I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
It was delicious Everything could have happened And nothing had to
By D. J. Reddallabout a year ago in Poets
Too many major In complaining and minor In excuse making
Factions and tribes and parties and nations Intricate webs of ideology Fantasies spawned by imaginations Capering shadows of mythology
Impatient winter! Quick to chill the ruddy cheeks Of lavish autumn
Sir Robert Borden, blustering tory! Teacher, lawyer, banker, legislator; One of many authors of our story You look like a gruff, disgruntled waiter!
It was not that long ago, gentle friends That callow innocents risked life and limb To prevent fascists from achieving ends
The grey gloom chuckles at our cunning plans I find the stick rather condescending; If each crucial station, some soldier mans
Hot air can allow One to soar to lofty heights It will cool quickly
It is easy to romanticize war From the comfort of a small, serene life; Bloody mayhem seems thrilling from afar Untouched by the loud storm and bitter strife
A bone to pick have I, a skeleton: Bones do not get the respect they deserve Could any of you survive without us? Do you yearn to be an amorphous lump?
Abandoned by God and The Devil, both Between is my scene; the earth, my dwelling Carrying coal in turnip or pumpkin Deranged grins are carved on my vessels bright
Five hundred published But the numbers mean nothing Without you, reader!
