So many things need to be said
And shouted from high places.
This is not the time for words
To fail me in my anger.

What kind of mongrels have we become
That all precepts of decency
Have fallen by the wayside;
That codes of honor and propriety
Don’t scan in our computers.

It’s now alright to load a gun
Into a car and drive across state lines
To prance amongst an angry crowd
And wave it til someone gets ******
And reaches for it, thus providing
Legal grounds to shoot him -
And two more for good measure.

What kind of wimps have we become
That a kid who swings a skateboard
Becomes a lethal threat and hence
Is suddenly OK to be murdered.

Seven women and five men
Abandoned any common sense
Or rational intelligence
To vote that one who starts the fight
Is justified in feeling thereby threatened
And allowed a wanton ******.

What on earth have we become
And can’t you see where we are going?
Vigilante posses chasing pregnant girls
And legitimate protestors.
Three murderers may well walk free -
One more miscarriage of rightful justice.

Changing rules so blacks can’t vote
Disdaining to protect our dying planet
Playing at adult Lord of the Flies.

God has turned his back on us
So we created another One
From hate and greed and lust
We worshiped it full faithfully
And this is where it got us.

Afraid to mingle in a crowd
For fear that we’ll be shot.
Afraid to walk the streets alone
For fear that we’ll be *****
Afraid to help someone in need
For fear it is a scam.
We don’t answer phone or door
For fear of who might be there.

No wonder we are all depressed
And everyone is angry
There’s very little pleasure left
And life has lost its meaning.
Perhaps the world is suffering
From no pandemic but the wrath of God
And we all had it coming.
                        ljm

The master of the dawn said: - It's strange to be here
on the black lips of the fields, and the evening caught up in between drops,
black trees making me shiver, - Kalos Gheron all dressed up in wet clothes,
blowing hair in the sky and a long beard rooting in the ground,
without cravings and sandals, penetrated by rain, crushed by worries
at the farm, takes the cows to pasture, - the mystery has not left them,
in peace, they ruminate wisely,
the master of the dawn said: - it, also, will snow tomorrow at the fair.

It's morning in the broken smile by tender snow,
heroic, simple, altruistic,
doubtless is sleeping on the branches with the hearing and sight of a partridge,
under the selfish blue sky, a trumpeter improvises,
- the aristocratic fields parade their white robes,
and the deer you saw last night is lying naked on the blind grass,
waiting for the groom in feather flakes to come,
two stars slip in her eyelashes gently whispering:
- down at the spring the lord of heaven cries out to us,
the time to receive the prayer (until dawn) arrives.

The master of the dawn said:- with him, I kindly realize how fear drifts far
and how his fantasy rotates, thaws the mist into white locks, (like a trumpeter playing
outside the scene with extinguished effect) at the call of the stars
the lord of heaven calls us.

I am working the
kinks out of
my you tube
channel.

But, if you
search Thomas
W. Case on
you tube,
you can watch me
recite some of
my poetry.

Meanwhile,
autumn's feral winds
blow the beggars
from my mind.
I'm just a windmill's
dream, haunted by
a thousand empty
bottles.