The night drapes the sleeping,
conceals our souls in smoke,
when the dreams are open
relentless in all breath-
the gasp is what we search for
and welcome smile relief,
in my home town the people
forever deal in grief.
The forgotten soldier
who served in world war
he is now expendable
to talking heads-they implore us
to deliver him
closer to death’s door.
In my home town the swastika
has risen like a scab
we scratch and scratch
until it bleeds and festers
how did this happen?
And when?
In my home town the ghouls
direct our city streets,
they frighten all the children
whom mothers must hold tight,
against the constant weeping
with ferocity they strike.
And then the mother rises
as mothers generally do,
and she holds these men
accountable for the
evil they construe upon
the innocent masses oh
no she won’t back down.
The ship of hope must
sail on, it must sail on.
In my home town the women
are the ones who keep us strong.
Anne's mediocre poetry 