Twiddling Knobs

Cut from the same cloth,

Poured into a mould,

Flippant in excesses,

Warm words written cold.

Fine-tuned with a dial,

Ear to hear the clicks,

Turn, turn, got it!

Enough to make you sick!

Agenda’d to the hilt

With a dash of silken voice,

Clones, in cloistered tower,

Drowning in white noise.

History rewritten so soon,

By the boys that live in back,

Twiddling knobs – yes, knobs, I said,

I’m glad I have a … different body part.

 

Although, admittedly, some of those who do,

Twiddle knobs too.

By Actions Known

Pleasantries cannot convey a meaning,

Nor gossip give a truth to unknown scene, but

Words spoken, in a casual conversation,

May reveal the answers, yet ungleaned.

Foreign posturings from pulpit powder heartbeats,

Crumble surfaces where depths are scarce,

Haloed halls and floors with no communion

Question qualities too oft found rare.

Florid fools, in anger, gesture wildly,

Bitterness and vengeance may be cause,

Angelic chambers, enter they, unfearing,

Despite the fact we’re cautioned, there, to pause.

Until the truth reveals all that’s unanswered,

Innocence, not guilt, must be presumed,

By actions, and in time, we’ll know whose hearts are purer,

Accusers or the one who is now annexed, grief consumed.

We know by words plus actions where a heart lives,

We know by shock and awe supporting reason,

We know by trust, intrinsic estimation

That we know a soul, a man born for all seasons.

High Noon

They’re struttin’ in the media,

A swagger to their hips,

Totin’ power like marshall law,

Twistin’ lies and lips.

They’re chewin’ gum imagin’ry,

Pretendin’ to be cool,

Wouldn’t hold a candle to

Most kids we’ve met in school.

Except, p’rhaps, like teenagers,

They’re mostly bluff and bumph,

I’ve sympathy for evolvin’ youth

But the others get my humph.

Agreements tacit – purposed point –

Parties merge for aim,

Shoot the outlaws, hang ’em high,

Scupper cowboy game.

I’d rather be the native

Or the bountied head – no liar –

Than opportune for photo pose

Captioned, ‘Guns for Hire’.

No slickness here, no brylcremed wave,

No texture to their smooth,

Slippy, slidy, greasy-poled,

Slinkng, cannot prove

A single point, so just pretend,

Repeat prophetic rote,

Fingers crossed behind their backs,

Prepare the new scapegoat.

Run it into wilderness

To carry off their sins,

Load it high with guilt complex.

We’d better bloody win!