“Threads” by Phil Specht

A new poem:

Threads

Not many socks are darned,
what is a thimble,
needle and thread to mend?
So left torn, discarded,
we pass through an age
of global waste, division.
Ties that bind. We cut the cord.
Quilt on the Mall, largest
tribute to lives cut short.
Do lives matter? Stringed instrument
one broken, hard to tune
can we find the chord?
Strings more than theory,
Needle work more than need.
Finding art in necessity, art necessary..
Mend the nets, cast this side,
the Divine Guidance says.
Mend the nets, and cast them here.

Phil Specht 12-28-21 edit

Man, Mad, and Guns

Whitman’s long grass rustles.
Nietzsche’s space devoid of God.
Will to power is not a mad man.
Power is man, mad. And guns.
The voices of rustling grass,
from the graves of lesser deaths.
Millions strong, leaves of grass..
Old Order too. Shaman, priest,
summon sun, rain, son, reign.
Lesser deaths. Sacrifice, wafer, grain.
Sustenance more than wheat.
Incantations less than words.
Insisting noise is Voice as chimes tinkle.
Waves lap lap lap as a Lion’s tongue,
waiting for Gazelle to thirst too.

Phil Specht 2011 edit 1-28- 2022