I don’t write a lot of poetry. What I do write is mostly drivel: random images and alliteration strung together with a simple theme and bad punctuation. But when I got on the post-apocalyptic poetry kick a few weeks ago, I actually cranked out a handful of other poems in that radioactive vein as well. They’re just taking up space in my files, so I figured I might as well let them take up space here.
Mostly Cloudy
The missiles fell like rain and
cleansed the earth.
Father says I must not be grateful.
Before
Since then, “Before” mutated into a proper noun:
a place, a time, a world of bliss and innocence captured in
a single, perfect crystal.
No one speaks much of the Before these days.
Inside
The Leader gives us water and hope
in exchange for our wives and daughters.
“It’s better than being out there,” we say.
Yes. Better than being out there.
Compound Rules
All gates are to be kept locked.
All doors and windows too.
Check and double-check — bring a rifle.
This is the law of life.
Break it, and you will die. Break it, and we may all die.
