These are some poems written by Stephen D. Lalonde. Please consider all of them as copyrighted.
Smoke To Flame
A new log on the fire.
Smoke cloaking the log,
More and more, and then,
Smoke flashes into
Bright flame dancing once again.
So it is with life.
An unkind word or deed
Starts smoke of sadness.
Sadness grows to resentment,
And then the flame of anger.
But kind words can start
The warming of the heart,
And fanned with best care,
Flashes to the flame of love.
Stephen Lalonde
10/10/22
A Nightmare
A fat inchworm with a baby's face
Humps its way over shards of broken glass.
A comb over of blond hair
Flops around over the blond
Hitler’s mustache above a foul mouth.
Crimson slime trails behind,
Coming not from the worm,
But from his victims,
As he snarls his venomous
Putrid words of disdain,
Stupidly spit out in caustically
Incongruous phrases of nonsense.
The shards applaud and cheer
As their golden calf worm
Spews the lies they want to hear.
The cold breath of hate
Permeates the stagnant air
Of their assembly,
And the shards are completely
Unaware of their inhumanity
As if they would care,
Even if they could understand.
Stephen Lalonde
4/11/22
What happened?
I poke the remote.
The Babble screen springs to life.
Colorful images and talking heads
Spew garbage and sale seductions
Defining how awful and awesome
This day can be.
The ‘stupid meter’ pegs the pin.
I remember the good ol’ days,
When Walter was the trusted
Bringer of real news.
Containing the real facts,
Sans ‘alternate’ fantasies.
Qanonsense has poisoned
Feeble minds made mad
With the stuff
That used to be
Limited to tabloids
And toilets.
Civil war is again
Threatening our existence.
The realm of idiots,
American ‘Christian’ Talaban;
“Believe what we believe,
Or die.”
Corporate legislators
Abandon those hopeful
Citizens who put them there,
For the treasures offered
In exchange for their souls.
Oaths mean nothing to them.
There is no honor anymore,
Greed and sex and power
Have buried it
In the sad ground
Of a dying earth.
Decency is decaying there.
I poke the remote.
It is time for tears
And guillotines.
Stephen Lalonde 1/14/22
Blood pours from his poison pen,
A black hole where should be a heart.
His grin a grimace
As he holds up the next
Executive order
Slashing at the middle class.
“Let’s put this on the frig.”
He is surrounded
By the Evil Plutocracy
He recruits to his wicked agenda.
Deranged, he lies more than not,
And his underlings nod
Like bobble-heads
Celebrating his stupefying victory
Born of Fear and Hatred.
The swamp has only been
Populated differently,
Not drained.
Like Pandora, he has opened
The jar of concentrated
Bigotry, Prejudice, Misogyny and Racism.
His dedicated minions snap ‘Hiel’ salutes.
Some of them, otherwise good people,
Make excuses for his
Filthy mouth and FOUL behavior.
Kool-aid anyone?
SDL revised 4/8/17
Poets
The Poet experiences
Painstakingly creative
Word birth;
Yet once penned
The words become
Creatures
crawling
across
the page,
On their own,
Yearning
For an open mind.
Advertising
We are products,
You and I,
Of thing mongers'
Flashy, expensive seductions.
Like a massive box of crayons
Their colors fill our eyes,
Slogans flood our ears,
We are hammered into consumers
Like a smithy forges iron.
The assault is constant
From the moment we wake
And on and on and on
Until the end,
And even then
There’s a label on the casket.
She was that empty head,
Which echoed forth reality
To unhearing ears;
Apollo's revenge.
They called her mad,
As they made ready
The death bed of Troy,
And accepted the wooden idol,
Pregnant with deceit,
Whose ashes would lie
With the ashes
Of their once fair city—
Just as she had warned them.
Available on Amazon.com
The Fog
The man and his dog
Standing still on the dock,
Peer into the fog,
The glass-smooth sea
Barely reflecting the boats,
Still they stare into the fog.
What is missing that they seek,
The man and his dog.
Silence stills the scene,
Time ceases to be,
And yet they gaze into the fog.
Standing still on the dock,
The man and his dog.