Quincy R. Lehr

Quincy R. Lehr

WAR SONG

Praise be to the Lord my Rock,
who trains my hands for war,
my fingers for battle.
—Psalm 144:1

Sing for the hireling monograph,

the so-called greater good.

Sing for the hungry prisoner

raped with his own food.

Sing for the guards with mobile phones,

the naked men in piles.

Sing for the thumbs-up at the front,

the way the woman smiles.

Sing for the corpses on the bridge,

the shells in the city square.

Sing for the places undisclosed

but nonetheless on-air.

Sing for the drawling mullet man,

his sometimes-strummed guitar.

Sing for the next commercial break.

Meanwhile, another star

burns out, but very far away.

Its light, as yet shines on.

Sing for the watchers on the ground

waiting for the dawn.

—September 11, 2015

__________

Quincy R. Lehr: “I write poetry because I lack a sense of proportion.” (link)

Quincy R. Lehr

BUNGA-BUNGA

A leisure-suited mogul.
An extra bit of skin.
A dealer at the back door.
They’d better let you in.

A starched and snow-white collar.
Fresh coffee in the mug.
A fetching secretary.
An oriental rug.

A killer app, a Bluetooth,
a line of blow to snort,
ensconced there like a vizier
at the Sublime Porte.

Each woman’s in your harem.
Each man’s a catamite,
an entry in your ledger
that shouldn’t come to light.

But on the street the warriors
gather around their chiefs
to hunt for bunga-bunga.
In boxers or in briefs,

in high-rise blocks or villas,
secluded or in view,
the chieftain’s spear is waving.
He has his eye on you.

Rattle: Poetry