At Charon’s pier
I see my mother’s urn
The sunny lake
of morning is full
of empty, tilted events.
I stand at the open crypt,
the cool muddy darkness
struggles to stay in it’s cave.
Last memories like
kites strings,
cut my aching hand.
Nostalgic doves coo.
Chaos of feelings
causes insect pain.
Crows steal long threads,
from the eternal
healing cobwebs.
Priest mumbles,
laurel leaf on his eye,
his pocket jingles.
My sigh pushes
the urn into the
murky underworld river of Styx.
Three apes in white shirt
jump on the stage,
with the strength and skill of ants,
to slide the huge slab of silence
back to it’s place,
with a soft slam to anchor the end.
Gyula Friewald © 10/10/2011
Army of Dangerous Spiritual Dwarfs
Hundred and fifty million smile
creased and crashed
under the bulldozer of
every second man, yearly.
If someone loses a child,
forever hears the child’s sighs
in the rising wind, and
her face trembles in distant waters.
Desperate poverty opens the doors for
rich sexual scavengers,
disguised and masked as
patriots, parents, priests,
politicians, doctors, teachers,
kings, presidents, admirals,
train drivers, sailors, directors,
boxers, footballers, smugglers, actors,
terrorists, peacemakers, policemen,
All are proud citizens,
generals, lawyers, judges.
‘Brave’ get away with it adults,
failed their women, their universe.
Their crippled sneaky smile turns up
in all corners of our world.
Every second neighbors,
pedestrians, travelers tagged with it.
Slugs sliding on their body fluid,
butchering trust, abusing future.
If you are one of them, I’m watching you!
If not, keep your eye on them,
Not in silence but with loud full vigor,
identify their dirty corners.
To unveil secrets
of big daddies
stunted humanity,
burped up from psychic swamps.
Some simply barter
with their treasured photo collections
evidence of
their heart and mind slaughtering funs.
Don’t be fooled by their
sorry decorated
sentimental wailing or
lamentations about love.
Gyula Friewald © 23/10/2011
FRIEWALD 