Lost Generations

Photo By: Nalidsa Sukprasert

Lost Generations

Marching backwards towards the cliff,

with cell phones on a selfie riff,

consumer habits drunk on scores,

blind as bricks to coming wars.

They get their kicks from stupid things,

ignore the crimes of tyrant kings,

their self indulgence feeds the worm,

that grows inside them like a germ.

Consume, consume, the world is bleeding,

lifelines broken, now receding,

the bonds with nature all but gone,

from reality, you’ve withdrawn.

…And if reality settles in,

you turn to rum, wine and gin,

medieval habits to tie the noose,

on sterile minds now obtuse.

Orwell’s chapter of the human race.

with program screens, not far from face,

believe, believe that you are free,

but prison'd minds will never see.

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About this Poem: For some, technology has become a self-imposed prison where reality has all but disappeared. Spiritual connection with nature has been completely severed and all their attention goes into their self indulgence and cell phones. They lose all sight of what matters in life, and instead, wall themselves off into a false reality.

Invader

Invader

Chinese stars explode by night,

with no composure in the fright,

old nightmares freeze inside my mind,

of coming days for all mankind.

Twilight shadows stain the breach,

on youthful shores where evils reach,

senses tingle with needles n' pins,

where air is heavy from our sins.

Above my head the skies are full,

with bomber jets n’ U.S. bull,

their training bases on my land,

to launch the foreign wars they planned.

Canadian people all in hiding,

on edge of darkness they are riding,

streets turn empty, town and village,

before the hammer and the pillage.

Out of sight, I stay inside,

within my house I try to hide,

and peer above at U.S. planes,

that hover over my domain.

All at once the squadrons leave,

racing north to plots they weave,

as air grows quiet, sun does set,

worry remains from what begets.

“All is well”, our friends beam through,

from target Russia where jets just flew,

an open window in evening skies,

this rerun sixties dream of mine.

Uneasy feelings within this dream,

move today in political theme,

All surreal decades later,

with U.S. bully and dictator.

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About this Poem: This poem is based on a dream I had in the late 60’s early 70’s. At the time, Canada was a sovereign nation, the USA and Soviet Union were in a cold war, China was not on the Radar and there was no internet or advanced communication.

Today, the World is bullied by the USA…Russia has emerged as the good guy, China is an economic competitor, Canada has become an economic vassal to American dictates and the Internet has connected people all over the world…The dream infers that WWIII will be launched by the U.S. on Russia and China from future U.S. military bases set up in Canada...and, no doubt, launched from other current U.S. military bases set up in occupied nations around the World.

Choking France

Photo: Bsaz Photography

Choking France

Choking France by the throat,

Macron gets his way,

oppression, flash bangs and his boots,

on people he betrayed.

Artists, poets, musicians all,

Gilets Jaune in the streets,

calling for rebirth of truth

and an end to their elites.

Heart n’ soul, a thousand years,

a nation under liege,

by parasitic monsters,

in economic siege.

Charging through a screen of smoke,

Gendarme of France unleashed,

it’s the worst of times,

the end of days,

Morality deceased.

One by one the people fall,

austerity in control,

put in place by the rich,

reaping what they stole.

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 By: The Activist Poet - 

Revised 2019 Aug 24

Waiting for Departure, Alone on a Bench

Waiting for Departure, Alone on a Bench

Summer evening, gibbous moon, its radiance overflowing,

with collective souls on display, the sky above is glowing.

Spirits pass in front of me, travelling to the light,

adding to the brilliance of the orb that sails the night.

And there upon the ship that’s docked, above the blue horizon,

my soulmate Cath is waiting there as full moon is a rising.

Memories precious, turned to grey, in silence of your smile,

when lunar cycle claimed your soul, upon this emerald isle.

Still I hear your echoes call, with words that carry vision,

reflections from our pool of thoughts, remind there’s no division.

For scrolls of infinity, hold our names, bound with a seal,

forever mending hearts and time, a bond that helps us heal.

The moon now passes overhead and returns to western skies,

releasing essence to the heavens towards a new sunrise.

And so the journey carries on, Cath’s death is not the ending,

we’ll meet again, on distant shore, where faith rekindles mending.

The Great Gig in the Sky

The Great Gig in the Sky

Black lights, posters bright, illusions in the night,

the smell of pipe tobacco, ready to ignite,

and the mellow haze that helps me see, orbs of brilliant white,

riding on the highway, that opens up my sight.

Colors greet the spring of life, to merge a conscious being,

that flows above all aeon thoughts to bring a special meaning,

Now peeling back the frozen layers, of where the pain begins,

until the ego’s vulnerable, exposing all within.

Weighted memories scarred and bleeding, laying in the open,

waiting for the judgement, that sets the mind in motion.

Pain absorbed by empathy, healing sirens that accrue,

the essence of felicity, fulfillment with a view.

The mind expands, excitement flows, answers are before you,

floating in a sea of peace with contentment flooding through,

Understanding, essence cleansed, the world unburdened then,

we push on through our suffering to reach the state of Zen.

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When Crescent Moon Descends on Gog

When Crescent Moon Descends on Gog

When crescent moon descends on Gog,

it dissolves the world and brings the fog,

a place of torment and darkest dreams,

where murky skies are filled with screams.

Charcoal buildings emerge from gloom,

with chimney spires that mark the tombs,

streets are cobbled in shades of grey,

where once a thriving town did play.

Neath’ the walls of broken stone,

a few remain, to call it home.

with larders empty in hollow space,

motions thrive at funeral pace.

Trees are barren, along the rue,

branches brittle where once they grew,

a city forest dead and gone,

suffrage of the poison dawn.

With tapping cane that breaks the still,

mortician hunts for his next kill,

hidden by the steaming sewers,

out of sight from any viewers.

Death has come to those in wait,

there’s no respite behind their gate,

darkness creeps at every turn,

hope recedes and starts to burn.

A hobbled world, pooled in sorrow,

prospects doomed with no tomorrow,

when crescent moon descends on Gog,

the city writes its epilogue.

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Beautiful Stranger

Beautiful Stranger

In your smile I feel what essence is,

by your thoughts, the grace of life,

and your eyes reveal the universe,

a radiance that takes my breath.

My shell dissolves and leaves me naked,

I'm vulnerable when you look my way,

but safe behind this window pane,

you cannot see my shame.

Because I wait for you, at ten past nine,

each and every day,

with promise made, I paint of you,

the rose that feeds my flame.

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About this Poem: Inspired by the quote below from Rumi...

"In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. You dance inside my chest, where no one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that light becomes this art.” ~Rumi

Father's Day

Father's Day

The subtle chime of Westminster clock echoes another hour, as light in the evening sky slowly recedes from the living room window into the shadows of early dusk…the house is quiet except for the ticking of the clock, but the old mans thoughts are very much alive with the moving figures of children, laughing from chasing games they played so long ago...“Beware the Claw!” and “Roar”!

Memories, all with happy endings, play out in his mind like old black and whites as he sits comfortably in a shapely wooden chair passed down to him from his grandfather.

Content, a smile trembles on his lips with far away gaze, captured in the mirror with the last rays of light from the sky. It’s Fathers day, and his children would surly call…

Would they remember the silly bedtime stories that never had an ending, the summer campfires of sparks and marshmallows, stargazing till sleep took them in lawn chairs, or the walks in elf forest, with the plunder of the elves little treasure chest full of old coins found in the hollow of a tree…would they remember the winter magic of jumping in snow drifts ten feet tall, the toboggan runs full of laughter or the ice rink behind the house with lit up trees and imaginations…It’s Fathers day, and his children would surely call.

Thoughts turn to his own father, the man that took life by the horns, and made everything alright. A hero who fought on the side of good in World War II, who became a community builder, coach, mentor and teacher. The man who drove his son around on his Sunday paper route in a four-door powder blue Plymouth Fury III with perfectly folded newspapers stacked in rows on the front seat ready for delivery by a nine-year-old boy.

Memories wisp and billow to an age in time when the boy was gently woken by the aroma of buttered toast, coffee, and CFCF radio 600; his father was always the first one up and made them all breakfast. Hockey games in the winter, soccer in the summer and football in the fall, all echo the old man’s cheers and shouts of encouragement in the halls of yesteryear that encompass fond memories in a boy now past his fathers age…

The clock chimed another hour and still the phone was silent…no worry, today is Fathers day, and surly the children will call…

Thoughts go back to a hospital room where his father battled terminal illness…a cold numbness still remains from the day he passed away; recalling the helplessness felt as he watched his old man die in front of his eyes…wondering still, if he heard his words in transit to the light...“I love you Dad”!

Just as thunder startles life, a knock at the door shakes the old man to the present, as the hallway fills with the merry sounds of children and adults who fill the room with smiles and a “Happy Fathers Day Grandad”!

“Go put your things away or the Claw will come to get you!” said the old man’s son to his giddy happy little boy.

"It’s so good to see you Dad, Happy Father's Day"!

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Mourning Spring in the City

Mourning Spring in the City

Day breaks shadows of the night,

returns the colours to our sight,

crimson reds, bright orange and white,

clouds and omens in the light.

Purple hues streak pinkish skies,

morning yawns an early rise,

with lilac blooms on the breeze,

to mask the acrid air we breathe.

Clouds of grey in aura of blue,

their movements let the sun rays through,

brilliant colours in rainbow hue,

with solemn promise to renew.

Golden blankets cover lawns,

of forest green and greys of dawn,

flowers remain, with florets gone,

the lion weeds begin to spawn.

Pods emerge in puffy display,

such perfect spheres in every way,

showing secrets of suns array,

in calm before, they’re washed away.

Wind picks up to awake the trees,

their flowers waiting, for the bees,

yet blight is present on their leaves,

that shiver’s fever in the breeze.

Silence pierced by a robin’s thrill,

nourishment captured in her bill,

as thunder rocks the morning still,

and rainfall brings a misty chill.

Factory skies now cleansed by rain,

as earthen tears begin to wane,

a breath of air to ease the pain,

and flush the poisons down the drain.

Economy

Economy

Bottom drops from under foot,

loathing eyes are hollow,

panic paints declining streets,

civil unrest will follow.

Markets fall at margin call,

employers close their doors,

bankers call in all their loans,

to plunder from the poor.

Cargo, freight and traffic stop,

long line ups at the store,

speculators want your gold,

inflation starts to soar.

Accelerate the banknote press,

to feed the population,

rations made and then declared,

to ward off our starvation.

Tensions rise across the world,

coups n’ sanctions taking place,

terror wars with robber masks,

feeds the doomsday race.

All because they want control,

ownership through the banks,

oil backs their currency,

they take it with their tanks.

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Stories for the Masses

Stories for the Masses

Stories for the masses,

censorship of the news,

with half truths unveiled,

and an enemy to accuse.

Lazy populations,

believe what they are told,

apathy on steroids,

simple minds to mold.

Shock and awe on repeat,

outrage is the plot,

stories for the masses,

to steer a crooked thought.

Even though revealed,

people believe the lies,

bathed in propaganda,

believing they are wise.

TV education,

with a world on the brink,

stories for the masses,

pawns unable to think.

American Freedom

American Freedom

Those damned Americans are at it again,

another country down the drain,

a nation tried to claim its autonomy,

a moral right to sustain its economy.

But the Americans frown on independence,

so they refuse to allow a nations ascendance.

That’s why our days are filled with wars,

and all away from American shores.

How is it they have this right?

…this judge and jury, with military might?

They force a country to its knees’,

by theft of resources and the assets they seize.

U.S. wars start by sanctions,

plans that culminate into a coup,

and in this choke hold, if a nation persists,

the U.S. military, blast their way through.

Targets then in disarray, cities consumed by fire,

crushed by American freedom and their greedy desire.

Economic slavery is all that remains,

of a once proud people, now in chains.

Culture destroyed, population in famine,

all to please American Mammon.

What will happen when they’ve claimed them all?

each nation enslaved in the overhaul.

One thing’s for sure, a dictatorship has amassed,

for the days of freedom, have long since passed.