a nation under (villanelle)

A Nation Under

think they not of God?

stand or lie and clutch their photographs

they fear the endless turning under sod

 
knowing then how bodies frail and odd

see no light no glint even a patch 

and think they not of God?

 
lives of wealth or beaten with the rod 

reason lost in taking other paths 

they fear ongoing eras under sod

 
men in daily nightmares forced and clawed 

lone in fields or manicured in packs 

and think they not of God?

 
speech of nonsense hate or pale applause 

crafted tales of love and blood now past

the brains stray fearing quiet centuries under sod but—

still some distinguish death with welcome awe

shed visage woven once of many masks

some thought to think and seek for gracious God

God: 

     who fears no slowly sinking under sod

potato cake

Potato Cake

I don’t feast on prayer. Now my banquet is gone...

There’s just some broken bread for murder’s sake.

Mock I His blood in weeks spent pissing on,

while holding in my hand potato cake.

Who mourns the widow’s loss the night she cries?

We burn the dead, and all the poor we bake.

Like men in pridey walks we shed their kind,

and then we offer down potato cake.

Once Sunday passes silent and I’m sure,  

I’ll hope to Me that I will again taste

the aspartame, the junk, the filling core,

A pan of steaming fresh potato cake.

I’ve heard who God forgives He kills to take...

Instead I think I’ll live and eat potato cake.