Dustbins

They stand solitary along the paths, waiting. I deem them patient and humane in this course. Their upper parts are wide and welcoming. As I watch hands unfeelingly plunge objects into them, I am tempted to search their feeling. They are places to dump waste; things that no longer matter. How awful they must feel to be a collection of the detestable, the rejected and the dejected. 
                                            James Kaluna

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Just nature

Just nature Searing the midday sun, A lizard basks atop a rock Blesses the day with nod upon nod Whilst the badger cries foul, Seeks asylum amongst the shadows Bucketing the hourly rain The eucalyptus drinks greedily, ‘Thirst is a dangerous thing’, it says Under the ants gallop Curse the clouds for a hill washed asunder Timely’s the easterly wind, A flower rejoices much For its pollen travels far  Unalike the feebly twig Forced to bend and break To nature a ghost gives A body worth employment, To plants manure, to worms a feast Elsewhere a tear drops For a loved one’s lost Examine now the things of nature Flowing hence as is rightly due Choose then not to call these Names good or bad Blessing or curse, only, only just nature                                         James Kaluna
Read more

A Ship in Port

A ship in port Sometimes your waters Are calm and unruffled  And I long for waves and ripples Of comeliness and pacification  That’ll drive me To the glorious horizon   Sometimes you are wild Your emotions are a storm Your unpredictability like lightning  Your quiddity a raging wind  That strips my inmost parts bare, And I’m mystified by adventures  That lie beyond that storm, Wanting to be tossed about In your romping world But a ship in port I remain. Fear, my dear That your storm will wreck me Or your calm but deep waters Deceive me A ship in port, I remain.                                     James Kaluna  
Read more

The Slaughtering of Chicken

  The Slaughtering of Chicken   The task at hand is both jovial and heartless Not for the weak and clement, but for the brute and merciless,  And many a men have named it the dirtiest game. Now when the neighbors are away And none answers when you call their name, Start with the water in the pot And keep it boiling till it’s deathly hot. Then get a handful of grains to lure the victim of the day; A trapping unneeded and is only but a bonus treat. For the little children will be jolly and gay When later they consider the retrieval of undigested grains a wondrous feat. Remember as well, to give something small to your sufferer Is a deceitful act, but crucial and clever, so they don’t christen you a murderer. O here’s where the fun will begin, The chasing and racing, but careful that the chicken doesn’t win. Remind the bastard of his days of running after hens, his crowing and sway, And make him swear that every dog has its day. Catch him you must and will, And get him to be...
Read more