human condition

The Human Condition

 

 

The paleness of the screen ogles me waits

to be written on like woman waiting for me

to make the first move, but I’m too timid fear

her rejection, shall I murmur a little jovial, say

she has lovely hair? Or is that too forward?

 

Can’t very well mention the massacre in Gaza,

and that it is the victims of Israel’s foul act

who get blamed? Or shall I say, the display of

fireworks on the night and buildings on fire

has its own awe-inspiring beauty?      

 

In 1959 I sat in a park, New Year’s Eve, holding

hands with a gipsy girl in Huelva, Spain, but for

Maria was a boring town, she had brown legs,

dark eyes and dusty feet, her grim father came

took my lighter and chased me away. 

 

Now isn’t that a better story to tell, than tales

of the tediousness, the human tragedy named

Gaza, where the sky rains fire and children are

covered in the dust of war, unable to escape,

but will she listen to such a sad story?