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Who's at Fault?

Who’s at fault?
By: Know Now

We point our finger to the
Sky and say:
The man up there is at fault!
He is the one who caused
This!

God looked down at the
Trees burning,
The fish shoring,
The glaciers melting,
The animals dying,
And sighed.

God looked at man
And their factories,
His missing forests
Their oil and trash in the sea,
His animals in cages,
Their smoke in the air,
And shook his head.

We laugh as we raise
Our heads.
We laugh, not recognizing
Our faults as men.
As we always do.

Tears Of A Clown

Against a willowy wailing backdrop of inner chaos,
an indignant incendiary mask stifles the simmering cauldrons,’
of a stoic stage clown post lachrymose performance wearily stunning yet stung,
or the surreptitious posture of the laugh it off as mediocre bypass,
iron clad ruthless repression of bone rattle indignation a seeker of impoverished aperture,
whilst many can manage to laugh through their toppling tears,
this feeble feat can be turgidly reversed as in  cavernous crying through laughter,

Reminiscent

It begins in the end.
Everyone you meet has a story to tell.
Some are left behind, teaching valuable lessons.
Some walk with us and strangers become familiar.
​The one, the precious one casts an unbreakable spell.

January, an inception of something nice but
Febuary faded away not making any sense.
March felt like hell, unblurred by May as dust settled.
I'd give anything to relive June to september,
solving complexities of october and everything after.

Sometimes heart isn't broken into million pieces,
It breaks into two, one is given, another frozen.

Tears Of A Clown

Against a willowy wailing backdrop of inner chaos,
an indignant incendiary mask stifles the simmering cauldrons,
of a stoic stage clown post lachrymose performance wearily stunning yet stung,
or the surreptitious posture of the laugh it off as mediocre bypass,
iron clad ruthless repression of bone rattle indignation a seeker of impoverished aperture,
whilst many can manage to laugh through their toppling tears,
this feeble feat can be turgidly reversed as in  cavernous crying through laughter,

Winter

Winter

Winter scars—
six keen strands of
skeletal branches scrape
what little life lies
beneath the broken fern, scattered,
as wind breathes through
the wick of a dying flame,
scattering ember and ash
into a fleet of hardened snow.

Yet winter dazzles,
gleaming in the solemn dewdrop
that clings to the twigs
of a barren beech,
or bleaches the mud-cracked slopes
with snow that buries
what the earth cannot mourn.

The War Against a Young Girl

I see the way you hide your face,
Like you’re ashamed to take up space.
I know that look— I wore it too,
Before I learned what’s false, what’s true.

They’ll tell you lies about your skin,
Your weight, your height, the shape you’re in.
They’ll pick apart the way you dress,
As if you owe them more or less.

They’ll whisper names behind your back,
Their words like knives, their hearts so black.
But don’t believe the things they say—
Their cruelty fades, you will stay.

I know the nights you cry alone ,
When home’s a Warzone, love unknown.

A Written Goodbye

I’m not a reader, but you’re the story I chose to keep. Your eyes—luminous—offered a kind of peace, a healing deep. I still have the flowers you gave me that day— Do you remember the soft apologies when your replies came late? I know someday, we'll have to part, But still, I’ll carry your name etched in my heart. When I lie on my deathbed, searching the skies for something true, It’s your voice I’ll hear, whispering the secrets I always knew. You must be not just the best dad,but the best mom too, Raise them to be kind, and strong, and good—just like you. And if you cry, holding my photo whe

The Nod

It was so long ago, that day, the memory
has almost leached away, and I no longer know
exactly what was said or done, only that you
took umbrage, and when next I passed your way
where once there would have been a smile, there was none.

Perhaps, I thought, you turned your back
attending to some task, or did not notice me
but each day from then on it was the same.
We are prisoners of geography:
to go about my business, I must pass
your house, and in unbroken sequence, trip by trip
there’d be a silent echo of that first rebuff.

Alone

I sat still in the moment's silence, Listening to the songs of the birds— A melody of varied frequencies, A harmony is born from nature's gifts. I gazed at the radiant sky, I watched the clouds, Artwork of a perfect Craftsman. They stretch, move, and disperse in space, All in a time set and approved by their Creator. I turned to look at a bird on a wire, Unafraid of its rhythmic movement, it preened its feathers. It later took off, basking in the warmth of the friendly sky. I observed the trees, Dancing to the orchestra of the wind.
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