Upon the loam where ancient shadows creep,
a severed vein now yields its vital breath,
and writhes upon the floor in torments deep,
consumed within the iron jaws of death.
No gentle breeze attends its rapid fall,
nor sunlit grace to soothe the tearing pain;
It strikes the rotting moss and scarlet wall,
drenched in the fury of a weeping drain.
Yet watch the fiber twitch, the pulsing spine,
as blind-eyed beetles strip the tender skin,
and carve away the green with teeth malign,
to feast upon the fever locked within.
The forest laughs while slowly torn apart,
and grinds the winter's refuse in its heart.
(This poem complements A Sad Truth)
Beauty’s Response
Sad Truth, you so mistake and malign me.
Do you think I care for cheap flattery?
These insults are more difficult to bear
than your current rejection and negation.
I would prefer their silence and neglect
over the cheap parody and deceit.
For Beauty is not as simple as Truth –
you are a quality expressed,
whereas I am one the soul absorbs;
Beauty expressed is not beauty.
How shall we enlighten this distinction?
For this difference is the simple answer
to aesthetics. But few will delve below
the falseness of imitation and find
the breathtaking truth of Beauty.
The departure is all I know.
Its familiarity is embedded in the sadistic comedy of my consciousness.
Its affection is engraved in the intimate deception of my own searing flesh.
Its practice plays on a loop in the fond erraticism of my haste.
The malice kisses my tears as it spits salt into my sores.
The isolation tends to my methodical mourn of a mockery.
The reassurance of my ruin strokes my hair; a reminder of my rational wreckage.
The impulsive denial of my fate lingers in the darkness of my preordained doom.
The doom of my dread.
The doom of my denial.
The doom of my destiny.
The deliberate descent into the dusk holds me hostage.
The eerie malevolent vines of its malign wrap around my vindictive matter.
It squeezes until I drip with the decay of my own skin-swallowing dejection.
The white of its teeth gleam at me, gasping in my reluctant pleas of sojourn.
The rot fuses with the warmth of my blood and the salt of my sweat.
This is the end I yearned for.
This is the termination I yearned for.
This is the finale I yearned for.
Calculated.
Segregated.
Anticipated.
The doom of my departure.
A young man stabbed, runs for police,
but his attacker was a Sikh,
who claimed ‘racism,’ and these cops
cuffed the poor victim as he dropped,
much more concerned with brownish skin
than murder, the quite worst of sins,
more fearful of the word ‘racist’
than life which no longer exists,
and then try to hide their disgrace,
let killers walk just to save face,
stopped only by a loud outcry,
not the fact they let a man die,
as leftist filth fear ‘the backlash,’
when the die is already cast.
The same scum who excused rape gangs,
their own daughters in vile hands,
ravaged by cruel Mohammedans…
rapists should swing from the tree limbs.
Another attack in Belfast,
we all know it won’t be the last,
the leftists despise their own kind,
think foreigners can’t be malign,
think they can bring in failed cultures,
and from them somehow be inured,
wrapped in their lazy, Marxist faith,
that only teaches to self-hate,
arrest folks for having wrong thoughts,
a tyranny wrapped up in rot,
all loyalty to you they spurned…
perhaps it’s right to make it burn.
Sleepless nights - a nightmare!
Into the dark I stare.
The sheep all accounted,
Weighty whims in my head.
I struggle to scurry
An intrusive worry.
Yet thoughts regenerate
At expedited rate.
I’ve tried meditation
With due dedication.
I gave up caffeine,
Eschewed scrolling the screen.
Oh, I’ve thrown a towel -
I’m no longer an owl!
At ten I am ready -
For sleep, long and steady.
Yet slumber, spirit free,
So not ready for me!
Constant combat but worse -
Malign menopause curse!
Pills or no pills? I am
Back on lorazepam!
The morning bells were soft with gold,
The children’s laughter bright and clear—
But in the back, a shadow cold,
A little one sat trembling here.
Her hands were folded, small and still,
Her eyes half-dreams, half dark dismay;
The world beyond the window sill
Was warmer than the room that day.
No bread had touched her tender mouth,
No mother’s kiss had graced her hair—
The lesson spoke of stars and south,
But no one saw her blank, far stare.
And when they sang of love divine,
Of mercy, hope, and charity—
Her voice was silent, not from spine,
But hunger’s mute simplicity.
O teacher, bent on chalk and line,
How many hearts you failed to see—
While one small soul grew pale, malign,
For want of bread—and empathy.
Now dusk will cradle her to rest,
The stars her meal, the wind her prayer;
And angels weep at her small breast—
For all the eyes that were not there.
Cocoa Puffs and Dynamite
I'm four years old,
or so I've been told.
Watch out!
I'm high as a kite
on cocoa puffs and dynamite.
Great White Heron
Today, I was treated to a sight -
a bird with feathers of snow white,
but I didn't like his attitude,
and considered him a little rude.
He said, "Would you please stop starin'?
Ain't you seen a great white heron?"
Does a Frog Apologize?
Would you malign
my behavior as "out of line",
and call it an atrocity?
I am no monstrosity.
And does a frog apologize
to anyone for eating flies?
Glass Half Shattered
I find my thoughts are often quite destructive or productive
I try to turn the former into something more constructive
My name will live in infamy forever and a day
The loss of independence is the price I have to pay
I dream that putting pen to paper, publishing my woes
Can deter some other creep from traveling down the path I chose
I see these kindred spirits making headlines all the time
Using words like "sick and twisted" may be fair but they malign
All us who decided to be cruel and turn to violence
Linger long in jail or death and do our suffering in silence
But isn't that the way we did our suffering before?
And that just led to bodies bled and senseless acts of gore
The voices of experience in these deeds so macabre
Must speak out against indifference (consider that our job)
We have a second chance to leave a legacy of good
Cause I know I'd take it back if only there's some way I could
Try to piece together and repair half shattered glass
So there won't be any need to fly our flags at demi-mast
Some still say repentant combatants can’t change,
Though thought to be tamed, they tread a thin track.
When many men mock them, madden, and malign,
They charge with chained choler, yet sworn they stay still.
Fighting foes find few among people preaching peace,
Before battles, they brood, bound by belief.
For futures frame fates none should tether with tears,
While miscreant multitudes menace, unmoved.
Yet years yield younger youths yearning for clear change,
While some soldiers still battle before bold chiefs,
Who wait with well-wrought wisdom, woven in their hearts,
And teach these truths to teenagers in tents.
They need no news anew to nourish their truths;
They tell them to teachers teaching timeless tales.
Some still see storms of sorrow shaking them,
While we wait, they torture their truths with tears—
Torments that mar mortal minds with mournful wails.
CANINE KING
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He was a dachshund extraordinaire,
a canine king with a luxurious coat most fair.
He ruled our neighborhood with nary a care,
his tail wagging wildly, his ears flapping in the air.
His little legs moved swiftly,
patrolling the streets quite deftly.
He sniffed and snuffled with a curious mind,
chasing the squirrels with harmless malign.
He barked at strangers with a fearless din,
growling and showing his teeth like a sharp mandolin.
He ruled the streets with an iron paw,
protecting and serving with his loving, doxie law.
He licked the faces of those he knew,
reigning gently while enjoying his doggie chews.
He was a master of mischief with his charming ways,
nudging with his nose, his way of begging you to stay.
His barks were music to my ears, his wags a delight,
dancing and prancing with a carefree spirit, light.
He was a dachshund extraordinaire,
a neighborhood hero and loving arbiter.
My one heart as a part of humanity's great heart,
spiritually holds the indwelling God presence as sought.
A human hold shiftily slants and grows knots tied fraught
with false-held, gloomy feels that egos and fears impart.
Divine truths dawn in our souls thru imagination,
not from human workings but graces gifts in-working.
Imagination can stop fears from falsely out-working
and foil mankind's believed limits of false accreditation.
In still solitude, spiritual truths as held in our being
meet our consciousness, our divinity's hidden place
in which our indwelling Christ gives ALL with God's grace
and intellect joins intuition to seek a soul's true freeing.
Through spiritually held faith one is belief aligned
in God's power, greater than any fear episode
man may encounter or engineer to earth upload.
No one or thing can malign what our Father designed.
My faith would never crumble feeble as styrofoam
when the worst that could happen is I'd get to go home.
This very year..And today' begins a leaching away '
Malign intent has began; a framing' quyeer karma
Will soon be naming.' A raft of dis-reason assembled
Most vainly' for we all saw him plainly.' He claimed to
Humanity.' Free speech was not a novelty.' We have
Had it for many years.' So now it apoears really *****'
That such un-truth was mouthed.' And right in mr Trumps
Right ear.' And right to his face in fact.' I find it most hard to hack!
That there exists an audacity.! To spew such an illitracy?
How much aversion to reality.? Can be tolerable? I fail to see!
That such a man? Should have world status.' Or be? Leader
Of Brittania the scepterd isles, we see..' origin deep; the very
Cauldron of world judicarys.' The seat of much stability.' Allowed to wrap
Chains of false values and claims based in banal iniquity.' To drag
Such a nation down, and almost to its knees.!
The night I met you, I was deeply afraid,
terrified, my nerves were badly frayed.
I pulled you from the party crowd.
My confidence, you allowed.
I cried to you. I wasn't proud.
We both had too much wine,
my bloody valentine.
I knew that your feelings were sincere.
Soon, you would always be near.
Your gentle understanding showed.
To your charms, you gave the code.
Your love, to me, bestowed,
I gobbled it like a swine,
my bloody valentine.
Thinking too much of myself, I was.
What I could offer you wasn't love.
It was a deplorable crime,
I can't wash off this guilty grime.
I should be doing time,
burning in a hellish brine,
my bloody valentine.
I'm haunted every Valentine's Day,
a lifetime sentence I have to pay.
There is every reason for your hate.
It's less than forgiveness I await.
Take my conscience off your dinner plate,
as your ghost does me, malign,
my bloody valentine.
The meaning of real rebel woman,
I pray you slow down you’re doing fine;
You’re the pin in Miss Muffet’s cushion;
Keep sticking it with that broad vision;
A trending phrase on the latest sign,
‘The Meaning Of Real Rebel Woman.’
There’s a rumor that you’re a villain,
but I see the iron in your spine;
You’re the pin in Miss Muffet’s cushion;
Fighting against a growing doctrine
there will always be those who malign
the meaning of real rebel woman;
Each time you strike it’s with precision,
brave wildflower handles the frontline;
You’re the pin in Miss Muffet’s cushion;
No need to rush what you envision,
charismatic lips drip words that shine;
The meaning of real rebel woman,
you’re the pin in Miss Muffet’s cushion.
The penchant of a national leader.
can show malignancy in things he says;
things for which his mind needs a proof-reader.
Some tempers malign as rivals start to quiz
Views have drawn the cancer, cacoethes.
A writer’s mania – cacoethes scribendi -
appears when terrorists write a manifesto.
Do over-engaged minds stage what’s trendy?
obsessive was the groove of the fluent Victor Hugo
and fictional, compulsive liar – Pinocchio.
Take Hugo’s masterpiece, Les Miserables.
With surplus words, intense cravings we find
yield lawless acts, theft, prostitution which rob
disadvantaged folk of their conventional mind.
Poverty's victims are prone to spell-bind.
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