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when they sat at the bare table
the tyrants stood watching
knowing it was OK to see the hungry sit
with their empty plates
like beggars with open mouths
abused hungry hookers
and tired thieves
the poor at the table stared
at the quota of cracked shells
they were hungry for dinner
they were surrounded by birds
but had no turkey only water
they drank through rotten teeth
before it lost its taste
after the darkness of hunger
the endless hours of no turkey
the old poet gives up his words
picks up his spoon and knife
puts his plate of poems on the table
carving them up in protest
as the tyrants crack eggs eating turkey
11 comments:
this is the hunger game we play...alive an well in our country and beyond...
I like the metaphor in your post...the last stanza is a home run.
Nice to meet you ~
I agree with Heaven! Happy Easter!
Hunger and poverty of others is of no concern to tyrants who have all they need.
Not to be too much of a parrot, but I agree with Heaven and Laurie :) I love the last stanza.
Definitely admire the mission of the poet...if words were food...
Timely and powerfully so.
A tyrants quota of darkness involves endless cracked eggs
Powerful write Wayne...I like the layers of meaning in the last stanza, especially...
"puts his plate of poems on the table
carving them up in protest"
It's a start...
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Wonderful social commentary here. Thank you for adding a new dimension to this Mag.
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