As the newly-minted righteous rage,

Stamping the recalcitrant infidel

Under the weight of sentiment,

Nothing seems to give.

The  ground under the feet  burns

Like a fireball; street and alley

Menace with sword-arms of faith

And instant correction. Suddenly,

Those that reflect the least have

All the answers, while the brooding

Enquirers sink in their own spittle.

Everywhere, it no longer helps

To be well-meaning. Only

Those sure in their hate seem backed

By the politic puissant who own the state.

 

The skies do not break. No rain

Descends to wash the  slithering

Slime of vengeance that looks

For murder at the first errant foot.

Only a drop or two of rain fall,

Like teardrops  from helpless gods.

Who rue the day they freed their

False prophets to quell the hardy

Nay-sayers. Better a principled

Prodigal than  a cunning usurper

The gods would say now, but

They no longer have their way.

 

An ancient Semul tree outside

My window goes stark in winter, yet

Returns with many a leaf in spring,

No matter how poisonous

The season’s wind, or how

Mortally sharp its sting.

I spruce my creaky spine and get up

To do the next needed  thing.

---