The Prime Minister and His Assistant

The Prime Minister touched his hair,

and there was fury in his eyes.

His advisor had asked again for a prayer,

on this most busiest of nights.

And though dossiers were piled high,

with news from the Far East and Northwest,

the Minister let out a pent up sigh,

and words to tame his right hand pest.

“You have five minutes to tell me why

I should believe that book you love.

Regale me not of fables or old signs.

My childhood was filled of such.

Show me proof from history!

Proof which walks the streets today!

Bring God’s footsteps, here, for me to see!

Only then will I stoop to pray!

The advisor got off the couch,

and uttered just a single word.

“Israel”.

He then slowly turned around,

picked up some tea, and said no more.

The Old Soviet Museum

I stared at the shiny ceiling,

with colors of red, green, and blue,

at bronze statues, bold, or kneeling,

with magnificent golden hues.

I saw Lenin’s words on the wall,

in vivid Russian, I could read,

and stared at his form ten times tall,

staring back, bidding me to think.

And so, my eyes continued their gaze,

around the lavish old museum -

past red flags, ready and arrayed,

to march with pictures deep within.

And as my head traced left to right,

across the room which seemed a land,

as rich thoughts murmured in my mind,

my eyes fell on one lonely strand.

There, up high, was a piece of wall,

where time had worn through the dye,

These six words stood alone, and small,

“Freedom is always black and white.”

And though I tried to film that place,

I couldn’t. The shading wasn’t right.

So I moved to the far palisade,

where the sun shone in, gay and bright.

On the Anti-Christ

I could write a poem
with cute, sweet lines which rhyme
and dance along their merry way,
in a perfect simile of time,
to warn you of the man I’ve seen –
in pages turned aside and worn -
a man who will speak words of peace,
but instead will bring the sword.

But I’d rather not waste my time
for no poem or words will much avail,
on the day he first arrives.

For I’ve thought about that moment often -
when he gracefully takes the stage -
And I know how we all will greet him.

Not with silence. But with praise.

The Anti-Christ

I know not how or when he’ll come,
whether by sea, or land, or sky,
tomorrow, or in a thousand anum,
when English has gone by and by.

I know not how he will begin,
or the rhymes and prose he’ll use,
just how he’ll fool all men, again,
and just how you, too, will choose.

I know not how he’ll meet his end,
whether in whimpers or in cries,
or the history between now and then,
which could have acted as a sign.

But look for the man with broad chest,
who promises a peace to last.
Look for the man with finger bent,
at a religion and a class.

Look for the man who loves the state,
more than the kings who came before.
Look for the man who can kill a babe,
for the good of land, and you, and ward.

Look for the man with words sealed,
by your boisterous, rapt applause.
Look for the man who makes you feel -
without a single word at all.

Letter to the Censors

I’d like to take a moment now,
to ease your task, and make it clear.
I ask no pardon for this bow,
or words of kindness in my ear.

I love the God who you defame.
I love the land which you decry.
Each life is dear – in its own way –
for which every soul knows why.

I think this is enough for you.
So blot my words out, and my name.
It’s ok. You have your job – I did too.
Now let my papers feed the flame.