•
LOSERS,
BOOZERS, DRUG ADDICTS, LUNATICS,
AND
TRASH
Losers,
boozers, drug addicts,
lunatics
and trash;
in
my doorway is where they crash.
The
flotsam and jetsam,
our
society’s throwaway people ;
no
cash with which to buy,
our
solution is for them
to
shut up and die.
Not
all would be pleasant people
even
in improved circumstance
because
they can’t sing the song
and
don’t know the dance.
Some
were lost at their conception,
already
doomed beyond redemption.
Some
have the trick of their mother’s habits
ain’t
strange how the unfit
breed
like rabbits.
Others
come out from behind the mask
of
families so called normal
their
severe dysfunction revealed at last.
Some
seek to change their bleak reality
blissed
out on drugs in totality
but
now with a life mission made to fit every
thing
in their lives flushed
down
the toilet,
fully
focused on the next hit.
Do
I have the time to hear every sad story?
I’m
curious and that is a worry.
Does
my compassion have a limit;
am
I really helping or just treating
gapping
wounds with band aids?
Like
yelling for someone to “look out
”
when
you know the train wreck is inevitable.
At
what point
do
they cease to be people and become trash
subject
to ends mean, anonymous and terrible?
Or
are we only voyeuristic witnesses to the crash
,
watching
the parade of
losers,
boozers, drug addicts, lunatics and trash?
©Copyright
January 7, 2006 by John-Ward Leighton
SILENCE OF THE PAGE
what a paradox
you have the silence you wished for
and then become crushingly lonely
for some sound
other than the ringing in your ears
and your own heartbeat
you succumb to the technology
and fire up the computer
and play the electronic stream
as your personal sound track
now the dreams you wanted to put to page
have gone to where ever dreams go to hide
and you’re left with the
silence of the page.
you have the silence you wished for
and then become crushingly lonely
for some sound
other than the ringing in your ears
and your own heartbeat
you succumb to the technology
and fire up the computer
and play the electronic stream
as your personal sound track
now the dreams you wanted to put to page
have gone to where ever dreams go to hide
and you’re left with the
silence of the page.
we have been through the doubt
and in the silence of the page
feel little outrage so we let it go
and a poignant nothingness
is all that remains
then a honky tonk piano with wailing alto sax
leads the high stepping funeral parade
oh didn’t he ramble, didn’t he gamble
wasn’t he the last man standing
wasn’t he last one singing and a stepping
wasn’t he the one that used a smile and in part
wrote the just right words
to heal a wounded soul and a broken heart.
and in the silence of the page
feel little outrage so we let it go
and a poignant nothingness
is all that remains
then a honky tonk piano with wailing alto sax
leads the high stepping funeral parade
oh didn’t he ramble, didn’t he gamble
wasn’t he the last man standing
wasn’t he last one singing and a stepping
wasn’t he the one that used a smile and in part
wrote the just right words
to heal a wounded soul and a broken heart.
welcome to the mid night dance
as we roll the dice and take a chance
and our muse puts on her mask
and we complete our appointed task
and know the foot steps we heard in our delirium
were just the echoes of our past
preparing us at last
beyond the sorrow or the rage
for the
silence of the page.
as we roll the dice and take a chance
and our muse puts on her mask
and we complete our appointed task
and know the foot steps we heard in our delirium
were just the echoes of our past
preparing us at last
beyond the sorrow or the rage
for the
silence of the page.
©Copyright October 11, 2010 by John-Ward Leighton
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