Neon Light
Bursting blossoms of brilliant red blink
She lights a cigarette and takes a righteous puff
Her shadow flickers on and off
Is she young? Age is only a number contained in infinity
Math was never her favorite algebra far too abstract
‘seX’ and ‘whY?’ are changing values always in flux never exact
More than mascara darkens her weary eyes
La Rue Avenue is a symphony of the blues
Down here you gotta sing the purples to pay your dues
Big Tiny shuffles his finely shined shoes reflecting the neon glow
She smiles as the hulking ogre marches by
If you have the desire, see Big Tiny, he can light the fire
Lurking about shady streets in the hood at 3 A.M. can only be trouble
She dreams this nameless child
Dreams are cheap they come when you sleep
They saturate the soul reaching deep
When the crystal glasses of hope crash broken
In misery we weep
Not a word, not a prayer, is spoken
A car rushes by breaking monotony on this endless eve
Gawking faces on necks turn to gaze on the spectacle
This is not a museum, far from a Picasso, say hello to a tragedy
A cracked vase, without any face, sadly the store was sold out of grace
She should be sleeping in a warm bed
Safe and secure
But alas she has no home, no no home at all
But in her dreams
Well she has it all
If only fantasy was reality
If wishes were money she wouldn’t be selling her intimacy
Shame is the game and we’re all to blame
From the cops who play or take pay to look the other way
To the John who wants to get it on, all the same
A wind blows and she feels the thrill of a chill
Is there is a God in heaven; is this His/Her divine will?
Laughter rings like somber bells of madness bursting into song
Hunger hijacks precedence over right and wrong
The preacher loudly condemns and the flock shouts amen
But even the ‘holy rollers’ come by now and then
If-a-holy-god-is-in-heaven-that-leaves-the-devil-to-devour-on-Earth-and-the-wages-of-sin-drive-the-free-market-while-crowded-shopping-malls-sell-pleasures-and-money-in-sufficient-quantities-can-get-any-desire-of-your-perverted-fetish-delivered-to-your-penthouse-door-with-a- polite-smile
Thank you and please come again!
IF
if she survives to mourn the new morn
a ragged doll savagely ripped and torn
in every day they say there’s a lesson to learn
somberly sadly she shall return
The neon sign is living testimony a lighthouse to the lost
Off and on dark and light black and red
We all have our secrets our private moments better left unsaid
A whore a hooker a prostitute, one abandoned soul is too high a cost
Clicking Away the Day
Clicking away the day
Hoping to find a job with pay
Avoiding recruiter’s scam
And arrogant bosses who don’t give a damn
All around the Earth
Babies, babies, babies born in birth
Growing up to be angry young men
Past forgotten future forsaken
Bursts of violent frustration
Desperation
I write poems to pass the hour
As help wanted ads I devour
Longing for something so I can live
And perhaps something extra to give
To the unfortunate many
Who in a desperate plea
Cry
As babies perish and die
I am so far away
With an endless ocean in between
But another world is seen
On the computer screen
Clicking away the day
My Broken Cross
I harvest a handful of lilacs
In memory of love that has never been
And simmer sipping tonic and gin
With a hole in the wall
Whose name I can’t recall
We were discussing the unforgivable
Sin
At one time in my history
I smoked daiquiri after daiquiri
Succinctly getting stoned
And somewhere somebody sings sweetly
A song I had once knew
Through and through
Completely
And all I wished for was a better life for all
Does that make me a criminal?
That I had a heart that could care
And that I was aware
Of the selfishness of greed
And the endless need
That is the basic element of humanity
I remember
The day of complete surrender
When all was at a loss
And I embraced my broken cross
Searing hot burning chromium steel
As real
As the napalm incinerating flesh of Vietnamese children
What do you want to accomplish?
With your Satanic sin
And the greatest words of agony
“It ain’t me”
Wells & Altars
The well constructed of runic stones of gray granite
Decipherable only in the angelic language of love
Our father Isaac dug these fountains of life
Our father Jacob created altars to his God
Wells penetrate deeply reaching treasures below
On altars prayers ascend touching divine ears
If I am thirsty
I seek a well
If I am in angst
I offer sacrifices
Years pass and who can number
The drops of rain
Our desperate pleas
Unanswered prayers
Faith
Is lowering a bucket anticipating
The waters of life to fill the soul
Faith
Is falling to one’s knees
In humble submission
A heart shattered
As the sledgehammer smashes the glass dove
Sparkling shards like shrapnel flying
Will the well run dry?
Shall God continue to betray?
I stroll down Manhattan streets
Congested byways people clad in business attire
Where temples to the gods of greed
Scrape the sky
Touching the smog stained abode of God
Thousands – innocent children included
Suffer from lack of shelter lack of food
Shivering on cold nights
Bellies singing an aching dirge of emptiness
In a realm of five-hundred-dollar dinners
Served in exclusive five-star restaurants
There are no wells on the Manhattan streets
Only pagan altars too numerous to count
Let me shout these words of blasphemy
Tear down these false phallic symbols
Casting dark shadows of doom in degenerate hearts
Let the glorious rays of heaven shine with
Golden treasures of Love
Men poor in Love hire accountants
To quantify to the last worn-out copper penny
The exact sum of their material worth
Disciples rich with God’s favor
Can never count their ever-overflowing blessings
Wells are vain if one lacks tools to draw the substance
Altars serve no purpose to the godless
2 Many Battles
I perished at Wounded Knee
Twice
Frozen in black and white photographs
The sacred soul of the Land of the Free
I turn the pages...
On ominous Omaha beach
Whizzing missiles of misery
Too scared to be afraid
Agony echoing as seagulls cry
Maybe Waterloo too
Who will save me?
Bayonets, bullets, bombs
Soldiers scribbling brave bold letters
Reassuring anxious moms
Here I am in hell
But all is well
Victory is around the corner
Along with a chicken in every pot
Infantryman playing the part of the loser
A wildebeest fleeing from the lion’s growl
Becoming prey to the hyena
As Hannibal marches forward
Enormous, elegant elephants crushing all
Auschwitz!
I find the Tet Offensive supremely offensive
It put McNamara on the defensive
Even David and Goliath
2 Many battles
Let us close the Book of War
Emphatically
With finality
Goodbye forever to the cruelty
Or perhaps write no more pages
“Wars and rumors of war…….”
John Kaniecki enjoys writing stories and poetry. He lives in Montclair, New Jersey. His wife Sylvia, suffers from dementia and lives in a nursing home nearby. John visits her daily. His poetry has been published in over a hundred outlets, and he has about two dozen books, either self-published or published with small presses.
He has worked as an engineering technician and a customer service agent. John also volunteered for ten years as a missionary to the inner city of Newark, New Jersey, with the Church of Christ at Chancellor Avenue.
He currently works part-time as a math tutor. In his free time, he works on his writing. John has also worked as an engineering technician, customer service agent, and stocker, among other things.
He enjoys writing a great deal; it is a love and passion of he shares on his social media presence.
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