The Blue God
The blue god of war
is so strong
he can twist trees
with the tip of his tongue.
You better not defy him
scream at him
lie to him.
He’ll explode and beat
the hell out of you.
He lives on nothing
will die for nothing
makes us children
shivering all night
crying in empty winds
turning our tears to ice.
The blue god of war
is so strong
northern winds bow to his will.
He doesn’t dig
your moaning
and groaning.
You better shut up or he’ll
make mincemeat out of you.
He laughs at everything
has respect for nothing
makes us afraid to fight
when he spits in our faces
turning our tears to ice.
So we watch in silence
waiting for the coming light
when he will hold us
in his burning hands
and we will be born twice
once by fire
once by ice.
HIM
His insignificant fingers
search coded panels
buttons cool smooth
attached to glowing screens.
But isn’t that power
general motors
general electric
or maybe major, major holocaust?
So admirable
the admiral
can sweep our planet away
in less than half an hour.
Another fact to live with
we can all blow up
in flames.
At any instant
galleries of murdered faces.
All of us born with this
strange dilemma.
Why do anything
when everything is wrong?
Our hearts caged in fear.
The eyes of the dead
are glassy and surprised
staring with open mouths.
Yes and always there is pain
of what could possibly remain.
Perhaps some slabs of concrete?
Is that all we have been building, buildings?
Occupant Apartment 2 D
His days marched in place
days like tin soldiers each one
pushing the next aside.
Hurry, hurry before it is too late…
inside a gaping hole to be filled.
More and more of the surface
of his life was covered by dust.
The hallway gave off a musty odor.
Night after night, lights burned.
Busted dreams heaped in boxes.
Black marks covered floors.
Less and less energy to clean up.
His body betrayed him, both his
bones, his breath betrayed him.
One edge of his room spoke to
the other. His fan purred all summer,
basement furnace heaved all winter.
This incessant sigh gathering dust.
Gloria
Maybe it had been too
much helping her mother.
She hurried home after work.
with medicine, carrying bags of
groceries, rushing to cook.
Endless cleaning, piles of wash.
She arranged medical visits,
wrote checks, handled mail,
balanced accounts.
Then there were all the little things.
Turn up the radio. Turn it down.
Run out for candy. Pick up newspapers.
Find something cool to drink.
Make something hot. Every day
her mother’s health seemed worse.
Visiting her in the hospital,
Gloria consulted doctors.
Trying to digest complicated
medical terms coiled in
convoluted sentences.
Straining to interpret arched
eyebrows half smiles, mumbles.
Everything led to dead ends.
Sorrow stabbed at her with
its blazing knife. Finally
there was nothing left to do
but light candles in church.
About the Author
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Poet and Geek recognized her work as their best poem of 2013. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses and she has three e-book titles.
Ali Saul
Ali is a Law undergraduate at the University of Portsmouth with an especial interest in Constitutional Law. He is a keen musician playing mandolin, guitar, drums and keyboards. He also enjoys writing music and poetry.
