Guy Farmer, Author at Poetry by Guy Farmer

Like Every Other Morning

He woke up, like every other
Morning, and watched the
Early news while drinking
Instant coffee and eating the usual
Microwave breakfast sandwich,
Muttering to himself that
People should be satisfied with
What they’ve got and quit
Complaining about their
Situations. At least they’ve
Got jobs, they’re better off
Than where they came from.
Nobody ever handed me anything.
Life is hard, there’s no free rides.
The sun ascends above the
Horizon, its rays never
Disinfecting the ingrained
Scarcity of imagination.

Punishing

Paint me a picture of how
Things were before all joy
Drained out of your psyche,
Replaced by continuous calcification.
Tell me about the times
You acted out of courage
Rather than cowering behind
Dogma and resignation.
Buoy my spirit with your jaunty
Tales of adventure and discovery.
Lets take a break from ad nauseum
Enumerations of broken dreams and
Shattered expectations.
Take my hand in yours and tell me
The world isn’t punishing.

The Usual

I remember when he invited
Me over to his house,
More like a mansion as
We pulled up to it in
His chauffeur-driven car.

He was one of the boys
I would watch lording over
Everyone else at school,
Tousled but neat at the
Same time, commanding.

He got out without thanking
The driver, walked past
The butler and motioned me
To his room in some far-off
Wing upstairs.

Walking around his domain,
The sheer excess,
A maid appeared and asked
If he needed anything,
“The usual,” he snorted.

Manifest Reality

At the agreed upon time,
The group meets,
A ritual repeated
Over centuries,
Solemn reverie,
August observance.
Barely acknowledging
Each other, a smattering of
Small talk bows to
The more important
Business at hand.
Intense concentration,
Frustration builds as
Unmitigated determination to
Conquer becomes and
Exercise in manifest reality.
Words acquire barbs,
Vying for position,
A flaccid display of
Misplaced bravado and
Unregulated juvenility.

Race Thing

It’s reported that
The whole race thing
Is really not much of
A concern, bordering on
An afterthought for many,
Easily dismissed,
Of no real consequence,
A very different view
From having epithets
Shouted at you or being
A permanent suspect,
Second-class something,
Berated, harassed,
Handcuffed, maced,
Clubbed, shot for
Being exactly as
You were born.

Could

They chopped down the
Beautiful tree that
Graced their yard.
Not because it was sick,
Or encroaching on something,
But because they could.

Stain

Startled and enraged
By the light of progress,
They scurry out from
Their hiding places to
Shriek for their right
To hate, impose their
Distorted dreams of
Inequality and fear.
Artifacts from a
Shameful past,
Idealizing the
Trespasses of their
Forebears, standing up
For malevolence,
A ghastly stain,
Total absence of
Compassion, love.

Unsaid Things

It’s painfully obvious
That there are many
Unsaid things that he
Needs to express but
That he will never
Articulate because it’s
More important to win
Than to love.

Harmony

They gather in all
Corners of the world,
From small villages
To big cities,
From mountaintops to
Beaches to forests,
From living rooms to
Public spaces,
Young and old,
Light and dark,
Big and small,
Dancing,
Joyfully expressing
Their common
Humanity,
Celebrating
Harmony,
Peace,
Love.

Not Her Audience

On a balmy summer afternoon
She sits tending her booth,
Her lovely paintings on display.

A few people walk by and
Half-smile on their way
To somewhere else.

Others comment or
Ask questions, making
Polite small talk.

Occasionally, someone
Seems genuinely interested
In one of her works.

At the end of the day,
She realizes that this
Was not her audience.

Numb

Like a bunch of awkward
High school students,
They stand around fidgeting,
Desperately trying to one-up
Each other with mundane,
Sleep-inducing stories
About banal experiences
Followed by raucous
Self-conscious laughter.
One guy raises his voice,
Gesticulating wildly,
Hoping the nearby ladies
Will notice, another rambles on
About how big his business is,
Another drinks his fifth cocktail
To numb the meaninglessness.

Personified

Sing a song of hope and courage
For those who have not yet
Found their voices.
Dance a dance of elation and passion
In the name of those who
Deny themselves movement.
Dream a dream for those who
Have none yet and dare not
Speculate on such matters.
Illuminate the world with a
Glow of innocence, enthusiastic
Imagination personified.

Where He Began

A former carny pontificates
At great length about freedom
When what he really promotes is
Abject selfishness driven by
Perpetually flashing images of
What it was like to scrap
For a living years ago,
People stepping on him,
Taking advantage of him,
Looking down on him,
A harsh life of insecurity and
Debasement coloring his every
Waking moment and assuring him
That it’s okay to punish
Everyone else so that he
Doesn’t end up where he began.

Recede

Thirty minutes away but
Unfathomably remote.
A vividly painful memory,
Times spent anxiously vying for
Approval, a pathetic dance for a
Morsel of affirmation.
Insatiable craving for attention
Heightened by ruthless
Absence of empathy.
In the distance all things
Recede as if they had
Never existed.

Happen Again

His people once owned
Other people.

He fights hard so it
Never happens again.

His people once owned
Other people.

He fights hard to
Make it happen again.

Expensive

In a beautiful mansion with
A grand staircase,
Crystal chandeliers,
Sumptuous furnishings,
Expensive art works,
There is a small room
Hidden by a panel,
Off a bedroom,
Lockable from the inside,
Where he can hide
When they come to
Take away what he
Takes from them.

Where They Are

Emily sits at the
Kitchen table unaware
That, nearby, people
Loathe her because of
Something she can’t
Do anything about.

Mom and Dad are getting
Ready for work,
Earning anemic wages at
Companies designed to keep
Them exactly where
They are in perpetuity.

It’s always been this way,
Toiling for nothing,
An honest day’s
Work unrecognized,
A treadmill they can’t
Avoid or escape.

Nonsense

My knotted insides signal a
Debilitating inability to stand up
And let my voice be heard,
To announce my value.
Stop making waves,
Follow the rules.
Nonsense
Rubbed into my brain by
People desperately trying to
Quell entrenched feelings of
Helplessness, unimportance.
Imperious bluster annihilating
Dissidence and love.

Empty Plate

Superfluous words of
Instruction, castigation,
Pompously meted out
By the comfortable.

Cavalier imposition
Of distorted morality,
Cruelty promulgated by
Lifeless husks.

An empty plate
Contemptuously
Dropped in front of
The starving.

Exemplary

Build a tidy family,
Secrets and appearances,
Oaths and promises.
Don’t tell what happened,
Never betray this to
Anyone, anywhere, anytime.

A nest lined with falsity,
Hidden from street view
Behind impenetrable
Curtain of scrubbed cheeriness,
Exemplary, faithful, guiltless,
Eternal fear, pressure.

Grand Gift

A sublime, magnificent chronicle of
Inexorable change. Transcendent
Flourishing contraposed with
Dispassionate destruction,
Prolonged repose, implausible rebirth.
Still visible evidence of
Primordial epochs, vast eras
Recorded for posterity to examine.
All for nought for many of
Absolute surety, forbidden to
Acknowledge that it just is,
As it always has been, will be.
Let us enjoy it while we can,
An impossibly grand gift of
Improbability and chance.

A Matter of Degree

He makes an offhand
Remark about someone’s race,
Not giving it much thought
And well in keeping with
The rest of his consistently
Intolerant outlook on many
Things, punctuated by a
Self-serving qualification
About how he accepts all people,
And how he’s so moderate,
Civilized, enlightened,
Completely unaware that
The only difference between
Him and the monsters
Is a matter of degree.