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Christopher Rogers Poem
I walk without moving,
Across a world I can’t see,
As life laughs tragedy at me.
Laughter amidst the progress of man.
Languish against the prowess of man.
Malicious laughter raising "round-robin".
May I ask their intent?
Inquire of their bent?
My destruction?
Pure amusement?
Self defense?
What's your inspiration?
We watch your work and wonder.
What's your constant notion?
We walk the world. We wander.
You've lost me,
You've tossed me
To the dark, deadly depths.
You hailed me.
You failed me.
No reprise, no rest.
Solitary.
I have succumbed to seclusion.
Beat down.
Feeling the dry ground.
Fearing the melodic sound:
My desperate breathing,
My own heart beating.
Yet, even my fears could not imagine the depth of loneliness.
Every morsel has no flavor.
Every bite of this life is bland.
Though I strive to savor,
I cannot help but spit-out your offering of sand.
For the sake of being morbid
For the hope of seeming hopeless
I crawl through the dirt of graves
With astounding display of drama in the dragging of my legs.
Announcing the refusal of my remaining days.
A tantrum of sorts.
Played-out in the dust.
With Life and Death looking on in disgust.
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2010
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Christopher Rogers Poem
Love, like a baby, cries in the night.
For a mother with suckling breast to fill a hungry stomach.
For a father to lift it high in the air-
Eyes ablaze with awe.
Love, like a doe, taunts a hunter with deceiving speed thru the trees-
Skipping then sprinting again.
Is not love surer of foot?
Is not love tighter of grasp?
Is not love stronger to hold than the snapping noose-
Leaving a body choking, bruised, and aching upon the ground,
Never silently swaying to the creaking limb?
Must love play, like a harlequin, the game of fools?
One in love.
One longing for another.
One sincere.
One sorry for insincerity's sake.
Love is a knife thrown at a spinning target.
Love is a cry for help carried by wind to some passerby.
Love is pure like poison-a gift to the soul that longs to fly.
Love is cool like drops of rain rising to a flood.
Love, like a mystery, moves our souls to search.
To find clues to ourselves.
To bumble thru a perilous tale.
Love is funny to watch,
Frightening to feel.
Love...
The ringmaster unseen.
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2010
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Christopher Rogers Poem
'Twas a journey of souls
Thru a shadowy glen
Near a deep, darkened wood
On a path with no end.
Souls, alone starving, together so dead
Walking in weary comport to the damp, musty bed.
On the edge of a river of dreams and of life
Corpses float before the hopeful eyes of a man and his wife.
With full fervor and joy they had rushed to the scene-
Nervous thoughts, frightening sights begin to darken the dream.
Can they survive through life with hands held,
Hearts joined, souls matched when others had failed.
With slight hesitation they slowly step in
To the flow of their future, wondering what will begin.
Corpses slowly bob by like it's there they belong
As a chorus of banshees sings a quaint wedding song.
As they drift down the river, she holding him,
Too quickly they realize that together they can't swim.
Fighting through the current they dunk and they rise.
He wrestling her strokes. She poking his eyes.
Holding hands they can't make it. Together they'll drown.
See the sad, solemn truth as he tears at her gown.
Fighting for survival in the river of life
No man can hope make it if he carry a wife.
And the woman she too will be burdened down sure
If a man on her shoulders takes her down even more.
The corpses are many, the pain is so deep.
Please don't go swimming at "life-long-love beach".
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2010
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Christopher Rogers Poem
The logical way to deduce and to reason.
To monitor time.
To chart the changing of seasons
To believe.
To have faith.
To trust in sweet Jesus.
To pretend that god's will does nothing but pleases.
To smile.
To cry.
To hate.
To fear.
To compulsively
Consumingly
Long for the one you hold dear.
The slap of the sea against the jagged face of granite.
The profound, minute presence
In the universe, of our planet.
All that we know is known and not known.
Significance lost to the more significant significance.
The grandeur of the glorious lost to the tempering of the monotonous.
Every other day I dream.
Laboring away my life in the in-between.
Nothing said.
No breath lost to conversation.
Within my head
The perpetual drone of resounding contemplation.I steal from myself more than any thief could ever pull thru my bloody hands.
My fears cause more pain than any loss I have ever known.
My desires drive me with a passion greater than any pleasure I have ever
Gained.
All that I have imagined has dwarfed all that I have experienced.
And yet, the mysteries of my mind validate my existence.
So much power
Over such little substance.
Every other day I dream,
Laboring away my life in the in-between.
I walk without moving
Across a world I can't see.
I have devoured my own soul for sustenance,
Yet I am left starving.
Who could enjoy the feast,
Having eaten themselves while they waited?
Every morsel has no flavor.
Each bite of this life is bland.
Though I strive to enjoy and to savor,
I cannot help but spit-out your offering of sand.
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2010
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Christopher Rogers Poem
The struggle of life is water to the soul.
It’s taste is no indulgence.
It’s abundance drowns and rots.
An inevitable tide
With an infinite, invisible guide.
The body is built of it.
The deepest mind feeds from it.
The ignorant clutch it like a cane to excuse their stumbling.
The threat of death is the breathe of life.
To whine and wish for sympathy is to drink the dessert’s dust.
To indulge you must give without inhibition.
To enjoy you must appreciate the unsavory.
Disdain for the daunted is the absolute ignorance of the elite.
The ignorance of the elite is the absolute entertainment of the oppressed.
The absolute achievement of existence is to respect the validity of all that exists.
The struggle to accumulate fortune
Is a forfeiture of freedom.
Such a deep, stabbing pain
For such a deeply stubborn man.
For what do you haggle?
Such a feverish,
Indeed furious,
Haggling you impose upon your already haggard heads.
Want for want you barter.
Disregarding your dreams
For what rests in your pockets.
Empowering yourselves with human frailty.
In truth, fortune is formulated within.
Each man hoarding his own passions.
Leaving wealth a thing undefined.
Those self-righteous,
Accomplished types
Who loathe the unsuccessful
Savor an existence unrefined.
For I am the dirt of your mountain,
And I will be the rocks of your rubble.
Homeless.
Begging.
Yet, craving only to be free,
An occasional meal,
And the air that I breathe.
My fortune:
Ultimately simplistic.
Universally dismissed.
Is peace,
Knowing truly,
That I sincerely exist.
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2010
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Christopher Rogers Poem
Having flown with you.
Having watched you wither.
Beauty remains,
But the most beautiful has blown away.
Memories remain.
Mementoes remain.
Hate the remains of my life without you.
Mistakenly
You have taken me
To the open, angry earth.
You have left me to claw my casket.
Scraping,
Scratching,
Spastically striving...
To escape,
To survive.
I’m alive!
Withered,
Wired,
Watch the whimsical poet.
Flying,
Frying,
The bastard with the bowl.
I had five days to choose the chosen.
Five days to direct the destiny of the predestined.
Five days done gone by...
Loved no one.
Felt so low.
Felt I was going nowhere...
There was nowhere to go.
Felt I knew no friends...
There were no friends to know.
Solitary.
I have succumbed to seclusion.
Beat down.
Feeling the dry ground.
Fearing the melodic sound:
My desperate breathing.
My own heart beating.
But my fears could not imagine the depth of lonliness.
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2010
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Christopher Rogers Poem
Visualize the interaction of the energies of people’s lives as pinholes and pendulums.
Shimmers reflecting streaks of god’s light
Through pinhole instances
Which illuminate the infinite,
Defiant night.
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2010
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Christopher Rogers Poem
Rolling fields.
Golden glow.
Shine brightly to my soul.
Fresh.
Free.
Fallen.
Forever in your hands.
Earth kissed feet.
Hardened hands working tight, stubborn dirt.
Curse on curse alive in me.
Snake strikes!
My soul writhes
Crush his head now dear one!
He strikes again-
Fierce and bitter.
Poison in my soul rotting all my life.
Days tripping into years-
Lost for fallen times.
Ah, sweet sorrow.
Oh, precious pain of tears unfallen.
Aching moments plenty.
There is peace in rolling rivers that sit in lakes so still.
Mountains jagged,
Halting at the plain of flat golden fields.
Corpses can't cry.
Dead men don't hear the dirges of the living.
No tears have been found in locked coffins unearthed.
But even there,
In the abyss of night,
The soul can mourn...
Alone.
Curse upon curse.
Ever a curse.
Ah, sweet life of mine.
Turn like the river to the falls.
Flow like blood from the painful, pierced side.
Dear, dear days drip away like the mad man's malady in the endless tombs of tight concrete
lives.
Golden fields forever?
Curse upon curse.
Lies mounting the dung of deception upon our heads.
Night upon night.
Joy upon joy.
Curse upon curse.
Ah, sweet life of mine!
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2010
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Christopher Rogers Poem
A young man holds a man.
He holds his lover softly,
And he finally understands that he can love someone purely.
He never thought he could.
You painted them perverted and confused their desires,
But as the years grow cold their love grows strong,
And they finally see what they have always dreamed.
A young man lies in bed at night and holds the man he loves tight.
He holds his lover purely.
Their hearts beat chest to chest,
And the warmth of bodies becomes a gift.
You cry for families where children are raised,
But love is the pleasure of the marriage bed.
They hold each other,
And share all they want to be.
They fight together with love.
They are a family!
A young man sits beside a man and wants to hold his lover openly,
But locked, cold minds
Would never take the time
To see behind
Their ancient set of values.
A hateful land
Would not understand,
Would not even try.
That is enough to make a young man cry.
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2011
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Christopher Rogers Poem
Master may I feel the pain in my head?
May I feel the fear as my dreams all lie dead?
Gripping my soul are the claws of your ways-
Their tight lust around my throat!
You desire me.
You have me.
You hold me with the force of dirt on the dead.
Your will is my grave-
A pit with no end,
No escape.
Running,
I flee deeper to you.
Rising,
I fall to the depth of your being.
Standing,
I am erect in the bosom of your power.
You are my power.
You are my love.
You are my master.
Master may I see all the sights of my soul?
May I be the yearning redemption of the meek?
Stand me up.
Slap me down.
Grasp my life and throw it to the sea of sunken treasures.
My potential has been squandered in a cage.
My grand talents are on display-
Unseen in the bath chambers of rickety mansions,
Bombed in the wars of possession.
Master may I be?
May I feel?
May I rise to completion?
May I fall to failure?
I don’t care,
But all in the way of freedom-
Passage to my life.
Such a narrow stretch of ground before me,
Engulfed by the dark night of my soul.
My balance shaken on the beam
Assaulted by the unseen arms that surround me
Harassed by fears for the future and thoughts of my past.
Master may this be…
The passage to my life.
Copyright © Christopher Rogers | Year Posted 2010
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