Summer scorn

Ribbentrop and Molotov fill Finland’s basket of bread by cluster
a dry meal drop, quenched and sweetened with liquid cocktail
the population take a propaganda, a flaming Sambuca
refreshing from the August seasonal lag

continuation of the sun’s season, relies upon the despot’s rupturings
spleen splitters and heart breaks, salted with senselessness aplenty
the good megalomaniac outwitting the bad, heralding saviour after deaths
an hour of armatures, move aside, forecasting a darkening horizon

rain posted droplets of misery, delivered by heavy skies
leaking from putty coloured clouds, frowning desperate faces
peeling scorched skin, unwrapping’s of Oppenheimer’s gift
a third class send, Los Alamos to Hiroshima, fusion confusion and much,
much more

the world atomic, history pauses open mouthed
jaw dropped, gaping holes of disbelief, ending humanity’s faith
peoples collective, humankind, compassion, humanness, morality
without any question of impropriety, children are hugged that little longer

summers arrival fanfares the precipitation
a mind state of, shift, heralding sunshine’s outlook
disappointed vest tops and shorts, left to litter the view
lost souls, beach drenched, hung out wet, clutching brollies

Daisies, Carnations and Dahlias, bloom in the vain rain
wishing to fly on the wings of birds of paradise
destination exotica, where trees are palmed with honey
and gold paves the streets, a hell’s fury is a soaking scorn.

Stephen Miles about Stephen Miles. I’m 53 diagnosed dyslexic at 47, 47 years avoiding literary word, I’ve discovering spell check as a best friend. My subterranean mental deficiency proved an unfounded, exploding to the surface as a wordsmiths lava. Flowing the external walls of a poetic volcano. So yes, I now write poems. Poems about the life, life around me. Things I see, hear, perceive unjust. Basically, shooting my mouth off.