Trace of Life

March 28, 2013  :: 0 comments

I do not rise.
I do not fall.
Am nourished
tubular feeding
on I know not what,
chemicals in,
waste out,
hint of sentience
flickering eyes
responsive to tv,
courtesy of
kindless sponsors.

Withdrawal Symptoms

featured in the poetry forum March 28, 2013  :: 0 comments

Jane Doe works at home,
consumer research,
uses the computer
for virtually everything.
Pays rent on-line,
talks to friends on-line,
orders meals on-line,
has sex on-line.
Jane Doe’s life
is the future,
unless we lose
our power supply.

editors note:

This ensures the propogation of the race; our cyber children, all those cute little ones and zeros. – mh


featured in the poetry forum January 11, 2012  :: 0 comments

The works of man, o builders,
are smothering our planet,
suffocating the surface
with endless coats of concrete,
denying respiration,
yet expecting survival.
Toxins pollute the land,
poison the air,
sterilize the seas.
Those who care,
hoping our children
will have a future,
bravely raise their voices,
but are thoroughly stifled
by the confusing clamor
broadcasted daily
by the servants of profit
to distract us from tomorrows.

editors note:

We thought we heard something here, but the TV was loud and there was a commercial about something we want. Now we’ve forgotten both, damn! – mh

Child Soldiers Demobilized

featured in the poetry forum November 16, 2010  :: 0 comments

Hundreds of child soldiers
in eastern Congo’s war
recently returned home,
often to the village
where they killed and pillaged.
Some were forced to leave
by threats of vengeance.
Others were ostracized
by their own families.
Some who were welcomed home
beat their heads against the wall
until they were tranquilized.
Others remained mute for days,
eyes darting back and forth
like frightened animals.
These children were kidnapped,
used by the rebels
as fighters, laborers
often as sex slaves,
manipulated victims,
now only fit for war,
or mental institutions.


featured in the poetry forum July 3, 2010  :: 0 comments

Abandoned in the desert
I dream rescues,
while smiting the sand
strips the shimmering flesh
from my rejected bones.
Where is the guide?
Wagon master of the soul’s journey
fording rivers,
repelling ambushes,
then leaving me behind,
a companion to the voyage
who turned the wheel
harder than anyone,
but questioned the road.

This Good Life

featured in the poetry forum June 14, 2009  :: 0 comments

What is the hunger of water-falls
for little men in tiny boats,
flirting with alluring whirlpools,
who lie on crowded Sunday beaches
dreaming of vacations in the winter,
burdened by cameras that seek
Palm Beach condos,
Fort Lauderdale motels,
Miami hotels.
The tourists sleep late, swim,
drive on across an aging land,
veined with highways of destruction,
submerged with cities of corrosion,
skeletoned by crumbling towns and farms,
and always arteries of roads, roads, roads,
coursing its people like blood
through a diseased body,
until one day
the price of oil
ends our way.


“This Good Life” is from Gary Beck’s new poetry book “Days of Destruction.”
To order a copy of Gary’s book please click here.

Ordinary People

September 7, 2008  :: 0 comments

People in the South Bronx
are like people in the North Bronx,
or any other place.
If you look behind skin deep,
you’ll find preconceptions
that have judged, condemned, sentenced
the undefended to exile
in the slums of fate.

Cold War Truce

September 7, 2008  :: 0 comments

I swam in a tiny swimming hole
in a chilly Vermont stream
and after the first goose-bump tremors
never felt so fine
and couldn’t recollect
in recent crises
when I had no imminent thoughts
in a body of water
of Polaris surfacing.

Montpelier, Vermont

September 7, 2008  :: 0 comments

Pollution is forbidden in the Winooski River,
but no one seems to remember that men
have driven on uncongested moon highways.
Not many folks seem myths of New England.
Prognathic jaws, rickets, beri-beri, scurvy,
Sunday blue law VD, much sinus trouble
and watery eyes from the gold dome capital,
dazzling with Doric exterior.
Haven’t seen Corinthian interior; won’t.
Not much more than Main Street,
but most of America
is not much more than Main Street.

Tread Lightly

September 6, 2008  :: 0 comments

Intangible wilderness
that sometimes possesses us
in the myth of civilization,
is all that holds
this raptured city from destruction.
Do the poets who sing of the city
know anything of the city?
When we are the only core
that keeps reality together,
for surely if our reasoning selves
suddenly were to doubt
that our subway days
and rummage-sale nights
were all the glory
we ever would obtain,
in that faithless moment,
nature, in her new sneakers,
would place her arch-supported,
space-age ventilated soles,
on 8 million delusions
and pffffft….