QUALIFIED

(Public domain image from Tango Desktop project)



Your sneer
Lights up the room.
Sadly, nobody
Knew to wear sunscreen.
It would have helped
Had someone cried,
“Hey, here comes
Cancer.”

You take a situation over
Without notice, or perhaps I should say
“Warning.” Nobody else could speak
Without some haughty
Comment from the stolen seat
Where you roost
Near the front of the room.

Now the rest of the game –
For you it is a game, if not
For anybody else –
Will be your turn.
All other turns
Were cancelled
At the moment you arrived.

Your rant is full of references
To the Old Testament.
You talk about it
Like it’s history;
You cite deeds of its characters
As if they’re facts
We share as common knowledge.
You offer no proof
Of your contentions;
You act like
No proof is needed.
All anyone should need
Is your pronouncement;
Your pronouncement
Makes things so.
How like the God of the Old Testament!

Somebody with eyes to see
Catches the rest of what goes on,
The subtler part
That many people miss (though
Everybody
Feels affected by it).
The dark and boiling cloud
That gathers just above your head,
The little lightning bolts
That strike at members
Of the audience.
A person with a nose for news
Can sense a tang
Of sulfur in the air.

Your intention is
To shrink the rest of us,
Leave us diminished
In the presence of
Your vast hostility.
But you’d snicker
Should somebody point this out.
That is the hidden center
Of your message:
That you’re so much better than the rest of us.

Hell would be an eternity
Of lectures
Like this one.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

THE BULLFIGHT PAINTING

(Public Domain photo from animalvoice.com. The painting I describe in the poem below is not in the Public Domain, but maybe it's better to see an image of the subject that doesn't even try to prettify it.)



One of those hideous paintings you see
In a bar or a barbecue joint, that
The owner adores and paid a big fat
Price for, by a name in the industry

Some folks call “Bullfight Art.” The matador’s
In white, cape red as the bull’s blood, which we
See spread across his broad black back, set free
From veins by banderillas in each shoulder.

The cape’s a blur, trailing white lines behind
It, a nod to Impressionism. For
Art’s sake, the bull’s head lowers, aiming toward
The cape, although his tormentor’s nearby.

The man’s the center of the scene. His grace
At murdering belies his tranquil face.


--© 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.