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April 15, 2010
Poems With A Punch!
By Doug Soderstrom
An assortment of poems that will make you think twice about what life is about!
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War Games on Stage On Biting The Hand That Feeds Us Disturbing The Peace Disturbing the peace, The Draft Frozen Souls Charming, Janus-faced creatures, Doug Soderstrom is a retired Professor of Psychology having taught for forty-two years at the college level. He was a columnist for the Populist Party of America (www.populistamerica.com/now discontinued) and has been a feature writer for www.iranian.com. His main interest at the present time is in writing poetry, and is in the process of gathering together somewhere around 700 poems that he has written over the past fifteen years, and will be publishing a book entitled "Loose Cannon Parables" if he can find a publisher willing to take on the job of publishing his book of poems.
Hosted by the gods,
Played out by,
Men and boys,
On stage.
Women and children,
Seated,
Protected by chicken wire,
With gutters,
Positioned beneath their feet,
Directing the flow of blood,
Into the purpled,
Pits of Hell.
No,
I disagree,
It is a far better thing,
To have bitten,
The hand that feeds us,
For it is that very hand,
The one having lulled us,
Into accepting,
The rules of the game,
An odious arrangement,
Requiring that,
Upon having been fed,
We become a slave!
Deliberately provoking,
People.
Diligently poking,
Punching,
Holes,
Straight through,
To the quick.
Surgical strikes,
Cleansing blows,
Meant to,
Tidy up,
A house of,
Of fallen cards.
Winds a blowing,
A very cold draft,
Freezing the minds,
And bodies,
Of parents and their children,
Not a gentle breeze,
But rather,
A bitter rush,
To war,
Where cold-hearted,
Gray-haired men,
Sitting on,
Enormous thrones,
Of power,
Organize,
Our children,
Into death squads,
Teaching them,
How to kill,
In wars,
That are,
Not for freedom,
Nor even democracy,
But rather crusades,
A longstanding,
Rush toward empire,
An attempt,
To secure,
Enormous dominions,
Of wealth,
Every bit,
Built upon,
The gravestones,
Of the most wretched,
Of our land--the poor!
Frozen souls,
Cold to the core,
Dreary, damp, dark,
And mean,
Venom,
Hidden from sight.
Good old boys,
Hand shaking,
Back slapping,
Men of good cheer.
Shrink-wrapped in smiles,
Pious, flag-waving thugs,
Wicked and drenched in the blood,
Of those they have killed.