Architect and Sculptor

The gun is architect

and sculptor of the soul.

It carves the man

until it has reached its goal.

Its blueprint is for a man

who will turn to blood someday,

and it gives the plan

so the sculpture can play.

Carving can be slow,

but the sculptor goes to work,

slowly changing the man

from a stone into a young Turk.

Once the man was solid—

morals firm and true.

But rebellion enters in

by the time the sculptor's through.

Little chips of stone

fall to the floor,

and soon the man of morals

has not morals anymore.

 

With His Fists

He administered justice with his fists—

Never knew the gun,

Never bothered to learn about the weapon

That would send them on the run.

The sheriff of Ada County,

Up in Idaho,

Administered justice with his fists

Whenever he had a row.

Criminals of all sorts—

You could count them all.

He hit them with his fists,

And down they would fall.

Thieves, and forgers, and arsonists,

Even killers too—

He fought them with his fists,

And soon enough, they were through.

So let this be a lesson:

You don't need a gun.

Just use your fists—

They get the job well done.

(Note: The above poem is fiction.)

 When the Dollar Is Your Ruler

When the dollar is your ruler,

When the dollar calls the shots,

When the land is ruled by barons,

Then democracy just rots.

When your leaders say the nation prospers

As they fill their pockets full,

Then it's time to turn them out of office—
And if you don't, you're just a fool.

 Almost Their Second Religion

The Second Amendment is a second religion

to some.

For it,

they always beat the drum.

Oh, they don't have hymns and scriptures—

no, I guess they don't.

And they'd never kill someone they shouldn't—

at least, they say they won't.

But guns are guns,

and they love guns,

almost to the point of worshipping them.

And when they have a choice,

they prefer one over an expensive gem.

Some have arsenals,

and some just have one.

But they prize it and show it off—

that's where they have their greatest fun.

Well, take your gun and keep it;

I have no use for it, I say.

I've seen what it can do,

and how many people it can slay.

 A Medal for a Massacre

A medal for a massacre,

A medal for doing wrong—

Killing 300 Sioux Americans

As if they didn't belong.

It was 1890 when the Army herded them together

Near Wounded Knee,

Took away their weapons,

Then shot them all with glee.

The Congressional Medal of Honor

Was awarded to twenty soldiers who shot them down.

Yes, for massacring the 300 Natives,

They were given honor and renown.

Trump’s Secretary of Defense—

That would be Pete Hegseth—

Praised the twenty soldiers

For administering such death.

“We salute their memory.

We honor their service,”

Hegseth lauded them.

It didn’t make him nervous.

What does this say?

What does it mean?

It speaks to the values

Of a despot ruling like a king.

 

A Man of Faith

A man of faith, a man of faith—

I don't think we can deny that.

But did he use his beliefs rightly,

Or to hurt the afflicted in combat?

Did he bless those in poverty,

Including all those from other lands?

He need not believe in the gay life,

But did he treat them with good hands?

Did he insult Black leaders,

And oppose laws that helped Black people out?

This man of faith, this man of faith—
Had faults, I say, no doubt.