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Six Poems

by Philip Hyams

Sitting for Isaac

We sit Shiva like cowardly Buddha's.
The room is bare…not even a picture.
But Oh! In the corner a machine-gun.
Sirens wail like succubi in the night.
We sit Shiva while bombs fall all around.
The children are below.
The war lasted only six days.
It took the old one eight to die.
We sit Shiva with tired souls.

The Kick

I saw an old leather boot lying dead
upon the street
There is a war outside which waits
silently for its victims from
the city
The cyber-punk kid is the new Achilles
with his diaper safely fastened by a bloody
safety pin he sits in dumbness
awaiting the new messiah
The soldiers in the war do not realize
they are engaged in battle
They are not even aware of the wounds
they inflict upon their opponents
How can this be when their opponents
are themselves
They are their conquerors and the

There is a war outside
Blinds of creaky crumbly desolate houses
swing to and fro pushed by the foul drafts
of the city
Newspapers blow across no-man's lands of
asphalt and steel sewer tops
The black fear the white and the white are
even more terrified of the black
Street children sit crouched against brick walls
wiping away the snot from their noses with
deft violin plucks of the arm
They steal glances from the crowds who
pass on by
the ones who are petrified of showing compassion
the ones who are glorified because circumstances
do not warrant sympathy for them as of yet

But now I say to you who read this piece
I scream at you who read this
Just as that old boot who in its lifetime
has been kicked around
Just as it is being kicked around now by a million
lonely creatures
So shall we experience the storm of change
The wall will break
The infinity of glass and light will shatter
upon these streets
upon the black-tie dinners of smirking socialites
upon the Ego and the Id
the war is here
Soon it shall remove its robe of concealment
The children will burn but when the battle is
over be reborn

I saw an old leather boot lying dead upon the street

Fallen Poets

Not all of us,
Not all of us
Like untenable kittens
In last death throes,
Shall select the blade
To bleed our way to fame.

Not all of us,
Not all of us
Like nodding prophets
In smug "I told you so's"
Shall sever the thread
To change our name to Pain.

Read three more poems by Philip Hyams

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