Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own.
The last excuse
by Ivan Donn Carswell
What is left now that we’ve used the last excuse,
what is left to justify excess. The rhetoric at best
was very thin when things began, but to suggest
we must remain and play the hand we’re dealt
by Forces leant to selfish interest is insane.
The politics of power and might are lofty heights
indeed, with heady flights of fantasy to draw one on,
just playing in those eyrie halls belies the size
of tiny men with massive heads and hairy brows,
we laugh aloud at leadership in debt to intellect,
but have we gone beyond our natural needs,
do we exceed capacity to self delude; one
must conclude that is the case, we’re stuck
here in this war to save some face. Or are we whores
who’ll sell their souls, combining with their glory
holes, to mollify self-righteous monks (whose presence
reeks with fiscal grease and gross deceit)
in utter funk and plastic greed, believing
that our begging bowls are filled with offertory?
And is it true you’ll never see
a yanquis’ gift that’s truely free?
© I.D. Carswell