CliffSongs

The Unjust Today   Shuffling in, Darkly garbed, Sternly faced, Lastingly bought, The last word in justice, they… So it seems.   What mystic robes of office Confer upon such as these, Authority to thwart the will Of merely millions? Our numbers belie such sophistry.   Today the darkness descends, yes, Do not let it obscure the days yet come, The dawn breaks even through the clouds, This is but the last of night, The false deep dark absent even of moon, But the dawn comes.   What falseness perpetrated Can survive the fullness of the day coming? These unjust installed Make proclamation now, certainly, Their own deeds shall soon undo them, They live in the public eye, And we see them too clearly now.   Now let your memory grow long, Now keep the records close, Now let your resolve Become as stone beneath your feet, An anchor of will and purpose, Now fix your eye upon the goal: This cruelty shall not be our end – It s

  Falling for Vlad   On a visit to Moscow, I met with some debris. A body of evidence, some tumbling nominee. 11 floors, and sometimes more provide a guarantee, A leap of faith that shuts the mouth for eternity.   Take a dive into Russian history. It’s a swan’s song for you and Vlad and me. A window into your past, a flight you take for free, So, dive right in, according to the decree.   Now oligarchs and officials alike have balconies. Do the guardrails come up much past the knees? I’ll sit here on the sofa, no vistas I need to see. Now what was that? Oh yes, I’ll have some tea.   Take a dive into Russian history. It’s a swan’s song for you and Vlad and me. A window into your past, a flight you take for free, So, dive right in, according to the decree.   Perhaps you thought you had a story to tell, You don’t need to see the inside of a cell, I’ll pat you hard on the back and wish you well, It’s sad to learn how your reputation fell…  

  Lost Chance   The music is wrong. It sears. It rends. This is a broken place. It has found you. Visions come in slices translucent – Scenes distorted by their own will. Mirages repeated a thousand times, Reflected in eyes that pierce the mind, Leaving behind sights of a you That has never been, And will always be. The air smells of unwritten books burning, Filled with incantations profane, Seeping into the skin unsaid, And fully realized. This is a broken place. A seething existence fouled with expectancy, An unwelcoming prepared of ash and intent, Made possible by sins imagined, By deeds undone, By preoccupation with the petty, By resolutions unfilled. This is the land of broken promise, Smoky and acidic, Cold and smoldering, A maze created in forgetfulness, A purgatory for the good-intentioned, For the occasionally steadfast. This is a broken place. You intend to get out, But that will always be the past, Because i

  To Dance   The march performed at furious pace. Abruptly turns about-face. Yet some shame will not erase. Just who exactly was displaced?   Distractions carefully orchestrated, Newsfeeds are minutely curated. Secrets seen but understated, Expectations are soon deflated.   How they lead you through the dance. The music played not left to chance. The demons all sing on cue, The steps are all laid before you, Catching you all in circumstance.   Pretense slated in hallowed hall. Duplicity meant to enthrall, Discovery hoped to forestall, No hope to outlast the long haul.   Distractions carefully orchestrated, Newsfeeds are minutely curated. Peoples needs seen overrated, Expectations are soon deflated.   How they lead you through the dance. The music played not left to chance. The demons all sing on cue, The steps are all laid before you, Catching you all in circumstance.   Billionaires invest deranged. From the populace

  The Old Gods Wait   There was a day when, The Old Gods were wont to walk alongside. Lessons could be taught then, And these the Old Gods would provide.   Then we were too young, And in danger of causing our world distress. Then our Old Gods now unsung, Would task us our cruelty to redress.   Soon then knowledge grew, And lords of this world did we become. And our Gods did we review, And thought to remove from beneath their thumb.   So, we made some Gods anew, That could be made accede to our whim. The Old Gods we said were through, Our memory of them is become dim.   But sometimes deep in the wood, Where the shadows are pleased to take form, Mighty figures are darkly stood, Still intent their children to warn.   These new Gods bend to our will. We are allowed our destruction and rapine. But in silent places dark and still, The Old Gods wait for us to return to their divine.   To venerate green once more, To live with a

Because   The defendant waits. His suckers will save him. They owe him. Everyone owes him. Because.   A crime politicized. The way out. But he is who he is. Therefore, there is no crime because. Because.   “What about?”, he shouts. “What about?” They did it too. No one can prove it, but. They will believe. Because.   The lawyers won’t do the thing. They talk stupid at him. They better get smart. Smart like him. Because.   He better get on TV. That way he can explain. It’s all against him. It always has been. Because.   The defendant hears about more. There can’t be more. There will be more. He will need more lawyers. Because.   Cliff Lake 6/20/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

  Saturday in Magadonia   The red hat doesn’t quite cover The thinning strands: Evidence of a failing virility He attempts to reclaim With misspelled invective And preposterous concoctions too dear. His device promises a future Free of all the wrong types, But the rainbows will not let him be. Blue and yellow flags proliferate, Hillary smiles smugly And damning tapes appear To end the crime family Only to blow away like smoke. Pillow-men make claims Promising evidence They never have. He salves the wounds with pictures That make claims he hasn’t written, That prove something Not entirely clear: Petty poisons. He accesses his account for the rage fix, An entertainment not allowed in public, Because being an asshole is frowned upon; Proof that they are the fascists. He is confronted with posts Unaddressed to him, Yet assault him with facts. His idol, a man of some few missteps, Must now meet consequences Unfairly applied t

  O Bad Shepherd   Where have the tender congregations gone? Their pastors turn from shepherding, Seeking new powers not divine, But worldly and vile. Deceptions and distortions abound, Wrapped in syruped language: The sweet that eats the soul. Now there is a hollow in the flock And the hate is poured in; A fire that heats recklessly, Consuming reason. Now the gulf expands, Spite will now not suffice, Falsehood is become a tease. Malevolence and rancor, Both feeding and devouring, These are what is given Until the host is changed forever. A lunatic sycophant Forged from easy plastic, And just as pliant, And just as brittle. Numberless they count themselves, Staring into mirrors they themselves hung, Hearing the rebound of their own voice, And counting these companion. Ravenous now for sweeter meat, They are fed ever more corruption, More fetid, less nourishing, Malodorous and wormed, They grasp at these nuggets, Famished

  Wrong Refrains   Yellowed scores and choppy sound bites, Singing half-facts almost in tune. The production in fuzzy focus, The players masked in smiles foul, The lyrics slide from mouths unmatching. The audience stirs restless and uneasy, Emotions played in strident tones. What music is this? What orchestration discordant? What demon conducts unseen? The melody lurches on Now loudly blared, Now playing muffled, Now whispered from everywhere. False tuning felt in the skin, The stories told twisted, Tortured, Tangled, Resonant with deception. Who will sing with the clarity required? Who will trumpet truth? Integrity rings as a bell, It cannot be mistaken in the cacophony, But cuts through with exactitude. Listen for those silvered tones unmistakable, Facts laid bare and unanswerable, And let your heart ease.   Cliff Lake 6/14/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

We Children   As children we were, Naked beneath the canopied jungle, Hungry-eyed on the open plain, Searching for we knew not what. As children we learned, Mastering flame and field, We grew to be many, And named ourselves lord. As children we ruled, Administering beast and crop, And mostly, each other. Hard-eyed in our tribes, Searching for more than any other. As children we warred, Armored in front of the other, Angry-eyed in the formations, Searching for the advantage over the others. As children we are, Naked in our continued, expanding ignorance, Sad-eyed in the spiraling entropy, Searching for the way forward. As children we should be, Nakedly celebrating the world, Open-eyed and accepting, Searching for the joy found in all beings. We are yet children, We forget that too often.   Cliff Lake 6/12/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

  But…   The Russians blew up a dam, The U.S. East Coast got smoked. I remembered to do my laundry today, But Donald John Trump is a traitor.   Marjorie couldn’t stop making up conspiracies. Gym couldn’t remember how the law works. The Red Sox took 2 out of 3 at Yankee Stadium, But Donald John Trump is a traitor.   Traitor is as traitor does, And traitor did 37 times. Traitor is what he is because, Traitor did 37 crimes… So far…   Lindsey couldn’t get the brown off his nose, Junior couldn’t stop waving his hands around. I made a soup from scratch tonight, But Donald John Trump is a traitor.   Lauren Boebert is dating a Muppet, Kevin McCarthy can’t find his balls. I may have had one too many coffees today, But Donald John Trump is a traitor.   Traitor is as traitor does, And traitor did 37 times. Traitor is what he is because, Traitor did 37 crimes… So far… Traitor did and traitor hid, Does he hear the closing bell chim

  A Reflection   See the quaking, shaking senator Sell candy-coated lies and butter email, See the cable news host him As he fumes in an act gone stale. See the House Rep spew disinfo, Retread canards are all he can muster, See them line up to be knocked down, Excuses falling flat, for all of their bluster.   Pay no attention to the misdirection, The logic comprised of imperfection, A result of reality disconnection, They have no facts, just a lot of deflection.   See the failing candidates Months ago shown the door, See the calls for retribution, And the pissy, hissy calls for war. See the keyboard warriors Arming themselves with all caps. See the defendant posting evidence, In preparation for his final collapse.   Pay no attention to the misdirection, The complaints comprised of disaffection, A result of reality disconnection, They have no facts, just a lot of deflection.   Why do they think he has the right To bite and bl

  By the Numbers   He was there 4 years. He was the 45 th president. He has had 3 wives. He paid 130,000 dollars. He has 0 casinos. He can front 0 charities. He runs 0 universities. Can he count to 37?   He has 5 children. He sexually assaulted a woman. He owes her 5 million dollars. He needed 11,780 votes. He needed 270 electoral votes. He got 232 electoral votes. He has 0 credibility. But he has 37 counts.   He has 1 dead ex-wife. He has 1 coffin. He had more than 300 documents. He had an E8. He has a leak. He has at least 2 more cases. He has innumerable lawyers. He’s going to collect more than 37. By the numbers, His living quarters will be 10x10.   Cliff Lake 6/10/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

The Spin   There is a cyclone spinning. It is right there before your eyes. It’s garish colors dim with repetition, The explosions and moans dull your ears. The words presented in myriad, Truth less valued than beer sales, Try to find the snippet that’s real. The search for the exotic widens, The quest of the infamous Is played out in avarice, Obscene and brazen, Titillating for dollars. So, they trot out the villain, Make exposed the clown, And when they can manage it, The combo package, the two-fer, The All-In-One: Some bumblefuck rampant, Sucking up tax dollars or shady contracts, Belching ratings. Is he caught? Or will he be set loose again By friends in high placement? The smoke never clears, It just moves down the coastline, Or settles in the editorials, Read and forgotten. Still the cyclone roils, Blowing out one issue In favor of ever more twisted flotsam Presented complete with audio, Served up in glaring HD, Becaus

The Hail   Something calls. Not a whisper, no, More vague than that, More insistent, More seductive. It tantalizes. A sliver of lurid hues, Echoing uncanny themes, Misheard or once forgotten. Voices escape sighing, Their language less than familiar, More than foreign. A beckoning, Neither approaching, Nor refusing to leave, A crystalline fragment All too clear Yet too obscure. What happy madness this? What waking trance? Here it slips, Parading visions of another where, Another when, Another then. A chimera and a reality Stolen once, Forgotten always. A delirium, Or a lucidity abandoned? A summoning to the alter-life, Unanswered, It fades. What have you let go? What can you let go? Why don’t you let go?   Something calls…   Cliff Lake 6/6/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

  Small Talk   I only have this voice, Heard by only so many. Have I said anything so astute, Not already better said? Or is it that some things Require infinite repetition Being ignored in favor of complacence, Of convenience, Or contradicted with simple evasion? Still… I cannot be silent, I cannot comply through omission, Or the neglect of a too vast populace, Because the dangers are real, Because the dangers are ours, Because the dangers are near, Because we ourselves are dangerous. There it is. Me saying all of that again. I repeat myself too often. I will do so again. A pearl is made through irritation; At it’s center… A single grain of sand. So, my tiny voice will speak, So, I will say things I and others have spoken. So, I will tell you things You have already heard, Things you already understand, Things you and yours Still do little to nothing about. This voice is what I have… Heard only by so many. But I w

  The Lure of Delirium   What’s wrong with being sane? I’ll tell you: Reality. There it is before you: All muddy and stinking of broken promises, A conglomeration of disappointments, Most of which are your own fucking fault. But other clarities swim into view: Matters not your own, But heart-rending and ugly: Starvation just miles down the road, Hidden perhaps by the more genteel, So as not to upset the children, Or their parents. Sanity allows one to understand, The vast wrongness of conflict - Wars propagated by ideology, Religion, Greed, Or born of madness. What lucidity clamors to comprehend The assault of innocence By contorted libido? Or the wholesale murder Of scores of people Committing the sin of shopping? In the face and fact of such things, How do I retain The soundness of my thoughts? Or does the actuality of being capable To envision and to speak of such things Evidence that I too am twisted - Far beyond h

  Mechanism Schism   Waking one morning, you know you want answers, So, you’ve finally come to ask the taboo question: Who are the people pushing the buttons, Who’s got their hands on the controls? Where is the machine? Your circle of friends shake their heads like you’re crazy, Can some answers be found on a video channel? Does your social network take you to new grounds? Is one news purveyor more trusted than another? Is there a machine? Or maybe that new secret club spoken of in whispers. Names are thrown at you, mystic identities unknown. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain: You draw back the veil and there’s no one there. You can’t find the machine. They’ve played their sleight of hand within your mind, Fed you promise and conspiracy, spinning you in spirals, Dizzy with information that adds up to nothing, Until you give up this time and go to work in the morning, Which is where they wanted you all along. You’re in the machine

  Bad Faith Boogie   It’s no secret there’s a secret pact Between the men with the money And the men in black, That every government is way off track, What you never had, you can’t take back.   Sift through the rumors, which ones are true? How can you know with all the news askew? The money changes hands right in front of you, Watching it gathered by the precious few…   And we watch them:   Running the governments, And ruining lives. Or Ruining the governments, And running lives. It takes all we got to hang on and survive… And I’m not sure there’s a difference, In how badly we get screwed. Because the name of the game is deprive.   The bought politicians are in on the game, They hem and they haw and point fingers in blame. Protection of rights they always claim, While they write up more laws to keep things just the same…   And we’re watching them:   Running the governments, And ruining lives. Or Ruining the governmen

Calamity Game   The loudest voices Screech at each other And still struggle to be heard. An operatic dissonance A bewilderment And an entertainment Obscuring the instrument Grinding a world to dust. These words have been said Too many times, Too many ways, By so many others, And still go unheeded By nearly all of us. How have we been trapped? With easy conveniences? Yes. With the promise of indulgence? Surely. With fears of impoverishment, Of having just a bit less, Or a disagreeable moment? Absolutely. Greed is the human absolute. It may be evidenced By the quest for the better blanket, The fancier coffee, Or new pants in BOTH colors. Our rising seas, Worsening storms, Expanding droughts, Are all fired by the human absolute: The lust for “better’, “more”, Or simply different From what we already possess. We are still toddlers saying “Mine, mine, MINE.” The worst part? So many of us know that… And not enoug

  First Night   In the long years before the moon was hung, And the stars were less widely strewn, Ancient terror dwelt ‘neath the darkling skies, And stalked a fledgling race new come.   Some monstrous breed not natural born, Jealous of the innocents unspoiled, With fearsome weapon and insatiable thirst, They hunted in unbroken night.   But could not fully vanquish then For though the race of man was new, Bright-eyed they were and empty yet Of knowledge that could turn them cruel.   But soon their minds were turned to things That could be made for their defense And being yet in their youth Their study proved to be too quick.   And though the struggle was long and long, The foe was at last rooted out. To stalk no more these savage young In whom now was a fire lit.   A flame in them that burned too hot To ever be now fully quenched And so they looked for new enemy to quell, And found only each other to ready hand.   Today t

The Plot   They were in the park today. They were in Walmart. Some were seen driving around town. Others stayed home and cooked on the grill. They seemed to be everywhere, Yet it was impossible to tell them apart From regular people. They didn’t wear ballcaps To identify their ideology, They didn’t fly flags from their trucks. They were the leftists And they looked normal. If they wear a rainbow we know them, And we have to fight off the indoctrination Before it gets us And we end up in a library. How do we know if they are the agenda If they don’t have a lib hat? What if they are atheist Or simply nice? These are the things We should watch out for, Before they come up with documentation Or facts. They keep saying Jesus was woke, But I have a meme that says Trump 2024 So I know better. They were in town today. They were walking And driving And shopping And having an agenda. They were all around me. The leftists. Th

In the End   What is set to distract me today? What garish color presented? What noises near or distant? What almost sensical headline read? What torrid editorial misguiding? Such entertainments are exhausting. Some days it is enough To get food in me, To hear a familiar tune, Or visit with the neighbor’s dog. The machinations that make this system churn Tire me in ways overcome only by simplicity: Small joys that feed deeply And sometimes don’t come often enough. The days wind down And a long night approaches, Then I will sleep long. What is to become of me then? What final indignity Will be performed on my still form Unheeding Of the ministrations performed? Will my natural fluids be drained? Replaced with a better class of chemical Destined to keep my carcass From rotting so quickly And thereby discomfiting The still-living Who will never be looking at it again? Will my cadaver be then shoved into a box And buried deep

  Motoring   Behind the flashing colors, Beneath the trumpets and drums, Working the players and the played, The machine groans on. Oiled with coin and blood, Fired by greed, Powered by disdain and lust, It eats innocence, It shits pain. Louder the production screams To cover the clank and clang Of an apparatus too ancient to run And too pervasive to quit. An engine operated by monstrous egos Convinced of their right to indulge Or engulf Or intake Whenever desired Whenever decreed. Diseased, decadent, depraved, Skeletal remainders of humanity, Or fattened and greased, They maneuver their agents with promises, Offering tastes of the debasements That are reserved for themselves in full. Still the mechanism toils on A thing self-serving, Operating now only to continue operating, Producing labor, filth, heartache, And the degradation of all species. A machination that can only result in The obsolescence of the species that b

  False Flag   And so the low itch begins: Not with a flash and a bang, But with the soft plop Of the indulged bottom hitting the floor Its owner having trod On the banana peel Most of us were expecting. See him come farting out of the gate, An imitation of a cartoon criminal, White-booted and sticky-fingered, Yet with a mouth full Of malformed intention. A buffoonery that has wielded Improper powers, And would foist them nationally, Clownishly or no. Now comes the background noise: Weirded advertisements too easily ignored, Or mocked by the clever, But appealing to the low-purposed. A replacement for an idol tarnished, Now too defamed for surety of triumph. Now comes the low buzz irritating, A cheap barrage of listless clamor, Ignored but heard anyway, A cacophony from a distance, All sour note and garish blare. Here then is the snare: A veneer of burlesque and caricature, And beneath: vileness and cruelty Proposed as vir

  On Sale Now: GOP   Not getting enough love for your firearms collection? Bible verses sounding stale? Not getting your fill of Russian propaganda? Then you need to try: REPUBLICAN TALKING POINTS! That’s right! Today’s Republican Talking Points Aren’t just your grandfathers bigotry and misogyny, no! Why, there’s an ever-expanding library of ALL NEW Batshit crazy theories and outright lies TAILORED JUST FOR YOU!! Try these on: Democrats are coming for your stock brokers! Zelensky is addicted to Chinese drag queens! Donald Trump can turn water into AR15’s! All of these and so many more Are available to YOU At the low, low cost Of any sort of reason, logic, or common sense. Just think of what you could do Simply by believing That Kevin McCarthy Has your best interests in mind And isn’t beholden To the worst that America has to offer! America, it’s time to stop thinking of others And start stocking up on ammunition Because what’s a

  An Open Letter to Kevin McCarthy   Listen kid, I’m not going to ask you What you sold to gain that gavel, Because my concern is not what, But whom. We know. You may not know we know, But we know. And it was us, Speaker, It was us. Now you’re in a fight For the soul of this country, And just because you have sold yours, You can’t have ours. We won’t allow it. You know how it took 15 votes To get that hammer? It’s going to take us one To take it away, And kick your ass to the curb. See, you are not applying A principle central to your life To your current predicament. A principle that is going to decide your future Right now. See, there is one area In a person’s memory That can go long and long: Did ya mess with the money? Did ya short the pocketbook? Did ya empty the belly? And when the answer To those questions comes up “yes”, The answer to a House GOP Is going to be “NO.” So kid, Kevin, You going to deal?

  Sunday, Sunday, Sunday   It is Sunday, And the worshippers gather outside, To fellowship with one another, And make plans to meet later, At the shooting range, To pop off a few rounds for Jesus. Cordite and Christ – a merc made in Heaven.   It is Sunday, And the Christians discuss morality, For where two or more are gathered, There he is also, But not any fucking queers, Or godless trans, Even if they are their neighbors.   It is Sunday, And the faithful bathe in the Holy Spirit, That allows them to revile Anyone that sounds funny Or has different skin Because who the fuck are they anyway, And who cares what their papers say?   It is Sunday, And the loyal put their hats back on, Crimson in the sunlight, For they have chosen a new god, Who lets them sin out in the open, Just as they always intended, And you’re gonna like it – Or get the fuck out of the way.   Cliff Lake 5/21/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

Caution – Cliff Ahead   I visited a town Close upon a swamp Overlooked by a low cliff That had been avoided For the danger it did present. Some time had passed Many years since anyone was lost And the hazard became a rumor And a tale to frighten children with. Now a manager was named among them To bring the town prosperity And he would expand the town In all directions on the map. But he was unacquainted With lands beyond his borders And I tried to tell him There were things that he could learn. But he spoke back at me With a voice laden with scorn That he was of high station And therefore knew more than me. I tried then to remind him That I had passed through other lands And had seen things along my way. I pointed to a sign that he didn’t read, Because he had been told the sign was written By people trying to take from him Things he did not own. He was so angered By this potential loss of value, He forbade the entire town

  A Farewell to Harms   To the House GOP: How are you going to explain All the investigations Into ordinary activities People performed as part of their jobs That you can’t make illegal No matter how loudly you talk No matter how many informants disappear Into the smoke they were made of? How are you going to justify The millions spent To prove all the things We already knew That you can’t stand To have exposed all over again That you want to mean something other Than what we clearly understood The first time you tried to bury them? How many diversions Will we have to endure While you sputter and twist Into ever tightening circles Of convoluted misstatements That mean less than you want And unmask you too clearly? And now you have reached the point Where your lies Are even stupider than you are As you invent phantom situations That no one believes And maybe less even care about Because they’re worried About the bread a

  Behind the Sun   I feel it sometimes. Vast it is, Wearing it’s cold as a cloak, The shroud behind the Sun. An abrogation of the glare we live in, It’s voice is an echo of empty, Loud, clear, unheard and still heeded, It sings of unharmony. It is unspeakably lonely, If it has life at all, Or is merely the imitation Of an existence That never was. Its longing is the ache for affirmation Its size alone should answer for that. Still, it reaches for me Under my dreams Or in the unexpected moment Between the TV ads. Then the sonorous whisper reverberates, A calling from a deep I dare not imagine. In those moments I feel eons Trembling at their meaning And seeking always more. How is it so nameless, Why is it so familiar? How am I to deal With the shroud behind the Sun? I dare not. I must. Somehow. Somehow I must.   Cliff Lake 5/18/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

  Freedom Triggers (Song for a Redhead)  Down in Florida Good old Ronnie DeSantis, Has proved to be an annoying louse. Doing his level best to supplant us, Letting the worst miscreants into the House. But wardens of Walt say, “Who are you to grant us?” “Come on heffalump, let’s see you defeat the Mouse!”   When Bud Lite is culturally illegal, When Target opens its doors to all, When Miller is bagging up your shit, Where can you go? What can you do? Disneyworld is still open, And welcomes even you. Disneyworld is still open, And red is part of the rainbow hue.   Which books to ban, you tell Nike to shoo, And when the NFL takes a stand, that’s too much for you. And entertainment shows you try to drag, ‘Cause they somehow groom your crew, I get it, that’s just not your bag, But now that you’ve thrown Nascar away, what’s left for you to do?   When Bud Lite is culturally illegal, When Target opens its doors to all, When Miller is baggi

  The High Ones   Grinning ghouls that perch High atop Manhattan avenues. Pinching young bottoms paid for. Looking down from sheltered balcony, Looking down on you. Expanding waistbands, Pockmarks stretched, Livers corroding, Bank accounts untapped, Looking for more from you. Coiffures the size of your paycheck, Autos that could cost you your house, Clothing worn once and cast away, Vacations you’ll never see, Keeping it away from you. Officials selling your freedoms, Lapping up crumbs as allowed, Watching the blood of children dry, As they discard soldiers come home, With never a thought of you. Monsters created from your sweat, Collecting well more than their due. Nepo-babies and outright thieves Feeding as parasites from their towers, And looking down on you.   Cliff Lake 5/17/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

A Tail   Once there was a puppy. No one gave it a name and so its name was nothing. The puppy had no home so it was chased away. The puppy had no bed so it slept where it was not wanted. The puppy had no food so it ate what it was not given. The puppy cried from loneliness to shut doors. The puppy followed children who ran in fear of its dirt and deprivation The puppy died. Cliff Lake 5/13/2021 Copyright (C) Clifford Lake 2021

  Dawnshine   It’s been a long time in this dark people, Dark with the lies that we’ve been fed. Too many real freedoms taken, Too much innocent blood shed. Lies propagated for rich to continue, To slaughter the sheep they have led. But all nights have their endings, And I can see the light clearly ahead.   We’ve been working hard,   But there’s so much left to do. Time to raise up the downtrodden, It’s for us to break through! The one who doesn’t need it, Wants to take it all from you. But the dawn is breaking, And it’s breaking blue.   Now the nighted creatures Will tell you the dark is really light, To keep us all in the gloom, They revel in this plunder and blight. They divert our attention with circuses, To keep the uneducated unaware of their plight, But dawn approaches implacably, And the end of darkness is in our sight.   We’ve been working hard,   But there’s so much left to do. Time to raise up the downtrodden, I