Truth hits the bull’s eye
when birds fly like flying saucers
from building tops at daybreak
and drop to the ground
like the last war sirens claimed them,
for their own ritualistic supplications.
Truth hits the bull’s eye
when for the millionth count, I say,
“I’m ready to leave home”
until it becomes another dream
and fratricide visits the home next
like it was always on the son’s
Scorched Earth bleeds,
stigmata on the hands of a slain saint
and his lover of spirits scales up the
asking for reformation,
But Lazarus isn’t his name
and even his deity sleepwalks,
humming a soft breeze,
heard only by his mother,
cremated on the side of the citadel.
Truth pinches our abdomens
and swallows our last words.
Words can sometimes become formal
quoting the law in our presence
and forgetting the weight of the world
*when minors get under
the weights of retired men
and abuse is reframed as a jumbled
In the long run,
skeletons tumble out of the closet
to hug them,
just like their abusers did,
their chests carved with survivors’
crying out for a new truth
for their own children.
It never arrives,
not even with a whimper*
It’s the truth
when a hard worker is victimized by
Watching the river
and a lush garden
from the shabby confines of his room,
putting his humanity in a box
along with antibiotics
and a pill-shaped locket,
hanging loosely by his collar.
Ain’t that the whole truth
nothing but the truth,
That plagues come and go
but hypocrites rule the roost
and politics of the third wave expires,
as cities open up their shutters
and people peel off their masks,
their faces runny with deceit.
Actually the truth is
that childhood memories fly away
into the distance,
like embers from yesteryears,
nature takes a great deal
out of our sensibilities
and crop stubs still burn,
like hearts set on fire by mindcraft.
In all this,
The truth burns,
like an unforgettable fire.
NOTE: the lines within asterisks and in bold font are written to address the evil of abuse perpetrated by often so called ‘renowned men’ who have been left scot-free for decades and were never held accountable for their perverse actions. Two seemingly ‘iconic’ directors WOODY ALLEN and ROMAN POLANSKI are examples of such predatory men, filmmakers whose works I once watched, even loved but I chose to completely shun their filmography and everything associated with them once I read and grasped their histories of child abuse. I feel we must let them be banished from public discourse altogether and hold them accountable for all their covert and public crimes against the very fabric of humanity that they cloaked under the veneer of creative genius or other hollow defences.
That thread of hypocrisy and turning a blind eye informed this poem and created the other verses.