Under Aright or Under Serpent

Cross the heart and hope to die,
For thousand thrice has been the lie,
This daily dole,
In soul black now as coal.

Stick a finger in the eye,
And see if whelps do cry,
If you can still see indeed,
Even though your eyes bleed.

What is the point of it all,
If all in once at least is bound to fall?
What then is the full measure,
Surely not solely pleasure?

Videlicet that path is but,
A spinning wheel powerless in rut.
Harming the one who cares the most,
To appease pleasures shrieking ghost.

Oh wretched man that I am,
Naught but a sham,
Broken beyond what men,
Could, like an egg, try to put back together again.

Perhaps lady love could help,
But for this abominable whelp,
There are but three paths available,
To choose between and to will.

The first path is pleasure alone,
To labor and groan,
Spending substance on the insubstantial,
Till in the end life itself fails.

The second is a quick breath,
With only dust behind left.
Honor less, to fight no more,
To walk through death's door.

Or I can choose to fight,
To train under the prince of Aright.
To slay self and slay serpent,
That dragon of old, hell bent.

Quatrains of Pain

Apprehension, Apathy,
Frustration, Failure,
What is it you ask of me,
And how much longer must I endure.

Black sandy shoal,
And a dark remnant of coal,
Pitch black death of soul,
My efforts falter like the steps of a newborn foal.

I feel the stinging,
I hear the ringing,
But when is the bringing,
Of this moments meaning?

Why try me so,
That is what I wish to know,
What is this to show,
Other than brow in furrow?

Forgive my doubts and fears,
Forgive my weakness and tears,
Forgive my fleshes mocking jeers,
For I know your hand always steers.

Help me to trust,
Not in Firmness soon to rust,
Or in mortalities soon naught but dust,
But in the One alone who is just.

Promised Words

Words softly spoken,
Hopes and promises awoken.
Spoken words of intent,
But is reality bent,
To the actualization,
Of this imagination,
Or is it but a hope,
A silver rope,
Mist without form,
Soon to perish in storm.
How am I to know,
Till I'm caught in the flow,
Either swept away,
Lost in the grey,
For failed cord,
For the secrets we horde,
Or I am held fast,
And it proves to be truly cast,
This silver rope,
This promised hope.

Wolves No More

The soft flower in bloom,
Striking beauty like dawn upon the gloom.
As soft moisture again,
Waters its soft petals, thin.
Then wolves creep across the sod,
And reveal perversions akin to Sade.
Knowing the bud fears solitude,
So they whisper words falsely hued,
With lies cleverly jaded,
Till she is persuaded,
And opens up her blossom,
And bends down to them.
But these are monsters not friends,
And in that moment when she bends,
They tear into her heart.
Their teeth, jaws, tongue dart,
Into her soft flesh again and again.
Till that moment when,
They are sated once more,
And they leave her hurt, torn, upon the floor.
Then as she just starts to heal,
And again be able to feel,
Wolves return to feast.
These vile animalistic beasts.
Night descends,
Her thought bends,
Towards the abyss,
That none would miss,
Her passing on.
None would miss when she is gone.
So she starts to wither,
Till another beast comes hither,
But! 'Tis old friends,
Who with a roar sends,
The wolves, cowards, into flight.
And the pours words, as water, to help her plight.
This tiger and butterfly,
Whisper, "be strong the gardener is nigh,
Be strong sister of the bloom,
Do not head into the tomb,
Behold the master comes and not alone.
Behold what will soon be shown.
Your heart's desire within thee,
A man for whom you can safely bloom in verity.
A man, not a beast,
In whom your heart can feast.
A man of silk and steel,
Who can peel,
Back the layers of pain,
And your heart gain.
A man who will patiently tend,
Your garden till you mend.
For whom you will never be forced to bend,
For t'will be but two hearts that blend,
Compliments in every way.
You helpmeet in dark night or in day.

A Leaf and A Drop

A drop hangs on quivering leaf,
The leaf shakes for relief,
For release from weight and pressure,
To be sure,
The leaf does enjoy the water.

Water which is quenching the mid day's solitude,
And the leaf is not a prude,
Nor rather a loose windfall,
But the leaf very much feels the call,
Of the change, the state, the release he would prefer.

The drop making him quiver, about to drip,
Poised tauntingly on the tip,
His, the leaf's desire at its apex,
His frame taut to follow reflex,
Such a sweet way to suffer.

Does this leaf have the gall,
To set the drop loose to fall,
Or does he have the gall,
To hold on and never fall,
To honor or pressure will he defer?


        This poem is not literal, you will get very little from it if you view it solely that way. It isn't even well painted imagery for a scene... so if you are so inclined you can try to pick out one of the many implied and suggested meanings. There are many, what does it say to you?

I Train

Chalk flies,
Another rep dies,
Breath deep,
Another rep I seek.
Body on fire,
Driven by primal desire,
Sweat drops like a shower,
Unable to quench my thirst for power.
Another rep,
Another step,
On this never ending journey,
The bite of the steel,
Its crushing weight I feel.
Sister steel, brother Iron,
I will not release you till all is gone.
Till my energy is spent,
Till every fiber is to my will bent,
The fibers of my being woven,
Into the sterner stuff of greater men.
It is not just the body I train,
For I seek not the vain,
But attainment in the entire being,
That is why I come to the alter of pain,
And why my blood the bar doth stain.

Self is Powerless

Struggling,
Deficient,
Trying,
In labor bent,
Yet for naught,
Strength fails,
And one is caught,
Helpless but to flail,
Effort without consolation,
Empty motions,
Full frustration,
One cries to the king of his devotion,
Power and ability,
Blessing,
Motions fluid and free,
Encompassed by ever expanding capacity,
Humble the pride,
Bend upon the knee,
Ask for power from outside,
Outside of self and be free.

      I know I haven't posted in a while any of my poems. I am sorry I have been busy with school starting up, however I will start blogging them again now. So stay tuned. I know I said I would do 1 a day but I may fall short of that, but I am trying to get back into the swing of it.

Traveling Soul

Anticipation,
Delay,
Frustration,
Pray,
Wait,
Sigh,
Appetite Sate,
In bed lie,
In the morning new,
Start the course,
Anticipation renew,
Hope is a limitless Resource.

Crushed Flowers Bleed

Curled up in bed,
Red stain of what she bled,
Dried upon the sheets,
Her dress no longer neat pleats,
Lies in a heap upon the floor,
As she stares is silence at the door.
Why?
Why did he lie,
And say he would care,
Why did she dare,
To believe his words,
Which now pierce like swords.
He spoke of love and affection,
Now he shows her naught but rejection.
He promised love in unending shower,
In return for her blooming flower,
But after the cloth is pulled,
Revealing damsel to the cold,
After flower is crushed,
Sweaty moments are rushed,
The brave knight,
Proves naught but flighty Wight.
T’was no high man noble,
Who tore her self same named bobble.
He is a vagrant and fool,
Who would use like a tool,
This kind damsel,
Who in desperation did sell,
Her flesh for affection.
But was not an economic defection.
She exchanged a gift for love,
But rather than soft silken glove,
T’was rough and course which groped.
Her longing heart was roped,
Not by the truth,
But the lies of these uncouth,
Vagrants who disposed,
Of her once their lusts we reposed.
She fears she is naught but a pretty face,
That she bears no other grace,
And thus falls into this cycle again,
With such same men…
But she will no longer be treated like mud,
No longer will her sheets have blood,
From rough nights,
Nor her heart frights,
For her Father sends one,
To whom she may run,
A man noble in heart,
Whose character is a work of art,
As much as the flesh upon his frame,
Who will never play a game,
With her affection,
Who will be for her, perfection.
She must simply trust and wait,
For the day her Father chooses to sate,
Her deep need,
For which she did bleed,
The need for love,
Which every heart craves above,
Any other sustenance,
And many a soul throws to chance.
Wait young maiden,
For in that day, then,
You will be satisfied,
And your heart will not weep and hide.

The Rose Eternal

The rose eternal,
Blooming in this world infernal,
Soft and delicate is its bloom,
As a baby fresh from womb.
This rose trampled by man and beast,
Treated as if it were the least,
Of all blooming buds,
Crushed beneath feet which thud,
Heavily upon the pastoral ground,
A dolorous morose sound.
This rose trampled down,
Then woven into a thorny crown.
This rose placed upon a brow,
Oh but some may yet see how,
This act is a strange irony,
For they know things which yet are and be,
That this rose is the rose of Sharon,
They are in fact type and anti-type, one.
The rose trampled on the ground,
The man who was bound,
For our sin.
And died for all men.

Fearful

Fear fills the heart of man,
And though he does what he can,
To quell such trepidation,
To send worry upon vacations,
To silence doubt,
To make his dread rout,
Still his heart quakes,
At night he lays awake,
Thoughts race in his mind,
And he chokes upon the rind,
Of his own mental fabrication,
Oh woe is he for trepidation,
Tis not fear he dreads,
Or that his body might dry be bled,
Or soul agony over hardship or woe,
But the agony that he knows,
That he may not deserve,
To in love serve,
The queen of his heart,
That is the dart,
That pierces his soul,
And makes his tears roll,
That is the latch,
That makes his terrors hatch.
That he will be found wanting,
In some way, in something,
And then be left alone,
In the darkness to moan.

Young and Dreaming

The future that I see,
Stretched out before me,
This future bright as can be,
In which I am successful and free,
Is blocked by barrier and boundary,
Taking from me,
My liberty.
I may be young but I see,
Much I must do to be,
To be and become me,
Not the me I am now,
But the me of maybe and how,
The me of tomorrow's dawn,
When all doubt and barrier is gone.
But I am a student,
Who is meant,
To be many things,
But first I must endure the stings,
Of todays waits and whiles,
Of this moments trials.

Baby Girl.

***A poem I wrote for someone on request.***


Bearing inside,
This baby I can't hide.
But I can't deliver her,
My baby girl.
Trembling hands,
Brush from my eyes the sands,
Of many a sleepless night,
And tears drop at the sight,
As my hands sign the line,
To destroy this child of mine.
But from deep in my soul,
A soft voice rolls,
"I know your sorry mommy,
I know you really want me.
And I forgive you,
for what your about to do."
The doctors came to me that day,
And took my daughter away.
But every night on bended knee,
I ask God to forgive me,
Of this painful sin,
That someday in heaven,
I might see my baby girl.

Doubt and Faith

Inept failure,
Deserving censure,
Shameless tool,
Deserving to drown in a pool,
Of his own blood,
To grovel in the mud,
All of his days,
A failure in all his ways.
Weak whelp,
Their condemnation is felt.
I feel it every day,
In sunshine and gray.
I never measure up,
Never to drink from the cup,
Of accolade and praise,
Never to raise,
To my lips and drink,
Or even to think,
To touch the chalice,
Of rousing success.
A failure among my own kin,
Seemed destined to never win.
But I know that I am more,
Deep down in my core.
I am not just failure and defeat,
I can be more I can be great,
I can bear my allotted weight,
But not within their sight,
Which turns my day into night.
Their crushing down destroys me,
That I can not ever be,
Who I was made to become,
More than the sum,
Of my potential capacity,
But when she is with me,
With her faith like a rope,
Inspired by her hope,
I know I am more,
Deep within my core.
And I can succeed and grow,
Victory's taste we together can know.

Life too is

Difficulty and trial,
Throng us all the while.
As we try to live this life,
Despite its strife.
Trail and difficulty,
What could possible be,
The reasons we must persevere?
Why must we cry tears?
There is more than this sting,
Life is a blessing,
There is also too peace and joy,
And fair thing with which to employ,
Our minds and hearts and souls,
We need not be shipwrecked upon the shoals,
Of doubt and despair,
Life too is fair!
See the beauty all around,
Flowers springing from the ground.
Birds singing in the sky,
As they swiftly winging fly.
Life teeming all around,
Our hearts beating to the sound,
Of the pulse of the makers heart,
This world was his flawless art.
And though it has been corrupted,
His blessings have not been interrupted.
Life is good, life is great,
And the reason we must bear this weight,
Is to become strong,
That we might help right wrong.
And help those we love,
Our fellow children of father above.

Questions? -Answered.

Disappointment?
-Self,
Failure?
-Typical,
Forgiveness?
-Can you?
Success?
-Atypical,
However
Yet,
Change?
-Is coming!
I?
-Will become More.

Frustration.

Days of life,
Days of strife.
Not with others,
Nor our sister and brothers.
Days of conflict,
Which we inflict,
Upon ourselves.
As we sit upon the shelves,
Of indecision and self loathing.
Tormented by self and situation.
Filled with frustration.
We must learn to let go,
And to flow,
With what we can not change,
And allow God, our lives to arrange.

A Leaf Bark

Like a leaf floating on the waves
During the course of a tempest
Which threatens to overwhelm
And swamp that bark
And sunder its hull
Driving it to the depths
But not of the sea
But of despair
And solemn misery
Struck forth out of lonesome
Out of lonesome and futile days.
I need you.
My soul is a wisp upon a vesper,
Naught but a whisper,
When I am apart from you.

Incomplete Alone

Pulsing, pounding,
Drumming, swelling,
What is this tide welling,
Up through my mind.
Causing my feelings to grind,
Into sloven disparity.
Why can't I now see,
Seemingly the end.
To see days when this will mend,
And I will be no longer alone.
Oh From my throat tears a stronger moan!
Why must we be apart!
I, and my true heart!
Does not the heart die,
If tis not nigh,
To its resting place here,
Clasped close, clasped near.
To its rightful rest,
Where it lodges best.
What virtue is in continuing,
To suffer under the sting,
Of longing agony,
Apart from thee.
The virtue is patience,
Which I must bear, from hence,
Till then day we are wed,
And my hearts true hunger is fed.
But somedays, my soul feels the icy pulling,
The dark calling,
Of serpentine saturnine sorrow,
Which pulls in a steady pull,
Upon my heart,
Piercing like a dart.
I long for communion,
I long for union,
I long to share with you,
In whatever we may do.

Emotional Bleed Out

Taking this blade, thin,
Thrusting it through, all the way,
Before ripping it out again,
In a crimson spray.

Pain pulsing purely,
Serpentine streams I see,
Froth and foam flowing free,
Masochistic miasma from me.

Eyes haze over and glaze,
Slowly bleeding out,
To weak now to raise,
My voice to shout,

If I desired aid,
If I desired to live,
So instead I slowly fade,
For there is nothing else for me to give.

For you to see my importance,
To deserve more than a glance,
As you through life prance,
Like the lord of the dance.

Why must I always fail?
I am altogether not good,
Perhaps none might even wail,
When my corpse is stiffer than wood.

Perception's Window

Perception is like a window,
Through which we might know,
The world all around,
But perception is bound,
To the same limitations,
As windows have within situations.

For if the window is cold,
And come across something striking, hot, bold,
The window will fog over, opaque,
And the view we then take,
Into our eye,
May be untrue, a lie.

Or if it be bitter icy outside,
But warm and humid inside,
Then ice will encase,
And block out every trace,
Of what is truly out there,
Blinded by the hoarfrost of the lack of care.

But unlike a window,
I would have you know,
You can change your perception,
To not live a deception,
Deceiving yourself and your kin,
Living a lie again and again.

You can know the truth,
What is verity and sooth.
Be willing to open your mind,
And you will never be blind.

Ageless and Serene

Standing serene in the glade,
Watching the waving of each blade,
Swaying in the wind,
The gentle grass stalks bend.

Ageless limbs stretched to the sky,
Still despite winds passing by,
Trunk strong and thick,
Life still flowing fast and quick,

Strong, and not unlike a tree,
Standing alone, strong and free.
A faint smile upon his face,
Speaking of mercy, love, and grace,

The birds and the beasts,
From greatest to the least,
Come and throng about Him,
Without a trouble or worried whim.

Enthralled by His matchless charms,
There Safe beneath His arms.
Sometimes I think of Him this way,
When I am beset by dark days.

When trials are stark,
When the way is dark.
I think of my Father’s care,
Standing untiring there,

Serene, loving, merciful, and kind,
With me in mind,
And a smile upon His face,
And though a line or two of trouble might trace,

Upon His brow,
It is only as He seeks to tell me how,
I ought to go,
Or to show,

Me what I must do,
To stay true,
To what I am meant to be,
For what He made me,

His created and adopted son,
So that when all days are done,
I too might lay down,
At his feet my crown,

And curl up in His arms,
Safe from all frights or alarms.
Father create in me,
The desire and power to be,

Eternally like you,
In all I do.

Perhaps

O, how the mighty among me,
Have fallen again,
Perhaps to never rise,
Perhaps better if he dies,
Rather than be maimed for life,
By the slice of shame’s knife.
Perhaps better to curl up and seek,
The death that comes to the weak.
Perhaps better to never climb again,
To try to surpass the heights of men.
Perhaps should just yield up the ghost,
And all the host,
Of spirits that plague this man,
Perhaps in hell he can,
Receive his just reward,
For failing his Lord.
Perhaps there when bent,
Under the onerous punishment,
He might succeed at something,
Even if it is but receiving the sting,
That is deaths touch,
But even as such,
Perhaps it would be best,
For him and all the rest,
That would be left behind,
If he were to follow this mind.
But perhaps not,
Perhaps life is not yet wrought,
And he can still strive again,
Against himself and sin,
And perhaps this time not again fail,
And thus derail,
The train of progress he must ride,
If he is to ever to be counted on the side,
Of He who has all might, the right,
The Holy King of Light.