Commentary and Philosophy Poetry posted February 24, 2013


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Hands of Man

by Curt Mongold


As I approach the stagecoach that goes through the killing fields,
I saw the clumps of old oak stumps that never once did yield,
against adversities these trees stood tall like ones compelled,
until in time with rhyming cadence all of them were felled

by evil hands of man whose plan would not be satisfied
until their lust and axes thrust were rusted by tears cried
from eyes of innocence beyond the fenced in killing fields
where sits the stagecoach I approached in streets of blood congealed.

I climbed inside that lonely ride back to reality,
while feeling all my dreams turn into screams of memory,
I sensed the jarring of my guts while in the ruts wheels turned
over the legacy of all left free as they were burned.

The fire started, broken hearted tinder left to dry
were souls thrown in by hands of men who turned the truth to lies,
the road became a bleeding blur, an obscure taste of pain
that coated tongues and filled the lungs but none dared to complain

because the hands of man held fast the last who dared to speak,
and on the rocks they herded flocks who turned the other cheek.
The destination was the station that held all to blame,
while killing fields were stacked with shields where fighting soldiers came

to win the war against the whore who babbled constantly
about the hands of man whose plan she praised so endlessly,
and ev'ryone who listened, their eyes glistened with the tears,
of happiness as they confessed their hopes and dreams and fears

until the world was rolled and curled like parchment made of skin,
while promises were made that all who paid were free from sin.
And then no one remembered what the fighting was about,
the killing fields were shaded and degraded by the shouts

of liberty for all to see inside a soulless shell
where those begotten had forgotten all of those who fell
against the whore of Babylon upon whose lawn they fed
on grass that turned obscenely green from ev'ryone who bled

and died with all their pride inside that tallied up for naught
because the herds of sheep just could not keep the message brought
by one who rode the stagecoach but was reproached by his peers,
because the hands of man have fans beneath their gleaming shears.



Poem of the Month contest entry

Recognized


Heptameter, a-a-b-b rhymes and internal rhymes in each line, some alliteration and a lot of enjambment.
The message is what you make of it, as for me, it has been one helluva ride so far.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.


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