I saw a death shadow in the eyes of my infancy
a soft mercy with calm blue fancy,
in childhood, when free will asserted it's wild supremacy
we sang of star charriots and laughter loyal to hyperactivity,
I see a death shadow in the prime of my ascendancy
outlining my temple of truth, whistling thy words of wizardry,
I hear It like the madness of morning's ending,
I taste It as if from the burning breast milk of a Dragoness,
I see It in the bleeding smile of my heart's kindness,
I speak to It when love's luster unlocks the lunacy of loneliness,
I feel the humble shade of It's jade justice in a world hot and hustling,
My death shadow has a surface sweet with patient purpose,
It is not rough with forboding frost that frights the fight of flesh,
rattling the scythe of doom and cackling for cataleptic crisis it does not,
It is not a grim God or a greedy Goddess, no taxing terror trumpeted,
It has never been an angel of escape or a demon of dour delirium,
when suffering becomes a seduction of brute beauty I share in it's wise joy,
my death shadow follows the desperate yet disciplined form of my body battle
through life's plethora of coy poisons and possessive passions,
marching along side me with martial grace, sculpting my face with lion spirit -
your belief system is the major indication
of what you can accomplish with positive validation
if you can see it, you can achieve
if you can perceive it, you can believe it
underachievers are always underestimating themselves
non-achievers are always looking for a handout and the most help
average achievers do only what is usually just required
but overachievers strive to realize their heart's desire
in The Bible Mark 6:5-6 are two of the saddest scriptures to me
it tells of the time when Jesus went to His birth place
to spread His Father's ministry
it is somewhat troubling to me when He could find there no relief
because the Nazarenes were in a mind set of utter unbelief
even though He had worked many miracles
in most every town he had ventured to
the citizens of Nazareth were unwilling to give Him His proper due
a showdown in Nazareth, Jesus trying to evangelize God's word
but they saw Him only as the carpenter's son attempting to do the absurd
the power of God can only manifest in an arena of positivity
it can not gown nor gravitate in an atmosphere of negativity
Jesus was rendered powerless, the passion in Him had subsided
because the unbelieving Nazarenes remained unyielding
and completely one-sided
there is a significant amount of unbelief
in many church congregations
where some are just sayers of the Word
and don't believe in the power of the consecration
it takes one drop of negativity
to yield a whole crop of unbelieveability
understand that the Living God can't work in anyone's life
if they are in a state of mind clouded by negativity and strife
there is nothing that can't be accomplished if you know this in your heart
that God can work miracles just believe in His powers from the start
for God can move mountains, He can make a river divide
His powers are omnipotent, just keep a positive attitude in mind
don't undermine God's purpose for you life, allow Him some control
don't underestimate what He can do for you, if you surrender to Him your soul
always look for the victory, don't settle for defeat or loss
use the power of your belief, the power of the blood, the crown and the cross
if you believe God can open doors
what more could you ask for
just believe with God that you can do it
just trust in Him and let Him prove it
just believe in the power that is Jesus Christ
and imagine what you can accomplish
if you just let Him work in your life
The shadows know the scent of cloves,
as Nyx devolves from sleep's crossroad,
the night-owls croak to domes above,
her ode the stars turns to abode.
Her firmness strings the scene's stillness,
her laughter waves in hung ether,
small hours' submit her thoughts' steepness,
advancing 'mid green heather.
The night birds watch - with eyes of amber
night wraiths descend from stardome flare,
upon a sky-drome meander
that ghostly travelers time-share.
Brilliant's the moon in ventured glory,
above shapes lays and daunting wraiths,
her eminence surpassed souls' faith,
to hark the travelers' lone story.
And kind advanced to lands of blooms,
as night conveyed upon each breath,
she confers grand the kiss of death,
with fates to weave on lethal looms.
On darkened growth she shines dismal,
In Stygian reign she rules - abysmal,
enchanted souls shall dwell in void,
with Acheron's old paths destroyed.
© G.V. 10-03-2012, All Rights Reserved
Nyx = Night
Have you ever been moved by beauty?
stood and listened to the birds sing?
been transfixed by the sight of deer?
Watched the eagles soaring the thermals?
gazed on the beauty of a woodland lake?
or sat by a ring of fairy mushrooms?
Just as nature herself enthralls us
so too do the written words of poets
I find my self transfixed by them
As their words weave their magic
no matter if in verse or rhyme
flights of fantasy are inspired
Bless you all poets for your gift
it is the magic, the fix that inspires
as you part with your precious words
SOLDIER OF BATTLES.. Steve Hudson
It started, in silence, in infancy; the eyes look beyond the darkness
To understand the sounds of rage, echoes of misunderstanding,
The beginnings of normalcy wrought with disturbance,
Bereavement for the loss of innocence and the first lesson learned.
The lines in ground becoming clearer.
The only thing that ever came easy for me is warring,
Not because I chose the ground, but because it chose me.
Here is your sword; here is your battle,
The field is endless and there is no turning back,
So find your heart and find your place among the ranks
You sojourn with.
You tell one another it will be okay, and that we will pull through,
But no one really knows.
Its only after our first encounter and mortal blow that we find some
Courage to face another foe.
The welcomed peace endured for a season, then skies darken
On eminent splayed horizons and shadowy realms of spirit
You try to make sense of the next wave of terror,
Taunted and vexed at every turn.
Your enemies take form in shapes of, what is true?
Wrestling, pondering among bloody concepts and the why.
Wounds received through fearful encounters take shape of scars,
Scars take shape of trusted moments carried through
Onslaughts of deception.
Fallen men on smoldering ground, tormented by hounds of confusion.
This is how it started, but not how it ended for you see,
There was One we found in heated skirmish
Battle hardened and sure footed, the spear and shield wielded
With skillful hands, He inspired confidence in us all.
On days we found respite, He sat with us and taught strategies in warfare,
The secrets to winning the hearts and minds of defeated bretheren.
The certainty and comfort in His eyes, told stories of ancient victories held.
A kingly stature though plain to view, never considered Himself better
Then the lowliest man I knew.
We asked about some of the scars He brandished,
“They are scars received from the greatest of man’s struggles,” He said,
He got them while defending the poorest of souls.
It was then we understood, it was of us He spoke.
So now we gladly fight for this One who became the captain of our heart,
We’ve learned from the truths that have pierced our very souls,
our greatest cause and reason to be.
A soldier of battles was He…
the dutiful daughter standing behind her father
in lightning thick with aegis assurance
read to protect her family
and counselling them times of need
Athena, the grey eyed goddess
who watches carefully with graceful wisdom
coercing ignorance into obliteration
solutions fly into her hands
for her to dispense and she desires
Athena of the City
philosophizing with the common man
trading amongst mortals
companion to heroes in distress
strategic with the broken soldier
Athena the virginal queen
modesty made attractive
purity prioritized in beauty
who ran through rape's smitten fires
with the strength of civilization in her hands
Yet even you, Pallas Athena,
illustrious among even immortals,
are not without your faults
Even you fear death's decay
dragging your name into Lethe's depths
You weave with Fate's spindles in faulted pride
as your equals fall beneath your altar
spinning spiders slaving in cinders
and gorgons grazing beneath your Parthenon
made golden by their angered gaze
Are you not jealous as well as just?
Is not your immorality made irrelevant
in the light of your immorality?
One does begin to wonder
If your wisdom is mere intelligence
Your knowledge mere luck covered stupidity
Your duty and honor merely a fear
To be seen as a vulnerable beauty
Your prized purity mere pride
Your longevity simply a lie
Perhaps all the exists of you
Is a memory wasted with the false belief
That your good outweighs your transgressions
a portrait is a picture or a likeness of an object, person or place
a rendering, a representation of something in all of its grace
but a portrait of a Pastor is more than just a facade
it's not an image of what man thinks but a reflection of God
people come with their own agendas about what a Pastor should portray
but it's not his clothes nor his cars it's the message from God he conveys
a Pastor should be pictured as a faithful speaker who reveals the truth in his speech
an under shephard of our Lord Christ and it's the Gospel that he'll preach
a Pastor should be drawn as a mentor to his members and circumspect in his behavior
a prayer partner in conjunction with the Holy Spirit and Jesus our Savior
a Pastor should be an image of one who comforts all in their times of need
a teacher of the Gospel who in his flock tries to plant God's righteous seeds
a delineation of an obedient servant leader who stands firmly on God's Holy word
and he should not be the subject of gossip nor the pettiness of this world
a portrait of a Pastor should be a comment on his spiritual calling
an anointed man whom God will use to catch us when we've fallen
a portrait of a Pastor should be an exhibit of compassion, wisdom and respect
a display of leadership, kindness, humility and intellect
it should be a picture of a potter who tries to mold us into godly shape
a silhouette of a counselor who doesn't judge but advises when we make mistakes
a portrait of a Pastor should be a reflection of the image of our Lord Christ
a man who will always allow the Holy Spirit of God guide and rule his life
Here take my hand,
I have watched the world torn itself apart,
Through agony and despair
I have seen the tears of the innocence’s and smiles from the wicked
How long does this world needs to endure?
The sufferings cause by war and sickness;
Life long torment endured by those who stand upright for the truth,
If you take my hand you will know my purpose of existence
I am Sorrow, that’s who I am.
Here take my hand,
And know the false teachings of this world
Everywhere I look, I see lies
Lies this world has created,
I wish to bring light into this world, if only my words were heard
And my teachings are truly followed.
My followers are lost, instead of finding those who are lost!
If you take my hand, you’ll know my purpose of existence
I am Truth, That’s who I am
Here take my hand,
And you will know the handiwork of man
God created man in His image, and man created society in his image.
A society of greed, lust, hatred, envy and the thoughts of evil towards one another,
A spitting image of mankind darkest part of their hearts,
Know then, sorrow and truth
They know me for I surpass them and bring them all to being
I am Love.
Take my hand,
And let me ease your sorrows and,
Let me open your eyes to the lies this world has implanted in your heart
I have seen them ignore the poor out on the streets,
As they are in a hurry to merry in charity, to claim names for themselves,
Mankind has truly been deceived by the lair or have they deceived themselves?
Know me and know love, for truelove is unconditional.
Here take my hand,
And know my words are true and just!
For I represent those whose voices have been silent.
I represent those, whose strength has being taken,
I am the shield for the weak and the sword for the righteous.
I have seen those who uphold the laws are the ones who break them.
I have seen the blood of the innocence turning the river red.
Laws are meant to rule man and not man to the rule laws,
Corrupting the true law is a sin, for it corrupts justice!
Take my hand! And know what true justice is.
I am Justice, and question me not on laws for I know the laws.
Did you know, even the wingless
Bird can fly to the sky?
Frenzied however he is a mad
man still survives.
An acquisitive hunter is
Determined to kill, at least an
animal a day.
Did you know you can spend;
Hours, days, weeks and perhaps
Months, trying to analyze situations,
And sometimes you can leave
Situations on the floor and move on.
Did you know a flower still luster
Even when not in the Bouquet?
A sophisticated weapon once failed
How many times have you counted,
That you had tragedies but still lived?
Did you know?
a couple had a good son whom they sent off to grad school
his goal to become a doctor as he was smart and nobody's fool
now on his own he decided to no longer attend Sunday service
he felt that God had no need for his personal worship
some people tend to feel that God doesn't require their praise
the question of a debt of gratitude in their minds has never been raised
but what people fail to realize or even comprehend
is that it was God who gave life to them
Creator of the universe and every living being
Creator of everything we're touching, hearing and seeing
Dr. Albert Einstein once made a very telling remark
that seeing how the human eye works is proof there's a God
when viewing this wonderful world and all the magnificence it beholds
one can clearly see the hand of God that has uniquely unfold
a sunrise, a sunset or a rainbow after a spring shower
a solar eclipse, a child being born are all proof of God's great power
He created man and it was He who gave us the breath of life
He gave us His love and grace and His son as a sacrifice
things have happened in our lives of which we're not even aware
times when God has shielded us from the evil that's out there
He's sent His mighty angels to watch over our backs
He's sent His heavenly warriors to stop any and all attacks
an eternal debt of gratitude and praise to God we owe
but we're not the only beings who are in the know
the angels in heaven praise His holy name
the devil in hell also bows down to Him in shame
created in His image His likeness we now bear
we're His beloved children for whom He tenderly cares
He makes Himself known to us every morning, noon and night
He is our source, our all in all, our strength and our light
an eternal debt of praise from us towards God is due
and as you read this poem I hope you get a clue
God doesn't need anything from us He's complete on His own
It's us who needs God as we can't do it alone
God is great, God is sovereign, He is the King of kings
He's all powerful, He's all mighty and controls everything
there is nothing in this universe that is not under His command
and no matter what we think He holds the whole world in His hands
and today that young man who thought that God didn't need his praise
is now a doctor and disciple of Christ whose hands are forever raised
an eternal debt of praise from us the Lord God is due
because if it wasn't for the Lord God there would be no me nor a you
The juggler moves his fingers fast,
he likes to smile and to deceive,
when people laugh at his recast,
his goal's higher things to achieve,
for Bathsheba applauds and laughs.
Her hands she claps with sullen glee,
changed him to a marionette,
that sprawls for her obediently,
jinxed tragicomical duette,
he jumps defeating gravity.
The juggler walks on tightened rope,
St. Bernard will protect his act,
frail equilibrium's postponed,
he'll pass across, crows' croaks detract,
agleam granite pavement's below.
Unmoved he laid, (lost souls misgive) ,
the juggler sprawled did not bemoan,
the sawbones's charlatan and thief,
as Bathsheba failed to dethrone,
the clown's tangential unknown grief.
© G. V. 12/23/2012, All Rights Reserved
( Iambic tetrameter form.)
There've been times in my life
where I've just had to say,
"I must, give it all up,
for, it's that kind of day"!
I must, really say this
I really, just must;
if I didn't say it,
then, it wouldn't be, "just".
There's this crazy, old man
we'll just call him, "Doc";
who fills up blank pages
with, "poetical talk".
He's scribbled, and scrabbled
'til way, past bed-time,
trying to finish each poem
and, complete every rhyme.
If he hadn't done this
he'd surely gone, "mad",
his nonsensical nature
was, all that he had!
No hidden agenda
when first, he wrote down,
each poem of nonsense
to erase a childs' frown.
And, Doc always did this
..so that , all of his poems
were merely geared, to amuse.
He loved to let nonsense
be the order of the day,
and, with every poem
we all smiled, the same way.
His only intention
was to set our minds, "free",
his style, just did it
With his own tongue, in cheek
we knew we'd been had,
and his poems rhymed perfectly
proving he was no, "fad"!
The volumes of topics
that Doc's written of,
included all that could be
written.....below, and above.
He's written of magic,
puzzles, and games...
..with, strange little creatures,
with, strange little, "names".
The, crazier his story,
the saner he'd feel,
and, the more that we heard
convinced us they were, "real"!
His poems, were genius
as he weaved us, a tale;
with, nonsensical rhymes
that did so, without..."fail".
"Old Doc", has quit writing
he's up in heaven,
this year, his birthday'd ...
make him, a hundred, and seven!
He's given advice,
taught what we must do,
he said, "Be who you are...
..no-one's youer, than....you!"
He's maybe still writing
in, heaven....you see,
that'd be just like him
as, that's who he must, be!
That, silly old doctor...
..as silly, as a goose;
we all loved his poems,
for, we loved Dr. Seuss!
In the full light of a warriors plight,
Sometimes it becomes a case of being slighted and being Aright,
Its a case of solemn thinkings to soothe this anguish and its deeprooted pain,
Do see things from the Warrior's point of view,
He sees Life as a kaleidoscopic dreamy paraphrase,
Roasting Angernuts and storing them aways as Groundnuts stored in airtight
For when his flesh is pricked his thunderous clap resounds for eight villages and
His most favorite son supplies his fill-ins of heavily spiced and stuffed roasted
His most loving and caring daughter never allows his fresh kicking "House and
Bush fly saluted" Palmwine to cease its awesome flow,
His youngest and most active wife sits at his left side to wrap his "wisdom
fumes" in its tobacco sheath...Marijuana never tasted more spiritual from her very
He loves the looks on his strongheaded sons' face as they sit in gossip to roast
his yellow sweet corns,
The feel of roasted corn blended with the "wise fumes" arising from this
Marijuana spliff all wetted down with the Imperial fluidity of palmwine.
Drinking this two mouthfuls of the enemy chief's blood at battle never felt any
For you it would be constant anguished Bed tossing,
Draping my palace in Human skulls and rare animal skins,
Writing for Kings, Knights and their Monks,
Writing for Spliffs, Chieves and their Drunks,
Writing for Owls, Dragons, Angels and their Wings,
Knowing full well your brain might learn to take its rightful Literary place,
We must have moved with this much a-blaze,
We will slow down for you to sip in this page's full intake,
Not a case of primitive battle acclaims,
Just a feel of the Martial spirit though,
The warrior's many many songs yet unsung,
His life and times,Do keep within your salient confines.
ODE – NEDERLAND’S CHANT
Dutch greetings we say…
Dutch greetings we say,
in the land of Friesland today.
Home is our joy.
Logical people and not emotional we are.
Expressive are our thoughts.
Call us opinionates, if you want.
Dutch greetings we say to all!
Conforms to the original,
in whose image we are made
Bequeaths holy curiosity;
crystallized in the human consciousness,
spawning the inescapable question:
who am I?
why am I here?
why are things as they are?
A passage to edifying discoveries;
a transport to purpose;
lagrangian to eternity;
yet incomprehensible zone
awaiting our attainment
Imagination, it is;
the attribute of the creator,
the fount from whence,
humanity and reality sprung
The cradle for human advancement,
the wind beneath our wings;
in the continuous journey,
of discovery — tiny footprints,
on the infinite expanse of time;
silhouette horizons —
sketches of scapes of infinity
Imagination; imparted on us —
instrument to soar above obstacles;
pedestals to ascension,
in the necessity of trials —
the price for divine profit,
purposefully placed on our way;
the test to ensure our growth and graduation,
in our accent to unity with divinity
MUSICAL TEA WITH A VIEW
My first and principal comfort is tea
Which may be prepared in a weakened form
And must be hot or the afternoon free
Will be spoiled by a tiny teacup storm.
The cup should be large for added volume
And not too narrow so that my biscuit
Doesn’t - as I gaze over the cup’s rim -
Fall from cup into room:
If I must needs leap about to catch it
Then the afternoon’s outlook will be dim.
Window with a view over a garden,
Preferably with a lawn and flowers;
And let no one have to beg my pardon
For trampling over the grass or bowers.
Oh but the shape, the form, and sweet design,
The delicate choice of the trees and blooms
Must have good taste in texture and balance
(Of necessity mine)
So that the garden seen from all the rooms
Will you at once delight and then entrance.
When I’m fully tead and gazed-with-eyefuls
Out come my guitar and harmonica.
I make, with strings plucked and air in mouthfuls,
Music and song from Spain or Africa.
And when I strum and blow those melodies -
Arpeggio, vamping, or free chording -
They flow o’er the garden and teacup edge.
They come about with ease -
Great pleasure and delight affording
The pansies, the heather, the rose, the sedge.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck
Entered in Cyndi MacMillan’s Contest
AN ODE TO SMALL COMFORTS ON A RAINY AFTERNOON
In this life,
of inevitable recompense,
of inescapable accountability,
for collective responsibility,
indifference to injustice
is not an option;
an epitasis, it is,
in this metaphoric
epic drama of life
The golden silence melts away, and joy un-named
From the phantom pipes exults me
For no silence can so rhapsodized and doubts tamed
That man deserves better glory.
And what if sin could, levelling us, permit this to remain
Tell me then what is the eternal antidote of our pain?
Like distant peal of evening bell, a plaintive song
The unknown angels could also sing
And golden glow the light divine where seraphs throng
Chiming solitude's shadowy wing
Where my soul beneath the bough of your academy ignites
By the rapture that your balming melody in me excites
What do you wise man of shadowed boughs tells my heart now
What deep remembrance from me gone
When music was language to which all wisdom bow
And by songs you spoke Eden's tone
And I the Adam now understood the truth you sweetly tell
The prophecy recovered while kept in trance under your spell.
No bird then you are, sweet singer from times afar
Too sage your purpose tells the hope
The griots spoke, ere magis found their vision's star
Song beyond silence giving scope
To the word that instant wandered and did not move, and no eye
Nor I could describe that form, elusive in the brimming sky
Great philosopher, wisdom teacher, nightingale
That from solititude drops pearls
For which I sell all promise other, so prevail
Your fragrance to unbroken worlds
Where there still perhaps the universal language can be heard
In as sweet as tone as this cataract of hymn from a bird.
I love to learn, but in the aura of such light
I retain nothing but pure joy
And while in ecstacy yet claim I a full sight
Absolute and with alloy
For music makes of faith a better candle for the darkness
And faith brings truth where only faith can spark our human hardness
For up and down around me move a district loud
With the sweet notes of prophecy
Yet no one lingers, no footstep halts in the crowd
As men pursue their destiny
By choice, deaf to their own healing, and wealth so beyond compare
The peace so freely given in a song filtering the air.
As a rose,
ever so beautiful,
ever so attractive
Perhaps, more so,
Drawn to your vivacious,
velvety beautiful petals
Only to leave it,
scratched and scarred
As a rose,
ever so beautiful,
Perhaps, thorns for protection,
must you have
Usher in a new day;
endless with possibilities
Usher in a new beginning;
endless in possibilities
Yarn not the yawn,
for it is dawn;
the dawn of a new era
there you were
inside a picture frame
black and white photo
on the gallery wall
irrigating joy and goodness
his holinesss the dalai lama
your colours are boundless
I thought SUZY was so bright
Tendered hair and a smile delight
Created her RAINBOW to let the world know
only 4 inches small but her personality is quite tall
The Beauty is not so much on the outside but within
Never cared to swear or sex,she was true without
Vanity or Sin
No one but I would offer to carry her books to school
And in turn,said that I was more than a simple fool
A strange inkling that occurs in my brain
LET'S GO TO SCOTLAND,WE CAN TAKE THE 4:00 TRAIN
to escape the taunts and mockery jibe
Here's to you,Suzy..and a sweetness that you try not to hide
Abused by we who
Know no limit in
Ourselves or others
Time it seems is never our friend
Blessed with the ability
To pass fleetingly by
Time goes but never says goodbye
Oh devil that is time
Stop if only for a while
Let us see the folly
Of trying to catch the wind
Time you have no master
You stay fresh always
As we fade away
Becoming the past
The rising sun
A never ending pattern
We only temporarily see
Time oh elusive mother of hope
Master of our fears
You keep us moving
For every changing as you do
Oh dancing joker that is time
As you speed on by
In an endless cycle of change
We become more grounded
Our identity matures
As the days go by
Time only you can master
And the future
My short stay friend that is time
Take me along as you go
Till my clock ticks no more
When my journey has ended
Through this maze
That is life
You are my closest companion
You make me what I am
And watch me grow
You are the only constant
I wish for no extension to
To my allotted span
I have no desire to live for eternity
Oh time I do respect thee
I am grateful for your blessing
You have made me
The good is evil and the evil is good;
The omen is clear,yet,no one reads,
The signal is up, still no one heeds,
There is but one use of power,
It is to save people,
But all we hear of power is trouble,
Everyone wants to get and use it,
They want to gain popularity,
Winning elections a neccesity,
Campaigns all exaggerations,
Their evil deeds no explanation,
Well-wishers they are yet to woo,
Birds chatter where they woo,
Birds chatter where they coo,
The desire to be famous is an attempt,
Forgetting that familiarity breeds contempt;
Speeches are delivered in lying tongues,
Manifestoes in dying souls,
People are suffering,children are dying,
Still,they're obstinate and blind,
Passing frrom deception to deception,
And to final illusion,
Host in the wonder of their own greatness.
I am on a journey
I have been for quite awhile
I know not how much further I must go
But I know the destination;
it is to be enriched by every life I meet on the way
and to enrich every life that grace mine on the way
So I must stop,
to smell every rose,
to cheer every heart
Though the way may be fraught
with fog and tempest,
I have no fear and I am not lost
I still remember the way home
and I am fond of home
It is a place of eternal life
It is a house of endless love,
a house of peace,
a house of joy
In my home,
there's always laughter,
hearts never break,
smiles never fade,
spirit and flesh never frail
fear is never around,
friends never leave,
loved ones never die,
no sad farewells there
I will go home,
when my journey comes to its end
To my father’s house will I go
To the house of endless love, peace, and joy,
will I return
Into the waiting loving arms of my father;
into the warm happy embrace of friends and loved ones,
who had been on the journey and gone home before me,
eagerly awaiting my return
To my home, to my father’s house,
of endless love, peace, and joy,
will I return
The day of my return, I know not,
but when it comes, I will know,
for my father will call me home,
When he calls, I will hear
I will answer his call
I will run to my father
I will be home
(Dedicated to Merl Butler)
I got my idealism Follies
From our Mass Media that
seeks to show the ultra-modern
extravagances of today's super hip society
Too much Politics that is overtly fused
into my dimming Brain
Not interested in fighting the tide
There is nowhere to turn
Nor a sanctuary for myself to hide away
Dreams were simpler in my day
Let the Hair hange down and
say THE HELL WITH YOU
to the wiser but Elder generation in our times
It is not so easy now
A few years back
I have lost the angst
The youthful rage
This gap is becoming ever quite small
Turn to the children,
let them have it for now
The older we become
it is inevitably for certain
where to eventually travel
Beyond this frame of sphere
To believe in our culture's turmultuous lyrics
Put down the parents so we could party all the way
Jesus is a gentle man and a woman
They are not,however..an untidy rock band,looking for the gold
When or wherever I compose my poetry
Thoughts will linger on the meaning meant for us all
Shocking realization to notice
We are adults now
in a world where the controls are getting slightly out of hand
The time is now to straighten out this quandry
Clean up our room
Get rid of our dirty laundry
That language you speak,
the one you didn’t have to learn from anyone,
the very original, very human, yet very celestial one
The one you spoke to herald your arrival,
as you made entrance, from the celestial to the terrestrial,
into the gyrating life-sustaining starry metropolis,
amidst the cacophony of others, strange and different
That language you spoke,
in response, as you discovered,
that the strange looking beings all around you,
in your new and strange planet, speak it too,
and as you explored the strange and funny artwork,
on their mystical canvases,
every time they spoke your language,
any time they spoke another,
that you did not understand
In smiling, laughing, weeping,
we speak a common language
Have you noticed?
They all speak it too;
all our kin, from every corner,
of our spinning starry metropolis,
waltzing between one companion on the left, bright but shy
and the other on the right, dusty but flamboyant
It is a language so simple,
anyone and everyone speak it and understand it,
yet so complex, it is encompassing;
defying lexical boundaries,
even terrestrial boundaries
Straddling the spectrum of emotions;
even in the laughter expressing joy,
the heart is sorrowful
It is the only language natural to us
We were made with it
It is simple but sufficient,
to convey the emotions,
that bound our consciousness
It is the language of humanity;
the language of pleasure, joy, happiness, and sorrow
Anywhere we come from,
every which way we come,
we speak the same language;
we smile, we laugh, we weep;
in joy and in sorrow
The language reveals,
our common and celestial origin;
our eternal bond,
When spoken, we understand what is said,
we know what is meant,
it is laughter, expressing joy,
it is weeping, expressing sorrow;
the outer limits, spanning our consciousness
So universal is it, it is mystical;
as mystical as our very existence
For the abundance of mirth,
gives birth to tears of joy,
yet joy awaits in tears,
the passing of sorrowful tears
Laughter and weeping,
each awaits the other,
but only to relieve each other
and to bestow us reprieve
It is the universal language,
spoken and understood,
by you, me, and all our kin,
It is the same, regardless of place and position
It is eternal, beyond terrestrial
It is celestial, it is universal
When we look,
though the windows of our hearts;
you through mine, I through yours,
in symphonic simultaneity
When you look,
into my eyes and I into yours
When we become attached,
to each other,
by the double cord,
of a connected gaze;
invisible and strong,
as powerful as a current,
sweeping and penetrating
We see the inhabitant,
of the great expanse;
the abode of the soul,
called the heart
When he, the soul,
wanders from home,
away from the great expanse,
of his abode,
we may see a fugitive inhabitant,
occupying the great expanse,
of his abode;
never true to its color,
a shape shifter;
But when he,
the soul is home,
filling the great expanse,
of his abode,
the aura of his majestic presence
shows us what he holds,
dear to heart,
and it is nothing,
As the dawn of a new day,
revealed by the bright countenance
of the rising sun,
made bare by the parting heavenly blanket
As the certainty of the new day, made naked,
by the fleeting timid terrestrial curtain of night
So let the sapphire desire to do good,
to lift the spirit of others, be revealed,
in our eternal treasury
Let it shine through,
dispelling the mist of apathy;
the tunnel vision of self-absorption
(Dedicated to Dan Williams)
around the wrinkled frown
there are some changes
Over the hair
Near the private area
Brown is fading
The Gray fast approaching
What can one do to reverse this curse
I feel the bulge upon my belly
That area looks the worse for wear
Some may drink
or put on Ben Gay
Ease the pain advancing
by recalling that era:BREAK DANCING
Today in shades
Youth inevitably fades
Some call it Bad Luck
Need a quick fix to repair this broken down truck
I accept what it may
to caress that changing hair color today
Count me in
For the old ways are the tantamount
To a new world defined
Embrace it fast
Much relief for thy peace of mind
The Enchanted Foe
She lurks in the garments of fugitive empathy,
Her abode is the refuge of burdened and bleeding souls
She is the sojourner in the sanctuary of sorrowful hearts
Bewitching the bewildered and the bothered
Captivating the wounded and the confounded,
the baffled and the bereft
She saunters, seeking the soulful and the unsuspecting
She bathes, as the lids of wistful eyes,
welling with tears, lent by the old croc,
silver rain from the cloudy face of the pretentious;
blemished by invisible dirt
She craves the privy to your secrets
She is nourished by your misfortune;
of which she makes music,
grotesque but soothing to idle ears
Those who indulge her,
become music to idle ears
Her instrument is the tongue,
Supine and slyly wagging
Ever a friend in need,
never a friend in deed
Can’t help, but break aching hearts
She is the enchanted foe,
rich in libelous lyrics;
grisly but gripping
If her song delights your ears,
it is given, you are a chorus;
delighting idle ears
I am life, living
asset or liabilty.
It's more than painted over graffiti,
The trouble with our world today.
The problem's mass is sweeping
More like a paint brush,
Used to wash wanton layers,
Time worn colours, away.
Strategic historical scholars, studied to rote,
Besmirch budding Buddhists babies,
Learning to vote by thinking.
What a novel concept!
If people would just pay attention,
The entire world could get smart.
The youth keep shouting louder,
Falling fast, far, and as hard,
As earlier generations did.
They are THE hope of our nation.
Shouting in codes their passions,
Spouting a shiznit with voices hid.
There's something wrong in this country.
It's been simmering in a brew quite a while.
The hippies got old and face graying,
While the youth now do their own thing
With a new fashioned font style.
No lessons learned,
Old leaves not even turned
To compost for human renewal.
Few values passed along the trail
Because values, then,
Weren't the popular thing,
To be in, with it, man.
Can you dig it?
There are 50-odd million Americans
Staying, saying, and swaying,
"We won't let you whitewash us away,
Like grains of sand in a rip tidal bay."
So I'll face every day on my own terms.
The representatives stand for me, too.
One must be true to his conscience
As the rest pigeonhole patriotically
Into immigrant shades of red, white, and blue.
Joseph the Christ figure giraffe bookmark
wooly resents that penultimate comment
and tells me whut
“ALL NEW MATERIAL. CONFORMS”
Of what does he speak? What madness?
“TO TOY SAFETY REGULATIONS”
The turning phrase!
A thousand old Buddhas stand speechless!
You are old I am young
You have love I have none.
"Look. Look at those flocks of birds emigrating south!
They’re escaping with regular wing beats, crying farewell."
Tomorrow would be a good day to die
Today a good tomorrow
Dying must be strange, nonsense life is strange
We wait for nothing yet nothing will come
I never hoped you would accept an invitation to my farewell party
We wait for nothing yet nothing will come
Yes, like Fassbinder
Yes, like Veronica Voss
I owe my soul to the company store
Finishing Line Press. Book FAREWELL TO THE DUST, by C. S. Leaf avalible March 2008
What would you say
If after this time
You reawakened this day
Long out of reach, your prime?
Would you still ride the horse of your forms
Bequeathed by Poseidon forever to be
Or from your eyes
Would your reality emerge
Amidst this positivist sea?
Would it be theology you adorn
Like most of the lepers strive to see
Would you heal their eyes
With a synthetic judgment
A Kantian reprieve?
Philosophy is deceased
Or so many decree
Encumbered in Zarathustra's sleep
Like Jehovah into its blackened lungs
The breath of life -- could you breathe?
Would you still be the peripatetic mentor
Of Dante's "the master of those that know"
Or would you still wish to be the protege
The protege of he with no letters to show?
Would you defend your apology
Of a traveling heretic
A heretic for corrupting the young
With the idea that politicians and beaurocrats
Must abide by an inviolable ethical form
A form of chivalry this day much unsung.
And so this apology I must afford to you
For allowing the Sophistry
Of your age
To come anew.
Leaders still begin wars
With the flower of youth
Not their own
Petals wilted and crushed
Under the jackboots of those lacking
The concept of God or father.
Fear creates a protean enemy
As sure as the incited mob's voice
You witnessed at the ripe age of twenty-eight
Snatched your second father
And afforded him no easy choice.
Justice is not easy
Your life was about defining
Something this day has been lost
It's essence forgotten, always at a cost.
After this apology
Can we still have a hope
That you could rescue this world
Fill the holes and set it afloat.
After all of the centuries
Would you still be able to prove?
That all of human thought and hope
To you is indeed but a footnote?