Social
I write a lot, so I decided to divide my poems into categories. This post will cover social issues, history, and basic philosophy.
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Minutes,
hours,
even days;
Structured,
subjects
by another name;
The memetic tempo,
the lion’s gaze;
A slow dance
down
a filthy drain.
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Bills to pay,
sheep to the shears;
Black lungs mired
in the mountain’s vice;
A grim scythe swings
o'er the forsaken harvest
o’ fools too early taken;
You will ne'er be forgotten;
For it is your bones
upon which we tread;
And credit
for your graves
which made men great:
We'er in union blues
or shades o’ grey.
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Whispers in my ear;
The dead wish to live again.
A soft strumming
of worn out strings;
The dead hope to rise.
From coffin nails
to slow exhales,
the living wane
and slowly fail.
I tie my knots,
I lift my sails;
The dead setting off again.
From Roanoke
to Jamestown’s walls,
the sea consumes another soul;
And I’m settling down
on this foreign shore
without a line
to cast back home;
The living dream
of growing old;
The dead remain,
trapped
in rotting bones.
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The wringing of dry hands;
Hours passed on the state’s dime;
No therapy, no kodak moments:
Save the ramblings of an unhinged jaw,
sate the violence of a senile soldier,
savor the fifteen minutes of sunlight,
real unfiltered sunlight;
Will the kids be alright,
or will they simply be?
Taking comfort in names and numbers.
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It’s a moment we few will
understand;
The moment
that truly makes a man.
A three pound pull,
a fraction of an inch of steel,
separating the ether
from the world that makes it real.
If God had a plan
would he reveal it to you?
If Lucifer’s words were right
would that make them
the truth?
If to Maitreya the wand'ring
soul must tithe,
is wisdom there for us,
or are we just grain beneath the scythe?
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It’s humbling,
the growth of a man;
A loss of words,
the taming of ego;
All of the tomorrows
never guaranteed.
The shedding of shackles.
Real shit colored in Kool-Aid,
like city water for black teeth.
And it’s humbling,
the death of a man;
Mourning shared by those
with nothing else to carry on
except the yesterdays
never forgotten.
The shedding of tears;
Millenial mindset;
Cars as gifts and suburbia as a
black hole.
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My dad keeps the lights on.
I love the sound of helicopters,
flying along their patrol routes:
Back and forth,
back and forth;
Sirens blaring at the edge of awareness,
I hope they aren’t coming for me:
We are calm,
you stay calm;
Rifle rounds fired in the distance,
mowing the lawn twice a week:
Back and forth,
back and forth;
My dad keeps the lights on.
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All works c2015-2016
Jacob Michael Peter Welch
