Modern Day Atlantis

In a new age of propaganda, stark,
I took a short walk after dark—
Past the foreclosed museum. Once my retreat,
now a tomb for history, lost and discreet.

I carefully stepped over broken glass
and glimpsed a newspaper in the trash.
A headline torn and ink-streaked wrote
of how the Governor’s escort might vote.

Another screamed, “The poets debate,
The end is near—it’s 2068!”
The end is near? I pondered this,
And thought of Atlantis, the fall we’d dismiss.

Another read “It’s too late!”, the thought took hold.
I read books on Atlantis, so many tales told—
A fall complete with people so blind,
It mirrored the world that we leave behind.

Like Atlantis, the great fall in arrogance,
forgotten except in myth—by chance.
The schemers took all the lifeboats,
and to the media they tossed their last quotes.

Under the same skies where Atlantis fell,
I gazed at a fountain, a wishing well.
The politicians stole all the coins,
Weaving gold cloth to cover their loins.

Like Atlantis, pride comes before the fall,
A nervous laugh—might be the end after all.

Jack and Jill All Grown Up

As I walked on that evening—slow,
down streets where academic graffiti show—
Colors and lines that warned of failures within,
The cold air pressed against my skin.

I took out my phone, checked the GPS,
I had 911 on speed dial to ease my stress.
I reassured myself, “It’s just a ten minute walk.”
I put my phone away after checking the clock.

Amongst the graffiti—bright, obscene—
Warnings sprawled across streets unclean.
A lamppost flickered, the words cried out:
“The truth, the light, It’s burning out!”

Amongst the trash-strewn ground,
huddled wherever corners were found,
shadows crouched, their hopes long fled,
discarded needles lined the cracked roadbed.

I saw the future in their zombie stare—
how our funerals were to close to care.
A nursery rhyme arose and fled:
“Jack and Jill are long since dead.”

A flicker of motion caught my sight—
A child’s dream vanished in the night.
“Are you there?” I called, by chance aloud.
to Jack and Jill, somewhere in the crowd.

To fentanyl Jill and cocaine Jack,
They once had what I now lack.
A New Year’s greeting—the nursery song,
while poets mourn—we’ve sung it wrong!

Their hill, once filled with aspirations clear,
Now buried beneath the weight of fear.
Their faces etched in fractured lines,
reflections of these broken times.

Jill, with her needle, seeks escape,
A fleeting rush—a hollow shape.
While Jack, with his powder, fills the void,
Both searching for joy, they’ve destroyed.

What of the hill, now draped in blight?
Once green, now lost to toxic night.
Their fall mirrors ours—a shared decay,
A fleeting joy we let slip away.

These figures, once so pure, now fade,
As desperation in their hearts are laid.
Their every step, a bitter song,
A testament to where we went wrong.

A New Year’s greeting, cold and brief,
shivers through this shared grief.
While poets weep for what’s been lost,
A world of dreams, at such a cost.
For in their fall, they mirror us—
A society crumbled, driven by lust.

The Epic

Then in the shadows I saw my own face,
in this hell of a place, I picked up my pace.
A book fell out of my satchel bag
but I dared not stop, I dare not lag.

Slurred conversations round a barrel fire,
“A’ got that rapper—gun for hire,”
someone laughed the headline burned,
I imagined here, Odyssey would be spurned.

“At last, the secret is out” I heard one say:
Yet the Tyrant’s epitaph doesn’t fade away.
They look like cavemen, from the museum—
near my apartment— dead as a mausoleum.

The apelike-man looked more intellectual,
with his club, a much more approachable fellow.
From the cave of making—dreams once arose,
Like Calypso winds, the nymph who knows.

I pictured Odysseus, his epic lore,
Among these shadows of urban war.
The cave of making, vast and wide,
Where primal dreams and art collide.

Paintings of God and men, strong and weak.
On walls where fires cooked their meat.
The Cave of making is deep and vast,
Where ancient hands shaped paintings cast.

In that formidable space, art was born,
A history recorded though hopes were torn.
Yet, the sketches of the past still sting,
As their icons speak on timeless things.

Like Greek brush and chisel, minds take flight,
And through the dark, they bring the light.
As Calypso’s winds, both wild and free,
Whisper of what was, what’s yet to be.

For Calypso, with tender care,
Guides the hearts of men through air—
She speaks in whispers, soft and clear,
Imbuing dreams with hope not fear.

On ancient scrolls, stories writ—
Man and God in flame-lit script.
From chaos, beauty, fierce and wild,
Tales of Calypso, and Odysseus beguiled.

Her winds inspire, yet often ignored,
Her wisdom dismissed, her truth abhorred.
She stirs the flame, the poet’s light,
Guiding us through the endless night.

In every gust, her spirit shows,
The strength that in a woman grows,
A force to shape, to lead, to mold,
To stir the inspiration of poets, bold.
She breathes into their hearts the fire,
And fans the flame of deep desire,
Her winds, a compass to the lost,
A beacon in the tempest tossed.

The secret’s in the cave, revealed—
The tyrants’ truths will not be sealed.
The legacy of men in painted form,
lingers still, in patriarchal harm.

Calypso, the spirit who inspires,
Her winds lift men and their desires,
With truth she guides, as she is genuine,
Yet her wisdom is ignored as—feminine.

The Founding Fathers

I walk on as the minutes tick,
Past political signs, “Our Forefathers’ Pick…”
I think of Washington crossing the Delaware,
and I wonder if he ever fished there.

Consider this, in our brief time:
Death’s heart beats to reason’s rhyme.
where fish in unruffled lakes reside,
where hunting fathers in thick bush hide.

Unlike those founders, steadfast, lean,
These hunters thrive on sport, obscene.
Not for sustenance, nor the land’s fare,
But for power’s play in polluted air.

Deftly, the new leaders cast their fly,
As the Christmas Oratio fills the sky.
Street decorations have fallen to the ground.
The mothers prayers never made a sound.

Friday’s Child, born in the chaos of time,
Holds tight to the cliffs in fate’s cruel climb
I see her struggle in winds that tear,
she seeks the light in a world unfair.

Her struggle reflects a fading song,
A world where right has become so wrong.
Her journey is hard, and hope is thin,
For the light she seeks is dim within.

Yet in her heart, she knows the song,
An anthem that reminds her to hold on.
Our nation once meant freedom true,
Now it bends to the whims of few.

A symphony of power, bright and bold,
An empty promise wrapped in gold.
Across the waters, she carries her light:
Friday’s Child braves a storm-filled night.

The politicians who hunt, the leaders who play,
The world is not theirs, that they take away.
The Christmas Oratio, is still sung with cheer,
it masks the cries of those who live in fear.

Lady Liberty, in the distance, weeps,
As she watches and conscience sleeps.
Her light, though faint, still does shine—
For those who seek, she remains divine.

Yet measured words, are their game,
and Lady Liberty bears the shame.

The Political Party

At last, I arrived at the party’s gate,
Where laughter rang, and wine flowed late.
The air was thick with jest and cheer,
But something darker lingered there.

The Party’s gate, a gilded frame,
Held privilege thick with fleeting fame.
Inside the air was warm, yet cold.
A hollow mirth with truth untold.

Inside, the wine ran thick and red,
While truths lay broken, hope lay dead.
They mocked the world with jest and cheer,
While poets sang of grief and fear.

For friends only, I sang five songs,
Of base words uttered to right old wrongs.
Here amidst the laughter and wine
everyone was warm, everyone was fine.

“Grub first, then ethics,” a voice declared,
As if my thoughts came unprepared,
No care for the soul or how it aches—
Only for the filling of their plates.

What of the heart? What of the mind?
The voice cared not for what we find.
A simple logic, cold and lean:
Satisfy the body, then the unseen.

It’s a world where hunger masks the soul,
Where appetites take center role,
And thoughts of ethics, love, and care,
Are brushed aside as if too rare.

With leers and limericks, sharp and bright,
less than jolly in this dissonant night.
Absurdities, both keen and wry,
In mockery of me that none dared to defy.

“Grub first, then ethics,” their toast proclaimed,
A banquet for pride, their souls untamed.
The wine ran rich; the laughter swelled,
Yet none could see the truths withheld.

none were awake, none could hear,
they had found escape in their world of cheer.
Their statements rang with callous tones,
A cruel dismissal of valiant unknowns.

Yet in this nonsense, what we see—
Is how the foolish man can be.
Fixated on the odd and strange,
He loses sight of what’s in range.

Their statements rang with callous tones,
A cruel dismissal of valiant unknowns.
For while the world spins out of line,
We mock it all, as if just fine.

And here, at this party, I stand alone,
Singing of wrongs—yearning for home.
For in times of war, hearts break, not mend,
Yet at the political party, all things bend.

Winter’s song was sung brief and fleeting,
it was the turning—a New Year’s greeting.

Final Reflections

Now winter’s breath softly lingers,
tracing time with icy fingers.
New years dawn, a fleeting light.
A fragile spark in endless night.

The poets walk, their hearts weighed down,
Through hollow streets of a hollow town.
the truth is lost in this trivial game,
And I, the poet, bear the blame.

Yet even here, amid this pain,
a voice to my soul says: “Begin Again.”