The ballad of the dead and powerless
Ole Xerxes sleeps on Lethe’s shores
And can’t remember jack,
The spoils of gold he won from wars,
The armies he pushed back.
And Caesar’s maps have turned to dust,
A sprinkling on the wind;
Jules shut shit down, but couldn’t trust
The man he called his friend.
Bin Laden made his reign a cave
Of crags and shadowy rocks,
Yet, no place that he hid could save
His soul from destiny’s clocks.
The death-time comes for wicked men
Just like it does for good;
Perhaps the world could breathe again
If this was understood.
A Sioux American sees some protesters on TV
and thinks about the pipeline being forced upon his lands
Crowds swarmed the Nation’s capital
Today, to show they were for real.
With rallying cries, they read from lists,
Made stern demands and pumped their fists;
Sang songs for ‘change’ to make it clear
That justice is a thing to fear.
We Native tribes remain unseen,
Who’ve kept the lands and waters clean;
Still treated like the savage foil,
On a trail of tears that’s led to oil.
Nostradamus pours out a little liquor
I pour my fifth out on the piss-stained pavement,
And all I see is centuries of enslavement;
I pour a little more out on the ground:
It mocks the blood that ran from Jesus’ wound.
I takes a swig, then spills a heavenly drop,
And it looks like wars ain’t never gonna’ stop.
One gulp of liquor left, and that’s for me
To numb the pain of seein’ what I see.
James Feichthaler’s poetry has appeared in numerous print and online journals in both the US and UK. His poems are truthful odes to his Imagination, which he calls, “the lunatic disciple of his existence.” The self-proclaimed “forrealist poet” is the host of an open-mic reading series called “The Dead Bards of Philadelphia,” which is held once a month at the Venice Island Performing Arts Center in Manayunk, PA. His first book, “Three Incantations of the Modern Druid,” is due out soon. You can follow James’s poetic exploits on Twitter at @forrealist_poet and keep up with The Dead Bards of Philadelphia on Facebook.