Fever

Chopping away my

unconscious fears

with a hacksaw named

Mrs. Lamb von Hatchet,

I slip into that required

niche

of happy, happy,

glad, glad.

But a little mad, mad

at the sickening-sweet scent

racial harmony has displayed

and the lacquered attempts

made

to cover slight mars

and jagged cracks

in what we call justice.

It is a fever

I possess

when such is the case.

A base for my

errant scheme

of things,

this fever-pitch fever

for the

one and the many

faced with

our monster.

Our creation.

Our burden.

 

Fever.

 

by

Rod C. Stryker

Mother May I

Gaia II – Natural Deity Series by Rod C. Stryker

Exacerbating this even

       quiet riot

in church choired chords,

  deafening valleys

cause gray matter vibrations

as Ms. Muse barfs

    possible solutions

     like good feeling, care or love.

But the real tear-jerker

      is the green all over glow

    shinning through

acid clouds and sulfur

rivers.

     Gaia would be proud to see

      such tender concern.

     Such giving tribute

     deserves nothing less

   than a stay

of execution.

 

by

Rod C. Stryker

      

Purple-Mountains-Minority

Foreboding a warming concept,

  magazine smiles and styles

proliferate the hungry illusions,

  so the well-to-do can say,

     “everyone’s happy,”

  when everyone’s not.

       Try to cure this quite

   malignant disease

       and be ass-branded

  that queer label

      “liberal.”

     My country, ‘tis of thee,

   sweet can of bigotry,

    oh we displease

    the majority if ideals

       are for joe-off-the-street

       because joe has nothing to eat.

  And joe is black, Latino, Asian.

      The Land of the Free wars with

The Lands of Allah and crack and heroin.

   And poor remains poor no matter

  how it’s said.

       The clear conscience (guilt) remains

      most seen.

While any other (truth),

   bleeds.

 

by

Rod C. Stryker

Another older piece, still very much reflective of today’s world. Unfortunately.

Ruse

wheat sways

in moon’s

dawn.

Wolf swoons

God’s soul.

Loyal remains

the sky’s disposition,

while

Mother traitors

our innocence.

Wind lashes

tongues of blue

and green.

Key to

our telling

song

beats with

heaven’s roar.

 

by

Rod C. Stryker

An older, pastoral piece. Hope you like it.

Too Real

Fend off the cold with

   a small, sparse cloth

over shoulders thin and

  frail.

     Wind tugs and pulls

       with no heed for

poverty or pain.

       A dirty and ripped

  Raggedy-Ann lies

     betrayed; bereft of

 a child’s love next

to a sewer drain.

    And the sirens never

stop.

A brief visit made

 all too real…

 

by

Rod C. Stryker

This is an older poem. For many families, poverty is stark and unforgiving. I post this piece in the hopes that more attention is placed on ending poverty around the world.

Wasted Divinity

Wasted Divinity Study by Rod C. Stryker

When she’s

naked,

I learn

the simplest thoughts endure,

as I sludge up

my filthy river of love

until I’m ready

to stand,

muck & bile

falling from my fingers,

down my face

but waste it’s earthy riches

and am scrubbed clean

by the noon sun

before entering

the House of Common Gods,

where a fifth of therapy

stashed in the breakfast nook

teaches wisdom

has nothing to do

w/age,

and pray to myself,

happy I’m not God.

by

Rod C. Stryker

This poem was published in my book, Lucid Affairs. If you’d like to purchase a copy, please click on the page link at the top of my blog. Thank you.

Night (the evening hooker)

Night Study Final art photograph by Rod C. Stryker

 

                                             She prances

                                                      slow,

                                                               w/purpose,

                                                      hips

                                                      sway against

                                             the traffic,

                                                      street lamps,

                                             indifference.

                                                               Red lips

                                                      play w/assumptions,

                                                                        disillusions,

                                                               a cigarette.

                                             Hair

                                    flies around

                                                      corners,

                                             motels,

                                    feverish obsessions.

                                                               Lithe,

                                                      honeyed breath

                                                      fills

                                                      every crevice,

                                                                        niche,

                                                               ideal

                                                      at least

                                                               ‘til

                                    morning’s glory.

 

                                                                                          by

                                                                                          Rod C. Stryker

This was published in my book, Lucid Affairs. If you’re interested in purchasing the book, click the page link at the top of my blog. Thank you.