Another Pathway is Possible

No Human Being is an Enemy of Another Human Being

The Holistic World Planetary Paradigm of The Spiritual UN

Caring About the Whole Planet through A Heart Centered Human Race for the Best in All The Teilhard de Chardin Visionary Track for the Earth and Humanity "Love is the affinity which links and draws together the elements of the world... Love, in fact, is the agent of universal synthesis."

Parting with War, Hate and Fear of Others  “The line separating good & evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either but right through every human heart” : Alexander Solzhenitsyn

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Contemporary Poetry
 for a Failing Time




Poems by Doug Draime


Bombing Babylon

Jesus In Wartime


125 Dollars A Year

Time Warrior

On The Outside Chance Of Light

Power Of Innocence

On Definite Terms

It Was His Own Heart And Soul

The Politically Religious Man



Bombing Babylon



Does it matter that the


walls have been


blown away? A childís


mangled, red tricycle the


only thing left standing?


How many people witnessed,


averting their eyes? The


toxic gas and burning bodies


climbing up into the sky,


with no regard for life,


sowing death in the


hearts of the living.





Jesus In Wartime



The bodies are piled

like slaughtered and rotting cattle,

in abandoned stockyards.

And each morning before sunrise,

the decision is made

in a business like and calm way

to aim the big guns,

drop the big bombs

to destroy a handful of people

clustered among many thousands.

The military shuck and jive,

to justify these insidious deeds,

as the Leader of The Free World

is on his knees praising Jesus

for the death and mayhem.

This Jesus is diametrically opposed to the one I know

His Jesus is a warmongering imperialist who loves only billionaires

and millionaires and the idiots who worship them.

This Jesus he prays to, appears to love nothing scared, or honorable,

or righteous, or humane.

This Jesus entrenched like cancer by lies and madness.

This Jesus adding to the plies of bodies, as if human life and

Creation mean nothing.





125 Dollars A Year



If I canít make a living at my art,

am I selling my soul

by working at something

I hate

in order to eat, or feed my family,

while I pursue my life and art?

And does it matter if I

make minimum wage,

or become

financially solvent

from my

despised labor?

Who and where is the

judge who judges

such things?

Was my writing better

when I

was going


sleeping on park benches

and strangerís



food from super markets, and

walking the streets?

I speak to you, you reading this,

you hearing this, you of the

privileged class! Yes, you elitist


You who can read ... reading books

and magazines of literature, you who own computers ...

while three-quarters of the people

of the earth

exist on a 125 dollars a year.


We are the privileged, we are

the elitists!

We who can afford to write and

read in the comfort of

some individual corner. Even if you happen to be

on the bum when you read this ... you have

a dumpster, or garment box,

or maybe a tree to lean against.

At least you have that!

You may say that everything

is relative on the earth..

But there is nothing relative about starving

and oppressed human beings

You know or have known poverty?

Well, I donít think any of us can really claim to know poverty.


Yet, let me know the

sweat and blood

of my labor, whatever

it may be.

Even, if I end up hating the

machine which produces it,

knowing full well it is the

very same machine,

which is responsible

for the destitution and ignorance of

people, who populate

three-quarters of the earth.





Time Warrior



You canít help but

leave something

in the space


in which you breathe,

by the way you

inhabit it. You move on

the space remains,

something of you

remains. Time means

nothing in this

equation. Time takes

your mortal life,

devours your grace,

your soul. .

And you must question this,

as you must

question everything.

For you are meant

to inhabit and dominate

space, a conqueror of time,

not a victim of it.





On The Outside Chance Of Light



The moon has a

classical huge

yellowness, in an otherwise

blackness of

universe; not a slight

flicker of light

anywhere the eyes

can reach. The only light

is the moonlight,

which shines down on souls

who are brutally

transported from

relative freedom

to chattel-captivity.

All diagrams in the blood printed

revulsion of political lies,

constructions of

betrayals and the most depraved murderers

imaginable. The foxhole

believers are those

just along for the ride: spiritual vampires,

assassins, generals, sell outs,

billionaires, bottom feeders, assorted thieves

who all muddle up the muck of

so-called reality. You can only trust

in the unspoken, the invisible, and

the truth in the yellow

light of the moon.




Power Of Innocence



No politician can pass a bill against it


No man invented death machine can destroy it


It is more powerful than a trillion laser beams


It can stare down evil in the heart of our


invisible fears


Shame on those who abuse it


Shame on the rapist


Shame on the murderer of children


Shame on all war mongers since time began


Shame on the parent who disrespects it


Shame on the school system which tries to strangle it


Shame on the pervert who soils it


Shame on the individual who looks the other way and


does not cherish and protect it





On Definite Terms



Nothing can equal

the tearing down of the

veil. Crossing to the

other side,

without warping

every atom

in your body. Walking

in the spirit

without death

of flesh, walking in the


without death

of spirit.




It Was His Own Heart And Soul



First time he saw it

After looking at it

For more years than

He could remember

He realized it was a

Faded picture of war

Blurred as it was from

Age, nonetheless, clearly

It was war, with all the

Horror, evil, and ignorance

Of its reality, in a yellowing

Old photograph in a scrapbook

Heíd had many years next

To snapshots of his mother

Father, his childhood dog, his

Dead grandparents and various

Cousins he never knew

Yet, there was war closer

Than any of them had ever been.

And when he looked at the

Picture long enough

It looked back at him like

His own heart and soul.




The Politically Religious Man



The sense has gone from

his sensibilities:

everybody is the enemy. He speaks

of the wrath of God through

his bigotry, from the jagged

edges of his insanity. No one

can take the anger from

him; he holds to this vicious

rage calling it righteousness. Love

is only a symbol of something

of judgment, repressed

and focused back to the first Hun. In

his blood, flowing, bubbling like lava,

in the genes is the history of every cruelty,

every murder, every torture, every betrayal,

every war, every death

from the hand of another. He

builds cathedrals of paranoia, building

monuments to his own confusion; passing

the venom on to his children

in his own image. There is not

a disease, a catastrophe,

a human dilemma

which has not been conceived,

created, manipulated

by his thinking, his motivation,

his philosophies, his

obvious intentions to control

his fellow man. He infiltrates every honorable

belief system on the earth, plotting

dissension, fear, confusion; seeking

domination and elimination of

anyone and everyone who will not

agree. He detests free will,

free thought, individuality, and the

genuine love, which God has placed in each

of us for each other; regardless of

our faults, religion, race, color

or behavior







There is nothing

truly authentic in a world


where blood

glistens like rubies,

the shine blinding us


where everything

is upside down,

the ego mind grasping


for illusive, shadowy clues


where war and disease

and human depravity

call the shots


where life is like death

and death like life


in a world that

we think we live in 






                                                      © 2011