Tag Archives: poem about the end of the world

New Messiah

New Messiah

From whom among the worldly scrum
will Earth’s brighter future come?
Who’ll point a twitching finger to
a skyline of a sickly hue
and before our future’s gone,
transform it from its dull and wan
pallor to a richer hue?
What newer race will then renew
as their fathers failed to do?
Who forms these saviors of the world?
In what infant brain lies curled
the savior of the human race?
Or will we vanish without a trace?



Prompt words today are twitch, skyline, scrum, wan and finger.

Virtual World (Wordle 507)

Virtual World

Beamed into this lifetime, we’re bitten, bruised and lost,
not knowing it’s a virtual world into which we’ve been tossed.
Reality a spectrum whose limits have been blurred,
how many feel their life is just a thing to be endured?
If that grand player tweaks the board a bit, adding more disaster,
might the game be over an eon or two faster?

If he adds another virus to aids and chicken pox,
If he bundles up more pieces and throws them in the box,
will Earth breathe her final breath at last, gasping, torn and weak?
Is that the master game move? Is that his final tweak?
Or will the game start over with new rules the next round?
And will the moves go smoother once new game pieces have been found?


Wordle prompts today are: beam, virtual, box, bruise, bit, lost, spectrum, torn, tweak, bundle, breathe and time. HERE is the link to read other submissions for this prompt. Image by Robert Coelho on Unsplash, used with permission.


Weird Little Doomsday Poem

Weird Little Doomsday Poem

This window is my namesake if you take out the “n.”
Although I must admit it is just where I begin. 
If you conduct an interview to cull me from the throng
and ask me what one item I would take along
to insure my survival if doomsday were to come,
to bolster my intent to live and pain of loss to numb,
it wouldn’t be a photo of any person past.
The only item that insures that I would want to last
is simply pen and paper, for I still insist
that this is where the future will continue to exist.

Strange where these prompts may lead you if you just get out of their way, and I admit readily that this one is very strange. It was written in about 5 minutes. It took longer to find the photo in my iPhotos file!! Prompts for today are window, namesake, interview, throng and item.




I am not sorry
for the hours I have stolen
away from your busy life.
You should have given them freely.
I was trying to teach you that.

You were such a poor student,
professing love, then
rushing off hither and yon.

Early morning flea markets
spawned caches—
rental garages stuffed with treasures
that didn’t fit into a house
 already filled with me
years before you moved in.

You picked things up
in driveways
and on curbsides,
widows in the seat next to you 
on bargain flights alone to Mexico.

You snatched me
from that singles party
before I even got my coat off.
Eye trained at the door,
you knew lonely

when you saw it.
my Ford Econoline camper van,

you drove me off to most of California,
then to Mexico,
while I tried to teach you how to be
where you were. Pouring salt on your tail,
trying to hold your gaze.

And I am not sorry— either for what I asked of you
or for throwing away the rest of you—
that busy bee, buzzing from bloom to bloom
to see what it could find.

For NaNoWriMo 2020, day 13, we are to write an apology for something we’ve stolen.

Off Course


Off Course

For those who cannot fathom the changes time has wrought,
tomorrow will be better, or perhaps it will be not.
Those who have championed progress, thinking it is for our betterment
might come at last to fathom that it’s been to our fetterment.
Why do we study science and waste our time at college
only to find out that we’ve been ruined by our knowledge?
We have been so quickly smart and sadly too late wise.
All our grand inventions seem to lead to our demise.
Can we make things better? Can we veer off to the light?
Or will we blindly keep our course, attracted to the night?

The word prompts today are: better, tonight, champion, fathom and college.

Lost World


Lost World

There is no skin for our ceiling.
No skin.
The moon, like an animal, 
hovers over and around our houses.

In their caves, twitching iguanas live their small deaths
while, caught by moonlight, my friends go sleepless.
I follow my heart in circles, mutter protests to the stars,
running first against, then with
the incredible crocodile.

There is no skin–not any–for the ordinary world.
The dead in their graves are still for a very long time.
Then they rise to pass again around the circle.
The children are easily sleeping.
Tomorrow they will question the old women
with the candor that is necessary
to rub the callouses from their souls.

Straining to the song of life which calls,
“Awaken. Awaken,”
the mouths of the rising dead eat the steaming earth
and under them, in the earth,
are layers of the innocent
with the hearts of dead flowers
because they have neither the fragrance of life,
nor the beat of it.

When they were alive, they
spilled coins from their purses
and from their mouths, spilled prayers for their recent sins.
All of them balanced the two sides of sadness–
the sadness of seeing, and the sadness of not seeing.

At the time of death, all wash themselves clean of their friends.
And God, the rider through life––
through all things holy as well as all things evil––
hovers near the ceiling
while the refugees shake their brothers,
like water, from their hair.

This God,
who in life took passage in an ordinary boat,
who left his resurrection like a butterfly disappearing,
now travels with light,
words like new flowers on his tongue,
Whispering, “Now. Wake up.”

A sentry walks the escarpment of the reservoir–
an angel who grew up in the trench of the soldier
and the boat of the apostle––
an angel with the teeth of a serpent
who sings all night,
his beautiful face lifted to the violent sky.
“Where are the hands of my mother?”

There is no skin for his ceiling. 
No skin. No skin.
The aqua sky?
Gone, my friends,
replaced by fire.
No skin left for our world.

We are caught in a too-long day
that fades into inevitable night.
We lie awake,
our minds throbbing to music
from the drum of the moon
that leads us into dreams

where we forget the large lie
and remember, finally, that
the sins of the heart
are not just


for dVerse Poets open link night

Once by Ice and Once by Fire


Once by Ice and Once by Fire

Once by ice and now by fire, erasing her mistakes,
Mother Earth must wonder how many times it takes
to finally get the world planned right, for once the lot is cast,
how can she watch sufficiently  a planet that’s so vast?

Her hope is that but rarely she must resort to extinction
to control a species risen to such great distinction
that it uses up more resources than it can provide.
How many times must she restore a planet that has died?

She casts a might yawn and then breathes fire once again—
cancelling out excesses that they can’t see as sin.
Caught in a clinch as they resist all means of education,
perhaps the only answer is mankind’s eradication.


IMG_0970 (1)


Prompt words today are extinct, rarely, clinch, vast and hope.



If only we could rectify his brash and wicked pen
and go back to the saner world where we once had been,
where “sincere” was still a virtue yearned for by the masses
and a scrappy tweeting fool was not supported by the asses
who vended us their guns to turn against each other,
and make an enemy of one who could have been a brother.
Perhaps it’s true that we can win the vote and turn the tide,
but how can we affect the greater danger that’s inside?
All the hate within us that this monster has unfurled—
can we tuck it back inside to restore a saner world?
It is the way of nature, this violence and feeding
one thing upon the other, our wild hearts still beating

beneath our higher consciousness. Which part of us is winning?
All our better virtues counterbalanced with our sinning?
The problem is when things are skewed and evil is called good,
meanness and shortsightedness labelled brotherhood.
“Make America Great Again” a usurped slogan used
to herd together masses who then can be abused.
All the bleating, senseless lambs led into the slaughter.
Every fearful parent serving up their son or daughter
so the plastic rivers and the hurricane-fed winds
can circumvent their livelihoods and bring about their ends.
Like the mighty dinosaurs, wiped out from this earth
to see what newer species might grow up in their dearth.

Are my words hyperbole? Do I just rant and rave?
Is there no world redeemable left for us to save?
Should we give up and gaze at made-up worlds within our palms?
Using films on telephones to soothe our fearful qualms?
Whose great plan do we follow? Are we so so deluded now
that we no longer have an inkling left in us of how
to see a broader kinder world where we care for each other,
seeing humans far and near as sister and as brother?
In this world of selfies and facebooking and tweeting,
of foolish men herded like sheep, blindfolded and bleating,
can we return to sanity, our world to save and mend
or will we continue to be led, stampeding to our end?

Please comb your conscience and then vote for a saner world!

Prompt words today are scrap, rectifywicked, sincere and pen.

Finishing What God Started


Finishing What God Started

Once the polar ice has melted and the animals departed,
It’s only right that we continue on with what we’ve started.
It will be the biggest news that humankind has won.
We’ll eradicate the universe, and our job will be done!



Prompt words for today are melt, news, universe and eradicate.

Touchy Subject, for dVerse Poets

Touchy Subject

My soul, once slippery as an seal,
that eased as easily as an eel
to heaven and back, a wave worn path,
like slippy-sliding in the bath,
has grown rough ridges that jerk me back
into the mosh pit with the pack.

We flail with elbows, boot tips, knees—
all of us caught within the squeeze
of what we hate and knock against,
beat fist and teeth and cock against.
It’s like a cageless, viral zoo,
this rough world we’ve evolved into.

The whole world’s in each other’s viewing,
killing, ripping, tearing, chewing.
We touch the keys to tear asunder,
ravage, rape, ransack and plunder.
These same hands that could stroke the keys,
pound and punish, grab and seize.

We Tweet or Snapchat, Facebook, Skype,
barely touching as we type.
We are so constantly in touch
that we do not consider much
that in our constant online dealing,
we should give more thought to feeling.

We cannot feel a handshake’s squeezing,
warm and tender, pressured, pleasing,
when we’re too far away to touch.
We cannot feel so very much.
We feel with organs meant for thinking,
and make connections without linking.

Those of us who predate the text
tend to fear what’s coming next.
A simple touch could end the world—
all of us pulverized and hurled
into a place where nothing lingers.
No tongue, no lips, no questing fingers.