In his mansion on the hill
The rich man settles in to count
The treasures of his fortune
Whose power is paramount.

Coins of gold and silver balance
On his calibrated scales
As the line to the soup kitchen below
Is proof that poverty prevails.

But still the counting continues
And lines continue to grow.
Men and women, young and old
Do you not see; do you not know?

The choice is yours of course dear sir
To spend your money as you please,
But consider the pains of hunger
A simple act of kindness can ease.

Haggard wanderer of the deep, brimming with filth-fueled mirth,
     How come you to my door?
I've waited, waited, five nights for the bright-burning sun,
     to lick its lips across my sill,
     to make the cold things new—
          and replenish the warmth of a sick-swollen heart
Alas, only darkness cometh alive, beating in at my door,
Her eyes of sackcloth and coal,
The hem of her windswept dress,
     split by a nature soiled red in tooth and claw,
     her only decadent food the souls of stupor,
     drowning in their loathsome iniquity,
     fit only for the fresh-stoked fires of hell
Heathen of the dark, how come for me now—
     when dawn doth promise to color my night?
Grow not faint, my rickety heart,
     oh galleon grown sloppy on dark waters,
For she comes at your weakest, when night blooms ripe without stars;
     we aren't meant to wander forever,
     within her wicked lusty-lipped embrace
The door must go unanswered,
     hold tight the padlock of thine slippery heart,
     give not your touch, give not your taste

Quick Glance

As the folk singer’s butterfly tattoo slipped out
     revealed for everyone in the house to see,
My inner discovery --
That everyone
From artist to professor
Has to cope, if not hope
That we recognize real beauty
     Emerging like that butterfly
     That’s now free from its sleeve