Poem #33

Our true triste…

How dare ye, Satan!
Some gall to teach a Christian
toddler the ancient ways of meditation.

The bible is the only keeper of prescription,
and when that will not silence your youngster’s sinning,
resort to book burning.

Warm rhymes browned by a match
to light our child into purity
before an effigy of his tender trash.


As turpentine applied to paint would run,
so did the canvas of the world seen by the setting sun.
Yet, in that bleak of a blur, not all for the oven
of hate was cooked to done.


College is just a phase for our bad Republican.

Please send a green Priest and an aged Priest.
Our child is possessed by NPR and a Communist.

Whatever banning or blacklist,
confiding in crying or laughing with anger,
there is great success in our upright and our true triste:
is he a child any longer?


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