Neither mother, maiden, nor crowne
can morn more the passing of this nation
than babe taken or husband to war,
or love that’s belated and lost forever more.
Beat down brother, father, and son
can no more face the promise of sundown
and the ceasefire before the terror of morn,
and the return to menial work is war
on all but those who lack what could be soul.
We need a return to more simple times,
tech has broken the democratic mold
and left us as 1’s and 0’s to die
in the waste basket of fools chasing gold
while laboring bent and broken for coal.
The Poetry Of J.P. 