Young America Sings Democracy’s Song

From the ash of disaster rise the strong
Sown resolve forged in Colonial foundries
A new warrior floods the commonwealth
Young America sings Democracy’s song.

Beneath the blades of grass lies unrest
Wolves in shepherd’s robes forsake safety
Innocents taken paid the Devil In full
Classroom killing fields filthy with death.

A child soldier wields the Sword of Light
Striking the glutinous beast bowel deep
The creature’s squeal deafens the swamp
Traitors and thieves beg for their lives.

From the ash of disaster rise the strong.
Young America sings Democracy’s song.

by, Hugh A Tague
inspired by; Walt Whitman’s
I Hear America Singing

Wicked Seeds Sown

 

Celebrating the sublime, mindless of malice
murder becomes life’s darkest perversion
assassin’s bullets forge soldiers of the slain
martyred, their phoenix ignites freedom’s flame.

Powerless to bequeath true wealth lost
an ancient evil corrupts the human light
souls chosen to pay the Reaper’s steep toll
unconsciously pledge an immortal oath.

Those responsible to guide the many
deceiving their charge for greed and glory
warriors and weapons eternally morph
twisting flesh and metal to suit their war.

These wicked seeds sown have been sown anew
until Man salts the land of hate it grows
their faces and battlefields endlessly evolve
rain upon crimson-waxed earth is nature’s resolve.

Twisting flesh and metal to suit the war
unconsciously pledge an immortal oath
assassin’s bullets forge soldiers of the slain
martyred, their phoenix ignites freedom’s flame.

~ Hugh A Tague

RESIST

 by Hugh A Tague

Gaslights gloaming deep amber rhetoric
A train-wreck in reverse derailed in time
Casting alternate darkness over hope
Death and delusion with every pen’s stroke.
The desert’s sand thick with my brother’s blood
Boots on the ground children in harm’s way
Our body and mind no longer our own
Jackals from afar secured his gold throne.
Constitution of the people not of one president.
RESIST all that’s not true there is no alternate.

The Crude Colossus

 

Not unlike a brazen giant of freak fame,
With transplant faux hair and a bad spray-tan;
Here at his brain-washed, iron-clad gates shall stand
A mighty moron with a torch, whose flame
Is the persona of gaslighting, and his name
Betrayer of Exiles. From his beacon-hand
Glows world-wide “No-Trespass” sign; his eyes scan
The bridgeless harbor that his sinful cities frame.

“Return to your ancient lands, you matter not!” cries he
With puckered lips. “I don’t want your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses scheming to steal from me
Such wretched refuse shan’t set foot upon my shore.
Send these, the homeless, back across the sea,
The light’s off and I locked the door!”
 by Hugh A Tague