A very good friend of mine recently began writing poetry. He is an accomplished writer and yet sometimes the transition to a different style is difficult. Rick sent me the piece below. Read carefully as there is much going on in this one. Excellent job!
Charity Hosptial
In a straight chair waiting
head propped up against the wall.
A hundred people ahead of him hurting,
when they get to him, they’ll call.
He had a good job for nine years.
Then someone sent it overseas.
He lost his health insurance, too,
now God blessed death, but by degrees.
Richest nation ever
too often led off by some old clown.
In the charity hosptial,
they still wait for that trickle down.
Somewhere Walls and Gates stand
and Trumpets blare.
Down at the clinic it’s one nurse,
no beds, stale air.
Big Churches getting bigger
purpose driven, empty man.
Where is God? Down at the charity hospital
holding on to some dying hand?
Still out in the hall
watching life drain and pass him by.
He is the excess population.
Why not just let him die?
Complicitly unholy … When the Critique Comes Home to Roost …
Joshua Case(s) the Oil Spill Around the Table
