Grieving Hearts, Death And Legends”
Lying unconscious, Lifeless and Breathless;
Still kept on a life support, Helplessly.
With Pain and Agony from an End,
And Fund raising on the other end.
My conscience doesn't Portray a life support;
Mayhaps, Fund Support sounds Enticingly painful.
All Hell break lose on the Grieve and Trauma of Man;
When they make decisions, so decisive and Egoistic.
So, I'd rather live on the edge of Tardiness;
And lay quietly to die in Peace,
Than trust a Human made from Man.
Man created with Hate, Destructive thoughts, Agony;
With a little spice of Self-centeredness and Greed.
Created in their finest Selfish and decisive art;
An art willed to Us from the Enticement of an Apple bite.
I wish I had lived in the time of Hercules,
Son of Zeus and the Mortal Arcmene;
Slayer of the Nine Headed Nemean Lion;
Capturer of the Golden Hind of Artemis;
And die an Immortal, Remembered in History,
Than cradle in my steel made, high heeled Bedding.
Categories:
nemean, anxiety, art, death, depression,
Form: Free verse
Not even Tisiphone looming could invoke the fright this fury leaves etched across my spine
Olympus' indignation will not leave me in spiritual paralysis like She
(Shch, shch, shch) severing my Atlas, losing my mind--I can't carry these melancholy skies
Her voice, even in its brevity, balmbarded me with an inward rise of Dawn's rosey-red fingers
Now, Her silence--Her silence sings a delyreous epic of what I couldn't help, but destroy
--Without Her, I feel like Telemachus futiley fending off suitors alone
Promises to not fly too close to Helios: broken glass under a blind woman's feet
Like Perseus, I'll face whatever evil's Cracken; although, a life without Her, I'd rather be the Nemean Lion
Ebony Aphrodite, whose tone leers at me with a Medusa gaze
I wasn't Cronos; although, I was, in this gracious goddess' eyes, titanic
However, it now appears I've corroded our thread; easier for the Fates to cut
Categories:
nemean, best friend, care, for
Form: Free verse
Presumably ovid,
with qualm,
wit, and wisdom,
as to the smallest orb,
give way to our
very own,
Christendom.
As horn-mad, to
fetch me about,
the Kings, they play
mighty,
their Queens,
a jester and pout.
Though ancient
as jointure, the merry
plenty they must,
with the lyric
of masterful lyre,
a temptation
of lust.
The beauty of
maidens,
the fullness
of their breasts,
made ever-virtuous.
As the sun sets,
vertigo,
the nestles
of primrose and cressets,
giving way to the lecherous.
Oh. . . the love,
of Jesus,
our very own,
the saintliness of Magdalene,
the diadems of
the Goddess throne.
Amidst a canonized
hearsed, our beloved
Sun, rightfully lets.
The essence and infinity
of Magdalene, again
a Nemean regrets.
As the green fonds
of the winter fern
shed its nurturing essence.
Waves of nostalgia blazened
by the mid-December
days ripening afternoon.
The snow covered pines,
the aroma of fresh coffee,
the feigned ecstasies
of the struggling artists
made fragile,
and at no attempt.
Piercing thoughts of verse,
no love made without quarrel.
The day began as it always does
in December,
amidst melancholy and sorrow.
Categories:
nemean, introspection, loss, mystery, sad,
Form: I do not know?