’s embrace

Instead I mourn the clearcut memories of paradise

Celebrate the blackened lungs of wageslave toilers

Bemoan the fate of children locked in foul factories

Feeding a frenzy for the cheapest disposables

Wail my ululations for the funerals of slaughtered innocents

So while I’d rather write lyric verses

Today I can’t

Today I weep

And curse the evil that has blackened the once clear sky

Perverted by profit and plunder and imagined power

I mourn the battered face and broken bones of Mother Nature

Beaten down by man’s dominion

So today the only song I sing is a dirge

At this ubiquitous funeral

That never seems to end

 

David Trudel    © 2013

 

 

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2 Comments

Filed under Poetry

2 responses to “Dirge

  1. Bravo, David. Needed to be said.

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