I will be reading poetry at a festival in a couple of weeks and this is one of the poems I wrote.

The Color Red

I meditate upon the color red
like the blood that is pulsing through my head
The crimson flow of action 'n thought
The eb and tide of the life we bought
There is no end to war.

It is the doom of men that they forget
The lessons tought, our path beset
control of thought can change the past
but who ensures our memory 'll last
Or do they work to make it weak
A poison snake, a memory sink
Abandoning centuries of history
and principles traded for greed
There is no end to war.

The darkest of times are still ahead
The reddest warriors are still in bed
Their armory raped and barren trod
When they come too, absent the rod
will they remember the olden ways
Handed down from ancient days
Their father's sword and the dragons slayed.
There is no end to war.

Who is vigilant in our stead
Is it someone trusted or someone read
Someone known or someone dead
And who will take his place in stead?

There is no peace for we are always at war
That was the fatal flaw in the hippies plan
For they laid down their swords in the middle of the war
Need I say it again? War never ends.
Be ready.

The contract had a section that said:
"The Artist will conduct themselves in a professional manner and refrain from inappropriate use of language, prejudice, politics and religion."

I thought about not including this poem for a minute but then I thought, this is a VERY appropriate us of politics...