When the Bird Falls

When the soaring bird falls,
To whom shall he pass the gall?
To whom shall he spit spite's sputum spray,
When flight fails and feathers fray?
Shall he cast scorn upon the wind,
For the gale it did send?
Shall he be greived with the earth,
For its rocky embrace now his berth?
Shall he admit the fault of his wings,
And acknowledge this, their failures sting?
Or shall he lift himself from battered, broken berth,
And forge himself a better, brighter rebirth?

Debt of a Degree

We still call it "the land of the free,"
But this generation's starting to see,
That though we call it "the land of the free,"
We bind ourselves to hear another decree,
"You've earned this degree."
Then the next two decades are burned to be free,
The crushing load of debt and poverty.
Living on borrowed money,
While l society is in solidarity.
Is it foul enough yet to taste funny?
We borrow money for house, car, degree,
Even for our mouths to feed.
Since when did intellectual enrichment,
Come at a cost of a life bent,
In indentured servitude to a bank statement?
This is not the life meant,
For our best and brightest, or for you and me,
Enslaved to a corporate and bank state,
Repression and servitude our fate.
Five fold the burden in one generation,
We must reprioritize in this nation,
All should be able to afford to earn a degree,
And promote our intellectual future in the land of the free.

Oath and Kin

The punctilious perambulations of my mind,
Perusing pernicious permutations of a saltatory kind.
One moment ponderous, praying, and piously practical,
The next leaping to prancing predation impiously tactical.

But let me put these games aside,
And leave off these asides.

What duties does a man hold,
Or rather which binding's still stand bold,
When due to misrepresentation,
And his own failure's slow attrition,
Another breaks an oath to him?
Is the man still bound to them?
And if the binding is of kin,
What of it then?
By blood and bone am I bound or free,
When kin lies with one arrayed as an enemy?

I thirst not for blood nor for strife,
But it will not be mine upon turmoils knife.
If I must cut these chains asunder,
With a clashing like the thunder,
And leave naught but a ruin to rot,
Then come conflict; let's see what's wrought.

Levee to Loneliness

There comes a song,
From my soul,
Reverent, throaty, yet strong,
Irreverent, empty, yet full.

The sighing as the wind passes,
In the wilds in the night,
Through boughs and grasses,
Flora bows and dances in the moonlight.

Howling to the moon,
And drinking starlight,
Singing the lonesome wolf's tune,
Filled heavy, yet empty, of light this night,

Sorrowing for things gleaned,
Seen as they gleamed,
by moon light beamed,
Stretching and splitting the freshly sewn and seamed,

Of this rouge and raven colored riven robes,
ripped, rent, and wrought in the shadows of this globe.
Picking, prodding, poking, the needle probes,
Into my flesh forming sanguine stitches in droves.

Yet, yet, my melancholy sings,
The harmony of the stings,
The Canon in Dearth of my ichor,
The Concerto in A minor tuned from my core.

The wolf howls and the wind sighs,
Lone poet bends under cowl and tries,
To put to letter the midnight skies,
And the feeling, of when purpose to loneliness dies.

Weary wind winds its way,
Harmony to the wolfen refrain,
Ambiance to these cloying stitches in my clay.
But what is there to gain

If the levee,
Holding back my loneliness and melancholy,
Holds back too the best of me,
And risks a life of mediocre apathy?

One part Ennui

One part Ennui,
To a base of me,
Add a dash of self loathing,
Bring to boiling,
Whip into a foment,
And add just a hint,
Of unassailable hope there,
and to taste an abyss of despair,
Stir in disappointment,
Just a touch of faith as solvent,
To dissolve a medley of internal conflict,
And a moral code most strict,
A quart of questions unanswerable,
With a fresh pinch of fear of following fable,
Cool in the fridge with some logic and reason,
Add some discipline to season,
And hide it all inside,
An eggshell thin layer of pride,
And stoic resolution,
To contain this volatile solution.
Who and what am I?
I wish a true taste before I die.

Prayer for a Friend

Father in Heaven,
Loving creator of earth and men,
Please listen to my plea.
Yet, do what seems best to thee,
For your gaze encompasses the heavens and the earth,
For you have known me since before my birth.
You are the source of all that is true,
And you know why I pray to you.
You have a child in need,
So please listen and heed:
Bless us again,
Forgive us of our sin,
Help us overcome all things,
Please Father, you are our king,
Bless your child's hands,
That they might be like iron bands,
Strong to gain the victory,
Strong to break these chains and be free.
Bless us your little ones,
For the battle can not be won,
Without your strength and your love,
Almighty Father from above,
Please Father teach us how to live,
How to receive and how to give,
And peace, sweet, peace, let us know,
Show us Father where, and how, to go.
We ask all this in the name of the son,
And that your will be done,
To you belongs all glory,
All power, and all honor that may ever be,
Forget not your children among men,
Thank you Lord, Amen.

Eclipsed

Head facing into darkness,
Towards a perfect curve I could not miss,
Perfectly luminous this,
Idol for ancient men,
Since time memorial when,
It first danced its circle again,
Night after night,
Captivating in its might,
To mesmerize even a heart most contrite.
Oh sweet fey arc,
Which does stand out so stark,
Upon this night dark,
Why do you slowly hide,
As you slowly slide,
Into your side,
Of our bed,
The perfect rear of the one I wed,
Did you think I meant something else in its stead?
The moon could not compare,
To a darier so fair,
And more so, her curves each has a pair.

Sightless Seduction: The Other Sensual Senses

The warmth of her skin,
As I press my lips again,
To the velvet of her hand,
A soft kiss just above the band,
Which signifies our eternal union.
Slowly touching kisses one by one,
Hand, wrist, arm, shoulder,
Moving lips and hands till I hold her,
Then through her silky cascades,
My hand softly wades,
Other arm encircling her waist,
As her lips I taste,
Smooth, soft, silken and sublime,
Sweeter than cherry, or honey, or lime.
O' and the scent of her!
Enough to make a kitten purr,
Musky, sweet, and earthy,
Like the scent set free,
When it is about to rain.
And her voice such melodious gain,
When it alights upon my ear,
Can draw up a longing tear,
All her sounds, the rhythm and the rhyme,
Perfect: as if in meter and time,
To a dance only she knows,
Such is the rhythm with which she flows,
Her footsteps and her breathing,
Thrills my soul to singing.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
But let me be bolder:
This is beauty,
And even when my eyes do not see,
I know beauty when I hold her.
Not just for senses, but also character.

Spending Breath

Standing on the summit,
The peak, the apex, O' to wit,
Standing on the highest ridge,
As if upon a bridge,
Between earth and heaven.
And all that lies before my eyes,
Has lived, breathed, moved, and someday dies,
But for this moment which I have spent,
As if in a catalytic foment of time with nary come nor went,
In this time-binding hiatus,
O' to wit, heaven aid us,
To not slowly slip like serpentine sorrow,
Back into the monotony of the morrow,
Let us remember this moment,
When all time was bent,
To the foment by this beauty sent,
Clarity given: breath by beauty stolen is well spent.

Red for the Blind: The sense of a color

Many things are said of red,

Lips sultry crimson as a rose bed,

Anger burning red with fury,

And with it some paint the city.

But can one hear, taste, touch,

or even smell it such,

that they may know red,

Through other senses in the eye's stead?

Red can be soft and lush,

As in rouge blush,

It can be sultry sweet,

As when lover's lips meet,

Warm inviting,

With a lusty vibrato it sings,

Putting you at ease,

Its silken caress no tease,

But rather a silky hand,

Making goose flesh to stand,

All upon your neck,

As it gently pecks,

With lush lips full.

That is sometimes it's pull,

Yet other times 'tis not the same,

Red is a color of various fame.

There are times when it sends one,

Screaming into the night as they run,

Sticky, sickly, slickly speaking in a shower,

With just a smattering of its power.

With its drip, drop, dread,

As it pours from the dying and dead,

But a shift in hue,

And look what this color can do.

Red is both lover and fighter,

Able to make heavy or lighter,

'Tis flowers bought and flame forgot, 

'Tis a hue of future bought,

By the history you've fought. 

Discontentment

Discontent with the contents,
Of myself and how its spent,
How might my energies be bent,
That my mind be not rent,
Asunder when doubts arrows are sent,
Piercing under mail of my minds mint.
To be? Whom am I meant,
To be when day is gone and went.
To be? Send some portent,
Of my purpose there must be some hint.
Soon must be the end of this stint,
Of self to inadequacy lent.
It is my wish fervent,
My yearning desire urgent,
More than for gold's glint,
Or for any riches that could be spent,
To be of the value for which my life was meant.
To take this great discontent,
And forsake the false glint,
Of mammon and lucre that might be spent,
But rather to have bent,
Self upon the anvil of trial and discontent,
To have it rent and bent and remint,
Pounded by portent's poignant power spent,
By the chief architect of man's powers nascent.
So let me be set more firm than cement,
Resolute to a purpose bent,
to the purpose to which I was meant:
To serve as your man till life is spent,
To grow daily till I have encompassed all for which I am meant.

Palimpsest of Steel

A palimpsest of steel,
Stylus scraping serpentine lines.
As wounds of ink it deals,
In decrees and interdictions to stain this heart of mine.

Layer upon layer thick,
Each nib grinding away.
Ink will never sink to the quick,
Of blood red and steel grey.

The beast beats within my chest,
And no blade of ink can tame,
This beast and put him to rest,
He can not be fettered, haltered, or made lame.

And when storm comes fierce,
Then all will see what is real,
Maledictions ink can not pierce,
True strength's heart for it is sired of steel.