Steamboats are made for sinking.
Hunks of steel burning
their ways up and down
a road that can’t remember their tracks.
The river is old,
but it doesn’t remember.
Steamboats are made for sinking,
because if not the water,
who will remember a ship steered home safely?
Bereaving, droves of drakes on dunes alighting,
Till, amidst their fighting, lawless lords do abdicate,
Hearts stoked by strife, storm and hate, their rage incited,
The dregs dragons brighten, the ashes vice venerate.
Muddled verbiage, murdering mob of modesty,
Sharpened mutiny! The sullied sundry’s heritage,
Marred in marriage are sword and hungry honesty,
Lo, atrocity, velvet carrion carriages.
Till fall again the leaves of lethargy,
And eager energy the gentry misperceives,
Red grants no amnesty, burns its brush in effigy,
Purple admits no jeopardy, fateful fallacies.
I am watching, weathered face, sacrilege afforded,
Coin for sword for sordid coin, blood and gold together,
Generation remembered, reduction recorded,
I, red and blue, hoard, on the fifth of Norse November.
This is a Droighneach, so incredibly hard…but four stanzas, props to me, right? Enjoy!
I once wore a cross,
I am religious in any way
that would give significance
to a Taiwanese made piece of stainless steel,
but rather to remember that
I am blessed
by something. I have not lost
anything in my life. It is preserved,
all somewhere within easy reach.
The facility with which I can call up
the past makes me wonder
if it is not that I have never lost,
I have simply never moved on.
I dreamt my pen ran out of ink,
The cruelest fiat; stop, and think!
But still I scratched and drew its blood,
A sacrifice for written word.
And then its soul equivocates,
Still halfway in the paper plane,
I wonder where it might escape,
If somewhere ink can rise like rain,
Wash tainted verse on down the drain,
Trapped within my eco prison,
I know you must get tunnel vision,
Running down your spoon dug hallway,
Slaving for a verse grown maudlin.
Writing, an atrocity of ink…Enjoy!
Light took aim,
Or so he thought,
At a pair of cranes,
Or at a dance,
Or arc of ice,
A beam to bless the table,
But deafened by its holy voice,
It missed protesting cries,
And so it sent its mercy down,
To start the blessed burning,
For one a lord illuminates,
Leaves yet one more in darkness,
And one who lacks some heaven’s light,
Will let his soul grow lawless,
A little nick from Michael’s sword,
Is ever more to mark you,
To show the lost a brighter way,
To vengeance on their darkness.
Sorry for the long wait, I’m close to finishing my book, so soon you’ll be able to see all the poems I’ve been writing. Enjoy!
One week nuns,
All now working,
All the chatter,
All the noise!
Light our luncheon.
The picture, I don’t know, doesn’t really fit. But hey, there’s a poem, enjoy!
I’m going to be publishing volume two of Abstract Interactions soon, and among the sixty eight poems you’ll be able to find lots of old poems that have been posted here, as well as many that have never been posted before. Thanks for supporting my writing!
At the sun’s first dawning,
So empty was the earth,
The ocean boiled and conceived,
And life was given birth,
The trees would stand in forests,
The deer would run in herds,
The fish would swim with fishes,
And the birds would fly with birds,
But then come at the end,
The earth was blessed with twins,
A man walked with his brother,
But not to be his kin,
And so since we were brothers,
We wheel about in war,
The only kind of creature,
Whose prey was once its own.
The world was first populated with only children…Enjoy!
Thou shalt not pass,
But staying here,
Thou shalt not last,
Do unto your neighbors,
As they do to you,
Trade ashes for ashes,
And silver for gold,
Forgive us their trespasses,
For we were at home,
Reading our bibles,
Protecting our souls.
Forgive them all, and god save the few, the same. Enjoy!
Do passing signals leave a mark,
A winding groove, the makers truth?
Do crashing waves of static ocean,
Carve their names on ports of audio?
Do men of business, mars and song,
Whisper, shape you, turn you on?
Or do you resent the ceaseless noise,
Misinterpretation with a voice?
And finally, if there’s a source,
A star from whence I glean my verse,
Do I soothe your scarred antennae,
Or garble its divine agenda?
:Gaudi is king of all
:The clothes of drowned
girls shimmer like fool’s gold
:The disks in my spine rotate three hundred and sixty degrees
:We cage street lights so that thieves can see well
enough to give up the heist
:Water is life which our minds microwave out of our hearts
I swear I’m going to start posting regularly this time, haha. Enjoy!