The Blue God

Andrew Thomas

Art by Andrew Thomas  ⊥ Poetry by Joan McNerney

The blue god of war
is so strong
he can twist trees
with the tip of his tongue.

You better not defy him
scream at him
lie to him.
He’ll explode and beat
the hell out of you.

He lives on nothing
will die for nothing
makes us children
shivering all night
crying in empty winds
turning our tears to ice.

The blue god of war
is so strong
northern winds bow
to his will.

He doesn’t dig
your moaning
and groaning.
You better shut up or he’ll
make mincemeat out of you.

He laughs at everything
has respect for nothing
makes us afraid to fight
when he spits in our faces
turning our tears to ice.

So we watch in silence
waiting for the coming light
when he will hold us
in his burning hands
and we will be born twice
once by fire
once by ice.


His long fingers
search coded panels
buttons cool smooth
attached to glowing screens.

Isn’t he powerful?
The general
general motors
general electric
and the major, major holocaust?

So admirable
the admiral
can sweep our planet away
in less than half an hour.

Another fact to live with
we can all blow up
in flames.
At any instant
galleries of murdered faces.

All of us born with this
strange dilemma.
Why do anything
when everything is wrong?
Our hearts caged in fear.

The eyes of the dead
are glassy and surprised
staring with open mouths.

Yes and always there is pain
of what could possibly remain.
Perhaps some slabs of concrete?
Is that all we have been building, buildings?


Occupant Apartment 2 D

His days marched in place
days like tin soldiers each one
pushing the next aside.

Hurry, hurry before it is too late…
inside a gaping hole to be filled.
More and more of the surface
of his life was covered by dust.

The hallway gave off a musty odor.
Night after night, lights burned.
Busted dreams heaped in boxes.
Black marks covered floors.

Less and less energy to clean up.
His body betrayed him, both his
bones, his breath betrayed him.

One edge of his room spoke to
the other. His fan purred all summer,
basement furnace heaved all winter.
This incessant sigh gathering dust.


This grey day unrolls before us.
I want to scream out against
flat skies, tear up coarse air.

I am put through my paces
with long lists of minutiae.
Acrid weariness crawls up spine.
My eyelids droop shut.

Today marches forward…another
tin soldier knocking yesterday aside.
Each night coming faster, faster.
Winds blowing stronger, stronger.

Cats howl in cold circles as
ragged leaves cling to boughs.
Raindrops fall like black ink
under small pools of street lights.

Darkness gathers close…
my shadow, that long black
silhouette slanting down
follows me into the long night.


See more art from Andrew Thomas at
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Global artists and writers dedicated to sharing creativity around the world.

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