NOEL BAYNES
Oh how I hate to see a heart hardened.
Hark the herald angels sing
Of poverty.
Peace on earth,
my newborn king.
They do not hear us.
We are punitive
And too severe.
They often fear us.
Bullets on a boutonniere.
They disappear.
With no trace.
Just hollow pain
And excuses.
Yesterday.
I know you heard what happened.
My son, —
yesterday
He turned into a graphic—
Too graphic-
He became a pattern.
A trend.
Yesterday,
Today and tomorrow.
Until.
It passes.
My son, —
It was
Tragically written.
Yesterday
My son—
He became a number
He became another on a long list.
An angel’s song-
They sing and cry.
For all our sons and daughters.
I know you saw it.
My son—
The law came and went
Leaving the taste of blood in our mouths.
While we thirst for water.
Yesterday
The rain came down.
Not to nourish our bodies
But to drown them.
The flood rose high.
Surrounding our houses.
And now we shout for help from the roof.
My son—
You were meant to walk the moon.
Larger than a star
We gravitate from far
To honor your birth.
And your passing.
We reminisce on your laughing
And love.
