Matchbox Mansions, Chocolate Cake

What are our days made up of?

Of good-mornings and good-byes,

Of long hellos and how-do-ya-dos,

Of green grass and sandy surf,

Of prosaic poems and poetic prose... 

Behind touching tears in twinkling eyes,

there live day dreams and subtle smiles,

Dreams of matchbox mansions, 

chocolate cake,

those of a lonely lotus in a lovely lake.... 

I sight wonder, woe and oh! a camera click,

there is plaster, paint, gold and gilt,

I see Romeo, Juliet, and a dead nightingale,

who bled herself for the flower pale.

And yet, the days go on and on,

made up ever and anon,

of good mornings and good byes.. .

BROKERED PEACE

They scream justice, they lock it away

And secretly hide the keys

In ink-pots, filled with warm blood,

and sealed with lies.

They are the victors of yesterday's battle

Ambassadors of brokered peace

Today's powerful, they

Are your self-appointed masters.

They play at justice from their high desks,

as if it is a game of cards.

They make you cower at their feet

In slavery and in fear.

Your turn inside yourself, feel a stab of pain,

And then the glacier melts

You feel the blood flow through time, as

You begin your tale of woe.

But they are not listening to you, captive

That you are, you,

your life, your tale, your past, your sorrow

Is captive and dumb.

They have played their cards, its show-time and

They mock you with grins, trying

To put victory and triumph on their faces

Hiding, scars of shame.

You see how piteously ugly their faces can be, 

and smile back in silent knowledge

of suffering and patience: You know their truth

And they, they do not.