Precious Times

I might as well pay a visit to Copenhagen,
or maybe even the surface of the moon,
(this would necessitate more wherewithal
than a conveyance by plane,) because
today, that is to say this present time,
to wit, two thousand and sixteen,
bares fangs like rabid wolves,
howls octave howls
and scares me so,
as people gun each other, and old religions
stab and slay and even those unarmed
find ways to wound (the price is right),
for wheels still spin and prizes wait
for those who practice hate.
We have come far with Internet, and yet
the times are knee-less stumps, and walking
is a tragic case
wherein the steps cry out in plea
for ambulation as it were before
man traveled into space, before
those credit cards were rife and cable
TV was a dream. 
A German tourist was a sight
to photograph the White House lawn,
and station wagons full of kids
were there to hear the cameras click. 
Acrid times as flowers fall, the rose, the
daffodils, all reticent for full expression.
Ominous our digital world,
and opaque are the clouds.
Much like a claw or adder’s tongue
incising flesh, infecting skin
assailing we who breathe.
Yet now I see blue winter sky--the sun
provides its light as it has done for eons.
The radiating warmth, that fusion
reaction allowing for life.  Despite
hand-baskets bulging Hell, I still
remain as fortunate.  These are
the best of times.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
2-23-16
______

Requirements:
--a visit to Copenhagen
--by plane
--a German tourist
--daffodils
--blue winter sky