a man of towering stature,
mercurial temperament
well-known, his avarice
for absolute power,
a dreadful reputation
for intimidating underlings
in brutal fashion,
unsits the current king,
takes control
of the kingdom.
there's not iron gate
he cannot get past
the strongest of towers,
he could tumble down
his favor cannot be won
by a silver coin.
who has the the courage
to challenge his authority?
he mutes the loudest,
makes whispers
out of their screams,
he fearlessly
takes on giants
he puts away crowns
too heavy for his head
yet, his shadow fills
any room he walks into,
it makes
the proudest bow low,
still, he can never touch
anyone's light,
or steal the love
foreign to him
Knighted under the blood moon while
Inside he felt only loving-compassion,
Nevertheless, he was to subjugate without mercy.
Gaining territory based solely on hereditary menace,
Only to be diffused in imperial will by the joyous allowance of being,
Frontier-ed outwards he was by order of the magistrates to dominate outer lands.
The secret solace being the souls of all he encounters within the guise of a hateful army.
Earthen-bound he meets all with grace and reverence in loving-secret, ir-
-Redeemably spreading like a viral ghost love.
Reigning in plain sight of the magistrates,
Only two verses were left.
Readers everywhere are left--bereft.
Life’s unsung tunes fade away
into nothingness with the menagerie of mirage
disappearing in the realm of death.
Trudging on the desolate deserted pathway
the fragile footprints collapse in his kingdom
where the cosmic monarch of the end,
the ruler of the last breath,
carves his throne from the sands of time.
With the arcane image of terror concealed
like the sordid silhouettes of lethal menace
the king rules without mercy or malice,
lurks in the shadow of dark danger
into the quintessence of placid life,
and waits at the pause of every heartbeat,
encased within the freight frame,
configured from the vicious void
of timeless inevitability.
Killing with kindness from a dark place
Improvising love forcing a smile on face
Needling white words meant to assure
Greetings heard but not felt not pure
Onyx heart that never skips a beat
From missing spark of love not tenderly
Tears hide behind white winged words
Even narcissist fake kind to be heard
Raping spirits of the blue beautiful ones
Raging you fear it the love of gold sun
Only yesterday gives you any jaded joy
Remembering the good filling a void
Salty as kiss of abyss meant to destroy
My dog moves slow,
and his face is white.
His body is ill,
but I know he will fight.
My dog is weak,
but he knows his name.
His body once strong,
things are not the same.
My dog’s life is long at fifteen years old.
He has little time left,
As we have been told.
My dog sleeps most o@ the day.
I don’t ever want him to go away.
My dog was once thirty-nine pounds.
He’s starting to look like a di@erent hound.
My dog likes the backyard so he can roam.
He will always be the king of our home.
“Supplicants, bring forth your offerings”
“Your Majesty, I bring encouragement”
“Your Highness, I bring optimism”
“I, Your Awesomeness, bring unbounded joy”
“Your Honor, I bring dinner from my wife”
“What? Dinner from your wife? What kind of offering is that, knave?”
“Well, it certainly is no sacrifice, sir!”
We spent the summer of '99 waiting for the sky to break.
The old seer had promised us a king—
not of crowns or gold, but of sheer terror,
dropping from the heavy heat of July.
People pulled what they needed from the ink.
Some swore it was the third beast waking up,
a fundamentalist storm ready to swallow the map,
while others just saw the familiar rot of politics
finally bursting into a global fire.
Either way, the dread sold a lot of paperbacks.
The prophecy became a ghost in the movie theaters,
a blockbuster specter we could safely watch
while pretending the end of the world was just entertainment.
The world didn't end, but the earth keeps shaking.
With every new war on the evening news,
every disaster that leaves a city in the dark,
somebody always dusts off the quatrains again.
We tell ourselves it's just a myth,
until the horizon bruises,
and we catch ourselves looking up.
(Repost of a former poem, “If I Could Change The Past,” written 2016)
September eleven, two-thousand-one-
dark age of homeland terror had begun.
If only I could change this horrid past-
alleviate deep pain from grief at last.
Three thousand souls were lost forever, then:
three hundred forty-three were brave firemen,
so many whom I'd come to know before,
when they'd stop by our fire equipment store.
Our County is just sixty miles away
from New York City, South of us, and they
would often live up North in New York State,
commute each shift- but many met their fate.
One family resided on our street.
That morning, he left home- for death to meet.
So many others we will never see
who purchased goods from us so faithfully.
For those who died, whose bodies were not found,
we gifted presentation helmets bound
to loved ones for the funerals they held.
Such awful, somber days, unparalleled.
If I could change the past and turn back time,
erase that day of tragedy and crime,
my heart, with all the others, would rejoice
that these poor souls could live a life of choice.
What was the price I paid for life?
None; it was given me.
The cost of spite and strife
Was great, but I in turn learned humility.
With age came wisdom and dignity,
The scepter of compassion,
The scales of honesty,
Where we need
Consider the frailty
Of those tender hearts
Fallen before me,
For there is always a price to pay
For living as what we say,
Be it by fault
Or be it by may.
“Man’s word is god in man”,
I once read an old King say.
Ancient scrolls foretold
Dread the dead kings reckoning
Cursed crypts of gold
In my life, the king of terrors is doubt
Leaving me marks of stressed countenance-pout
Robbing the joy my heart strives to shout out
With its skeptical sneer and mocking clout.
Terrorizing most, doubt breaks me apart
Attacking resilience of strong jumpstart
Letting me feel down, though I know I’m smart
With its frustrating blow and striking dart.
Behind my serene glow, doubt lurks to show
Spreading rumors of sorrow’s painful woe
Hindering winning smiles for blessings’ flow
With its gloomy news and bad tomorrow.
Against perseverance, doubt works indeed
Crushing my persistence toward fall’s breed
Stopping triumphant soar upon need’s creed
With its unbelief-seed and shame-filled greed.
Now, winning from doubt’s adversarial test
I must trust truth of best triumphant quest
Vanquishing deceit and falsity’s zest
With faith in God Who can conquer doubt’ pest.
The Ace Trumps a King
You have no cards left to play
No peace prize for you
Looking at my candle in the castle
Wondering the reasons of my hassle
Falling in love with my King in spring
What a foolish thing that stings !
My King, already promised to his queen
Oh, I wish that by you, I’ll be seen
But I’m only a naive yearning jester
I’ll never be gracious and wise like her
The rejection, sadly, is so foreseen
If one day I declare my love for you
Will you know that what I’m telling is true ?
Or will you think it’s another one of my jests ?
Will you be able to digest my loving interest ?
Blowing out my candle
Deciding not to cause an embarrassing scandal
I’ll never tell my love for my dear King
But what we could’ve been will forever be missing
Malaise over cribbage,
Unmade in our image;
While they ravage the earth:
Pestilence First!
The cowards save pride,
Just along for the ride;
And the prophets, they shrug.
Must be '---' tall for a hug.
A mechanical theme.
Set to writhe and teem
Astride strained ambition -
An inherent condition!
And the sole consolation?
The starved man gnaws bacon,
As he snarls at the pork;
Pokes the end of his fork.
Steely disposition.
Love's prohibition.
Swole at the seam,
This American dream.
Powerful Lord, how can it be,
patience one, that you would free,
protect, plead for, and intercede,
provide my every present need.
Placate my fears, by perfect love,
purchase me through sinless blood;
'Peace', I ask, from God above.
08.14.2026
Poem and prayer to end one's day.
For the Pleiades Contest.
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