Paraduckx November 16, 2o15

This breathy poem has been lurking around for a while now. The events this month, the attacks on human life, the political scene in America, and just good old life  . . . well, make this poem seem ripe for the picking. So, I plucked it and now pass it on to you.

Paraduckx

 

. . . and in the end . . . the ducks . . .  those fuckin’ ducks.

Not Trump, not Isis and the warlords, or the peace seekers,
or the black puss oozing through the festered wounds
we carved into her fragile skin . . . not the war weary refugees   
greased up, fatted for the slaughter and then transported
to the market place and sold to the highest border.

 

And yes, there are no wide-eyed surprises nestled deep

within the strangled gaggle from their shattered ,skulls.
Their self-inflicted miseries groan as they struggle
to form a simple sentence or two.

 

And what of the dull-witted children buried in those

bombed out backyards, beneath the parking lots
and burning bushes lining the well-manicured
lawns in suburbia, what will become of them
when we are gone?

 

One thousand, pigeon-toed mourners mourning us

as the day dawns  and the sun upon their hankies yawns,
that sour look upon their tortured faces as they stone us,
beat us, raise us up high above their balding heads
and drops us unceremoniously into the void.

 

Why all the fuss, you may ask, you may wonder why?

Why all the tears for the leftover laughter
that is quickly sponged up and bottled and sold
at a far too reasonable price to those better souls,
the straight and narrow souls, the keepers of the watch.

 

We realize within the rushing sound of our last gasp

on this, on this . . . on this plagued of an existence
that it was . . . that it always will be the ducks, the ducks,
the goddamn ducks! They have outlived us all.
Woodie 11-16-15