To strike at inhumanity

It is poetry
when I take
the call
and wield
curve balls
at obstacles
arrayed in path…
my Old Man
taught me the math
of humanity
via metaphor
on oiled lanes
by way
of Grace Avenue
at Marigold Bowl
gifts that served
to echo
into perpetuity
to strike
at preordained moments
to remind
the doubters
of the power…
seeds planted long
ago in
the Windy City
of Chicago.

I see words in pictures
scriptures in diction
and history reeking
as it repeats
these pins will fall –
but who is
taking score
if we are at war
with the man or woman…
in the mirror?

We won’t see clearly
until we abdicate
fear – aiming at
the pocket,
that strike zone
of inhumanity.

Metaphor to go with the prose:

Published by Shun P. Writes

Author, Genealogist, Writer, Poet, Podcast Host, possessor of 2 cents, Blogger and eternal student of life, who harbors a firm belief in his Grandmother's mantra that: "People need to get off of their rump and do something". All while keeping in mind that a cheering section will often get in the way. View all posts by Shun P. Writes