Misunderstand No Dour Dishes Poem by John Sensele

Threadbare thinktank torn
To shreds
Pouring on our station scorn
As the name of shame spreads

When our wounds we lick
Waking up at 0500 in the dark
To a power paucity making us sick
Welding, hair styling, secretarial processing out of the park

That hitherto put bread on our table
Propping up our evaporating ego
Given our economic ebb grown unstable
In covert, overt opportunities we forgo

Hoping to derive from a soccer spectacle consolation
Reaping instead discomfiture
In moods marrying and carrying immolation, desolation
Not just in ludicrous literature

But also in the ethos
We hold sacred
Although plenty pathos
Grow in our face red

Closing our eyes
Reflecting how we scrambled this shore
Bereft of pyrrhic pies
That analyze, summarize, synthesize the sad score

We reap despite our wintry wishes
To bury heads in the sand
Pretending dour dishes
Not for us to understand or misunderstand

Claiming nightmare not ours
Passing phase
Soon fortunes would propel powers
Into our vortex for coats, goats and votes to amaze, daze and graze

Despite sedentary setbacks
Snapping plans we draw
With wisdom we stash in packs and stacks
Dream in reams described as raw

If we fracture and suture nature
Resorting to business as usual tactics
That cannot alter courses the future
Holds and unfolds in the creep creeds, whip winds and jeep gymnastics

We entertain and maintain
Regardless of reality frailties on the ground
Rejecting and ejecting fallacies and fantasies we sustain and retain
Brushing aside, crushing credence and pushing reality and its humility around

To soothe illusions
To deny facts
To swim in seas of delusions
And to clutch at adverse acts

We cherish
Pipe dreams we treasure
Excuses we furnish
And platitudes we measure in our platonic pleasure.