Poetry

Your Own Bloody Hands

Let it be known

I’ve enough of my own crimes

and have no desire

to answer for those

of others.

The crimes of man

the crimes of history

were none of my invention.

They bore and disgust me as much

as they do you.

I was not consulted

or asked for advice

when Hitler marched on Paris.

            I was home asleep when the blind girl was raped.

The children in the quiet village

were murdered

without my permission.

I was 300 years unborn

while the witches burned.

I lack the imagination

and ambition

for such things.

I only want to watch the sky through windows

on rainy afternoons.

My own crimes

are common and paltry,

sad little things

hardly worthy

of  history books.

But they are, at least, my own.

They say ignorance kills more folk than bombs.

Go wash your own bloody hands, girl,

and leave me be.

William Taylor Jr.

Santa Cruz, CA

Elbow Songs

They storm by my window

inside late night tornadoes

spinning idea, image, and simile

that need only fine tuning

to be completely complete.

Stretching into the open window

I grab one and yank it in. It squirms

like a fish, an electric snake

twisting around me and my keyboard

squeezing into me the good poison

of obsession

to pound the words down

if my Muse is not mad at me. See

sometimes it’s a twister of debris

and catching one yanks me out

the window, knocked unconscious

unable to get that music

from my mind to the finger tips

waking to find myself

covered with hangover

naked in the back alley

blasted with laughter

and feet carrying school books

stomping past me.

Iam Rawkinrec

Pittsburgh, PA

These are just a few samples, There are many more poems in LAST CALL...

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