Go Black Jack! (Ace in the Hole)

"Go Black Jack! (Ace in the Hole)"

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Tuesday December 9, 2014 @ 11:41 PM

A swig of whiskey and tonic filled with gin, and O'! How 

Shall I celebrate this victory, all those poker chips and the 

Money while feigning a humble grin? Puffing on my cigar -

Tocar! Estos pequeños Castros del espíritu - and my! So, so

Illegal it is right, righteousness that is, begetting pure and

Only bliss I say as the priest prepares to chris-ten the unholy

Partnership of "The Corruptible" with his lover, fair Avarice,

That madam butterfly out of her cocoon and fixin' swoon -

So many tonight from which to choose! I believe the House

Actually was the victor, for I am to receive the truce between

The barrier of the corridor and the gang of catwalkers known

To themselves as the Flooze... and I am the sovereign to what

I choose as I always roll snake eyes, sipping away my night as

Fright of the chips having fallen where they did only accounts

I do lose the same - Judas Iscariot to the cause and the celebrity

Affair for whom all my details will be divulge like the deluge of
Subliminal messages - the scent of decadence which surrounds.

A big swig o' my Lynchburg Lemonade, a puff for my posterity,
And how shall I bet the house, for I am afflicted with the louse of
Cerebral resistance to intellectual discourses plaguing my head
And thy heart which beats colder by the second - and as I roll that
Snake Eyes, I have my little Ace in the Hole - I  hold the deck and
Ye shall await for my command pertinent to the heart's discontent,
And what of you? Shall you vent? Shall you recant that ground as
You remain touched down on Earth rather than the meanderings
Into the supernova of the mind - the vestibule, the atrium and my
Valve, six cylinders prepped for roulette once I yell "Go Black Jack!"
And thy tavern du esprit, for whatever it is worth, just cut off your
Tab, demanding now that you pay down on this lush ol' House....

If It's Me You Believe

"If It's Me You Believe"

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Sunday November 30, 2014 @ 7:11 AM

The skipping of my stone rations a gently seismic ripple in the pond... and

O' I believe it is time to sail my boat as the moon's baton directs His Opus
 Magnus as the crickets bow their legs - Nature's violin ensemble of Lord
Knows all, and while pickin' daisies, blowin' into the wind those cottony
Ol' dandelions whose helicopters, like a white snow sprouting only from 
The ground, are to fly! fly! fly! Fly me away, and home to my eternal spa
Where the waters never age and there need never be good reasoning to
Read into the crystal ball, to stand tall as that gypsy queen on a new day's
Halloween foretells a life yet to be, but if you shall never believe me, well
That's just fine - I shall fly away! Way A-way! Light as a feather and even
Less busy like a bee, the pot dullened as that honey sweet just dried away.

Fantastic though my story's told, it's only applicable if it's me you'll believe
And not the fiction of an eternal sunrise preparing to enter the vestibule of
My blank mind - and how my life has been quite unkind! Yet 'tis God who
Always informs me to sail my clipper 'cross the Atlantic hurricane, the gale
Screaming as a queen in the heat of a bristly tryst - and I'm alive amid this
Bliss! Sunkissed! A tan indicative St. Thomas of the Bahama Island's sound
Singing to me a tune too intoxicating in amorous delight to simply e any old
Siren; her erotic shrill a cappella pitch, so sweet, ma belle St. Marie - and O'!
How I do hope you'll believe me now, for life is such a sacrificial cow, and if
We could be seen right now as tonight descends on our fateful forevers, and
Never a day to pass us along by and by, and indeed I sigh for in translation
I never was lost, but died a spiritual dive into my hellish immolation - and how
My spirit shall never be free of thee so long as life continues to "be", to exist.

Year Zero Down, an Eternity to Go

"Year Zero Down, an Eternity to Go"

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Friday November 28, 2014 @ 12:07AM

Year Zero without you at the table, begging for random kernels

Popped just as I handled you with care, and I hope you knew as

I still do now more than ever before - how I'll always love you so.

Time only sailed the stormy gales of the sands of the hourglass's

Granules, so small and yet as microcosms, a world all their own

Because the tell tales with so much to behold - and o'! Now you're Gone and I've suddenly taken a cold -

And if I never told you each moment at our home how I loved you,

It was one chance missed out of so many I'd waste, for by our time,

Measures are merely pithy condemnations for how we shall never

Control, for science only knows a tangible end to the beginning of "No".

Almighty God planted for each a cedar, a trunk firm as its age-old

Rings tell of many a tale, but I digress at yours within that wooden

Home, and how you are home, where no tempest shall uproot you

So long as there is an Eternity for you and me to spare.

Road to Nowhere - Sao Paulo, Brazil

Road to Nowhere tunnel - Bryson City, NC, USA

Cedar Tree

"Cedar Tree"

Written by Jonathan Henderson 

Tuesday November 25, 2014 @ 5:32 PM

Post a baker's dozen and four and O'! she's forever seen but 

Now that root is gone, burnt to ashes, the winds blow her 

Asunder, I shall never pray away for another blunder...

The holidays never mean so well in that mind of mine, 'tis

In an unkind hell more cold than hot, pure azure in its ice

Than all the inferno Dante could cast me away...

Ornaments once were sacrosanct, but I confess, they'll not

Be now nor ever or again, and I shall break the tidings only

To commiserate the first bleak day when Fate cut down my

Cedar Tree a-whole...

Shall I sail the starry seas of the blackened coal skies as 

I am pondering just when I shall find those Kingsfords inside

And what I need - and what I see is how I wish my beloved

Cedar Tree could come home, to climb that stairway once 

And no further times, to stare into her emerald eyes - the 

Most soulful to haunt of my heart, as we'd dine a la carte,

No pain nor mercy driving me insane, so should she feel o'

So serene, and let our spirits purr as the motorboats coast

Down that River Jordan, content with our one last time.

This Winter of Discontent Segues into a New Life of Spring

This Winter of Discontent Segues into a New Life of Spring

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Monday November 24, 2014 @ 3:13 PM

Those trumpets now herald the dawn of a new day, for it

Shall always be the brightest, for all other days blended

To one, and if one ever dreamt the sun shall never again

Shine, well that is fine, but don't you dare sip another of

His wine -  for no one told you that vino would ever be

Plucked from a vine in that Italian countryside in rustic

Lombardy and its villa and looking ever onward, nor of

The Sun King as he lived lavishly inside Versailles, only

Of history's charge of the Light Brigade until Sevastopol

Was sacked, and boy! Wasn't Nightingale sans so many

Naps as she cared for warriors whose hearts far more

Luminescent than any bar of gold bullion -and I believe

Faith dealt you a currency its riches can never exchange.

Charge! Charge! I beseech you press forth, for no good

Is ever won if not the malicious to be defied, no easy time

To pay the dime you earned, for nothing is something, and

Something shall never be nothing - 'tis the laws of nature's

God, and God is Sovereign; He grants thee His Truth to be

Acquired by the blade of a crusader, and He has faith that

You have yours, too - and look at you! The triumph shall

Be soon! Come the break of dawn or tonight's moon or

Tomorrow shall bid thee soon the reward of l'esprit

De coeur! This winter of discontent shall segue into its

Newest life of Spring, and so shall you along the road

To the next sweet lullaby song, the break of a new dawn

And a daylight infinite in its possibilities, and so it shall be.

The Drift of the Unconscious Sufferer

"The Drift of the Unconscious Sufferer"

Written by Jonathan Henderson 

Wednesday November 19, 2014 12:27 AM

My suffrage of the temperance of the soul, depravity sings

Of the long acquaintance in my mind, that it be thine own

Mind, pontificating as it will, or as you never were nor may

You ever - Charge up that hill! 'Tis uphill, but those men in

The hilarity of their passe white coats of infamy peeping so

Far down into the precipice of an abyss to crown my very

Boorish countenance a lost cause in the catacombs along

The banks of the River Styx, doing all I may to steer clear

Of the gnashing mongrel Cerberus and his knives amid the

Rim of despair's capacity to forever tear my apparatus from

Limb to limb - Habare corpus ut daret - and my home! O! O!

My home! Mala fortuna! Another one of me now bitten of that

Lazarus respirat ultimum... Nunc est mea tempus relinquere 

Pro bono. Bon opportuna ad futura ad infinitum....

Flying Home to My Fair Andorra

"Flying Home to My Fair Andorra" 

Written by Jonathan Henderson 

Monday November 17, 2014 @ 9:14 PM

Like an eagle flying o'er the Pyrennes' rocky mountain high, 

From Iberia West coasting to Barcelona's seabed blending

As with pastels with my daytime sky - and I cry! Tears just

Cascade into the entrenchments, just flooding my fair lady

Andorra's sweet tidings, for I escaped los toros de Navarre!

How I did not drive your car! But had I so, I'd never know just

What that atmosphere on the cafe patio as we sip of our pre

Siesta java al fresco, and those ocean waves 'cross those

Emerald and blue shores my Mediterranean soul feeds, and 

That breeze! How it doth tease away my life with ease! And 

So please, my fair Andorra, I beg of thee, let that chill in the

Autumn night air slip fly a kiss of bliss on my fat, rosy cheek

As I wave to mi munde loco "Hasta la vista para el es la

Despidida, mi senorita dulce, hermosa"... and the song shall 

Go on, and ever onward ad infinitum....

My Tribute to T.C., My Cat and Sister, My Equal in Every Way (1997-2014)

Post by Jonathan Henderson.

The Solo Lover

"The Solo Lover" 

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Thursday April 24, 2014 @ 9:04 PM

A night darker still than her blackened opaque skies

Till he crashes upon wounded knees, weeping a flood,

Only in his despair shall he sip his bitter wine to wash

Away his deadest sorrow, for he is bereft of her soft,

Tender touch, so delicate as she might cascade those

Fingertips down the stream, but how t'was just a dream!

Thy fire within sears white-hot my soul till I am to be

Raked over Infinity's bed of hot coals, for I am the solo

Lover, never having known what indeed I should care.

Each night is a soiree down by the landing, and O'! Those

Debutante lilies are plucked by their wealthy beaus in

Tow, and who shall it be in control but a pair, a team

To plug the dyke's hole should it spring a leak, always

A fingertip to grant mercy to the touch of when Hell

Finally eclipses a paradise now forever lost in time....

Lazarus Exhaled

Lazarus Exhaled

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Sunday August 24, 2014 @ 2:58 AM

Dear Judean Lazarus sighed, and did so before he died!

Was it stratified? Suicide? Or a midnight ride down old

Revolutionary Road? And did Lazarus wail as Gruesome

And the chilly bumps made of Geeze will honk? What did

He do? Pray tell, what did my buddy Lazarus say prior to

That moment Exasperation clinched that windpipe, tightly

And bred with an eternal winter discontented, frigid even

As beyond Levant unto God's gift to humanity he lies atop

The bed of ice, and he the Pisces flopping to melt it even

As Chilly Willy had absconded to absentia, till the grande

Finale climaxed followed the manufactured replacement of

The final breath exhaled: Lazarus was never to be again.

To a Tomorrow Never to Be

To a Tomorrow Never to Be

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Friday August 22, 2014 @ 1:59 PM

Sing to me your Marseillaise, la grande dame de Paris!

Jacobins meet Ishmael - the whale killed all she held in her

Contempt; a moment, fleeting, subterranean boil like the

Geyser from Babylon's rotten core, Shaitan, preaching of

A peace, a faith denuding the right to be mired in a misery 
As that false prophet removes the head of its evil infidel's

Head - and we are dead! Dead! We shall never make our

Own bed again! Montezuma's revenge be damned! The fall

Of the final ziggurat - Aladdin's lamp cannot abdicate of its

Myth to rub upon Genie's lamp, for he hanged out his one

Final time once the world committed its penultimate crime.

Clownery, court jesters and the application of a little old

Whoopie cushion to lighten a blackened sky with its even

More opaque, blackest of messengers of our doom, one 

Which is pending tout le monde... and I am disarmed in 

Spirit - l'esprit et corps; les etoiles tombent sur terre....

  But O! Those lucky stars! They ne'er shined so brightly as
Always we'll count upon He! The light for the world, our
Ships at sea, and He taught we'll never live unless we sail
As the Lighthouse burns the red horizon as He engulfs the
Tempest's rage as our faith doth carry my sweet chariot,
My schoener home to Thee!

To a world at blade's edge - we'll fight for you, to preserve,
To prevent His orphans, those wayward sons and daughters
From the Imam's fury and a fatwa's decree, of an end too
Cruel that Attila cannot stand to compare, the black horde
Of death and Azazel's revenge against those who chose of a
Path to the apostate of evil declaring us that and infidelity.
My God! My God! Give me love! Give me peace! God save
Me, Slewfoot Sue and Annabelle Lee! Johnny Appleseed,
Paul Bunyan and Babe! Susan Anthony's dollar and my land
Of the Free! But grant me my bravery to serve Your Glory as
The world burns its sulfur and we face Dajjal's wrath! For all
That black horde is are Muhammad's messengers for a death;
For He denies He is The Son, but rather of Adam and his sin.

Grant me strength as the final Crusade is waged, for the future
Will not be if our land is not brave! Bequeath me the power to
Save those orphans, for in God I trust, for in Him may Power
Be mine and yours.

From San Juan Via Hollywood Boulevard

From San Juan Via Hollywood Boulevard

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Thursday June 19, 2014 @ 11:17 PM EST

Three thousand miles, so far; and yet so small, our world

Quite minute as we each stand tall; and yet I reject how we

Continually part the Red Sea west and east of the Mighty

Mississippi - between you where it never rains in Southern

California and I, atop my humble Smoky Mountains of East

Tennessee - and it really is a main street: a strip of drag 

Partitioning the lady and her showbiz from the pioneer as

He is blazing his trail in the wilderness of his beloved old

Southland, for at day's closure, the lands between still will

Ripple gently, her peaks still arouse curiosity, forever just

Splitting that Red Sea, the great divide, as Jericho's walls

Cry of a lonely dispensation as friends are reliant on today's 

Messages to be sent through bottles as cast upon the net,

For as always, the lights along Hollywood Boulevard will

Serve as the lantern for her to reach to her especial amigo

As he watches the sun set upon his Tennessee porch, his

Honeysuckle in tow, admiring the majesty of Rocky Top.

Born of two worlds and still separate by a new, he’d fancy

Extending his right hand, perspiring as it would, in warmth

And compassion to the lady so unique, her gentle, subtle

Demurity hinted via photographs of a tale yet divulged to an

Audience incapable to be recipients of a heart it never saw. 

She’d gladly reciprocate, for a world of seven billion strong

Could never be wrong to justify of a peace amid so many 

Soloist commonalities; and ours as a community of two 

Commonalities, two hearts beating for their time to set the 

World afire, for she is delivered to my undivided attention

From su patria San Juan via Hollywood Boulevard’s lights.

I Have Loved Since Half Past the Dead of Dawn

I Have Loved Since Half Past the Dead of Dawn

Written by Jonathan Henderson 

Tuesday June 17, 2014 @ 11:34 PM

Ma chere! I have loved since half past the dead of dawn,

The fields attacking me with their poppies, and you? My

Opiate, just one hit needed only, nevermore nor any less

So addictive to that seductive scent of a sweetheart's wet

Kiss, and I! O! How I'm a sugarcoated summer's bliss! And

How I shall sing "Que sera sera!" O! My Omaha, driving

'Cross country, nowhere to go but inside, you, here, by me,

And I can't seem to shake this impossible dream: How am
I so serene, or why me? How I deserve thee! Mon amour,

je suis amoureux avec vous! O! How this is true! Let us 

Sail that sky where the Seven Seas roll as the sheets engulf

My head, that grip caressing down the wooden totem pole,

And O! And don't you know? Say you shall! Say you'll be

Forever mine as we sail that gentle sky past that good night

And onto that penultimate breaking of dawn, and how so!

How I have loved since half past the dead of dawn! Oui!

C'est vrai, mon amour! How that love redirected my life

Until I was in your arms, objectified by your sweet caress.

Thirty-Three Squared

Thirty-Three Squared
Written by Jonathan Henderson
Tuesday June 17, 2014 @ 3:14 AM

Thirty-two and so very few! How I never knew you,
Never seen what the Arbiter of Thoughtcrime was, in

Its stead, so very true; and O! How you colored me a
Shade or two as the red boy of 1981, that year I slid

Down that canal, destined with my own write and but
A mere purpose for an energy to expend, to engage all

Who might dare pollute the aural consciousness with
Either one my rich tone in sonorous harmony, a life I'd

Trade with not even my muse of the imagination, or to

Ruminate amid the ignominity of my failure to launch

To the moon - a smug, blithe countenance a president
Dreams amid the change towards a people's morte
Is to serve as the green cheese to feed all from so far

Away from here; and there I spoke once more of that

Change where I see a dark face of consistency of sheer

Despotism, but in his card games, a mirage echoing
Old Hickory the first Caesar, his kitchen cabinet to
Slice as if each day being Thanksgiving the halal of 

Preferentiation to a sultan of a haram, and those quartet

Of brides engaged in a dervish, rotating round and so

Round, till like the man of a mum Manchurian culture so

Cloaked behind a veil only transparent amid darkened
Matter: did he live at the foot of a winter's snow 'neath

Kilimanjaro? A product of a governor of Imelda and

The shoes she bought, the opulence upon herself she

Lavished as fellow peasants in the fields and those 

Scruffs in the thriller of the Manilla streets scrapped...

...and yet were let to slip and slide beneath the salty 

Daggers of the jungle's fever: O! A winter of chills,

A discontent from one generation of the state's role

Of a people's arbiter for their daily bread or the rice 

And la bebida del dia to the televised rubber neck

Of our villa stupidus, never knowing, never caring,
And upon Sunday, now two days post natalem, I
Now at thirty-three see that in the mirror, gray hairs 

Have sprinkled a distinction I never earned, wrinkles

Bequeathing me a life all too harrowing and yet just
One leap of a faith in the liturgical apocrypha shy of
My grande finale either of lore or the fall of my old
Edifice once thought to be a conviction of iron will
And a foundation of bedrock, only to see that as I
Sink within the quicksand, the seas would've been

So worthy of my taking a swim just to say I sank
In an act to have lived dangerously even in defeat.

Margaux; or the Vision of a Cheetah in the Serengeti Plain

Supermodel Margaux Hemingway (1954-1996), granddaughter of Ernest Hemingway

Margaux; or the Vision of a Cheetah in the Serengeti Plain

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Monday April 28, 2014 @ 9:39 PM

Sawtooth baby, just you cry for me

As you penetrate the womb till thou

Sweetest sunlit shine brightened this

World, and the song was so sweet of

The angel's soliloquy upon your beck

And the call for a face so perplexed o'

Gracious abundance, the novel could

Be scripted either through the mind

Of the man trekking the snows of ol'

Kilimanjaro to you, as Fate caresses

Elegance abound, and as the light is

So bright - Please cry! Cry! Bleed of

Those initiating your baptism as He

Now casts thee into the fire of such a

Cruel, dark world Despondency saw

Fit to cradle you within its arms! O'

My babe! The cheetah of my dreams

Meandering 'cross the Serengeti's

Savanna, and how you ring of my

Lyre heralding a new soft face very

Demure, and your life's sojourn to

Captivate we men, your eyes entrap,

And brows hypnotize my conscious

Air as my thoughts translate into a

Breath, for you the first of scores to

Come, the life sum we're to see since

We're so blessed to open the page to

Your glamour, elegance, so soft to

My touch, but as with every rite of

Spring, the flower shall wilt upon a

Parchment Imperfection lent freely

Until you are as were prior, a dream

Lost Sea to Despair

Lost Sea to Despair
Written by Jonathan Henderson
Saturday May 3, 2014 @ 9:37 PM

O' I do not remember before the present time
When I last committed the sin of crime, when
The beat of my soul hurt so well in accordance
To the drummer and his wiles - how I long for
A peace I never knew, the happiness of heart
So foreign as if a man from Kathmandu! O' do
You not think it possible to be true if my lover
Shall forever be assigned by my Creator, you?

Perception seems so far away, love, that which
We're all to enjoy, but my empty sky above just
Crashed my soiree by the landing... and if we're
Never to fear the despair always to be, if we're
Not to see the changes made bear fruit, o' how
Will I ever smile an inch or even a minutia of
That country mile? Those chain gangs toil 'neath
That sun so torrid, how it skewers thy frigidity
Away from my heart, replacing her with a sea
Coursing through the veins, a lost sea to despair
Fast - but as the sands descend to the bottom of
The cauldron's vat void of pleasure, embracing
Life's calumny, but I digress at the behest o' Fate's
Ennui towards me and all who slave to thy sins.

Eternal Sunrise over the Rooftops of the World

Eternal Sunrise over the Rooftops of the World

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Sunday April 20, 2014 @ 3:48 PM

Mornings awaken to the ubiquity of a rooster's call

For a new life borne of hope renewed, and upon his

Cry o' I sing to your graces, mon amour, and I'll love

Thee evermore. -

As I sigh amid my tear drop's rippling of an ambiance 

As I lie in state, and she beseeches me tarry hastily on

Home, and I shall traverse that golden bienvenue ever

Awaiting me, and she invites me to her opposite side

Of the pillow. -

Quixotic dreams fly as God's doves of peace shall to

Me bequeath another moment's exaltation of my old

Labor to see an eternal sunrise over the rooftops of

The world... o' tout le monde, merci, mon amour, s'il

Vous plait! O' how my perfect aphrodisiac guides my

Sweet chariot home across Helios' massive lantern,

Though it was cast unto him by mon amour as she's

Lifted me of a spirit mired so dark within a tempest

Of despair... and she called me home, as she is that

Source of the triad of necessity, and all the earthly

Sustenance I'll need till my Lord shall call us to his

Triclinium as we sip of the Eucharist, to break of a

Bread my fair Jesus shall forever nourish our souls

As we partake of the lone fuel to cast our souls to a

Land of a pax infinitum, His grace issued our morn

Never to see a twilight into the deathly hallows of

A final night.

Springtime in the Southland

Springtime in the Southland

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Thursday March 20, 2014 @ 9:33 AM

Springtime breezes exalt me higher upon

The green grasses blue reach to tickle my

Ankles en route to my soul, and how the

Cold winter deprived me whole, and I'll

Sing the song the hummingbirds in love

Heralding the end of a blizzard only long

In brevity, never to deny my love for you. 

Shall we see sing of the rise of springtime 

In my Southland, and how the seasons sing 

To a fiddle amid mountain terrains? Shall

I serenade my sweet baby upon the rise of

The first warm sun with the kiss of a rose

As such a lovely incantation amid my old

Scots-Irish clansman charm and the wiles?

May I sing to you, s'il vous plait? J'taime,

Ma chere, to thyself and me be true...

Well the eagles fly around my beloved Smoky

Mountains high, the lone Olympus to my cold

Heart of mine bitten with Jack Frost's chilled

Nip at the toes, and how it aroused thy spirit

To subvert the icicle chandeliers' descent far

Beneath the abyss winter dug below the old

Marianas well, and the sun sold to her my old

Tales of brave Odysseus assailing a ten year's

Fortnight, but the nightingale will croon upon

The lark of a new tomorrow germinated from

My amorous incantation to a sweet sunrise of

Me with you at my side.

Empty Chamber

Empty Chamber

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Monday April 14, 2014 @ 9:08 PM

Ich bin ein liebhaber, but as the gentle heart throbbing within,

How it cries for a mercy so tender and yet effervescently free

Of the sight of you, and for me? A gentle dribble of a tear rains

Down my right cheek for a second more consistent of many a

Week, a fortnight of eternal despair! I'd like to see if you really

Do read of a presence the flesh shall never appear as if prose

Within a novel or the lyrics of fair Ms. Dickinson, if I ever saw

What the fork in the road of which that laureate spake, or the

Majesty of fate which The Father said is an advice never to be

Necessary to achieve of man's flawed and vain reconciliation? 

My heart explodes within my throat, paralysis abounds, a pain 

I, well-acquainted, shall reap which I sow, and her majestical 

Eyes have it - o' how they sear of my soul's caged parakeet-type

Of despair, how I may bear against you, my love, a wisp of your 

Hair's gentle musings down my back, your lips my body's lone

Masseuse, and how I am stricken of a passion unrequited, and

I nigh see her script before me - o' what a dream my nightmares

Always conceive when that image of your invisible silhouette's

To appear, and all I am to see shall be the fear of my dry barren

Empty chamber! And as with Russian roulette, one day I'll see

That one filled of the six may fire and either kill or seal a fate

Of a heartstring, hollow, flooding it either of her my tears till 

Dry, or ending my winter of discontent till spring everlasting

Remains above the equator - never again shall a season to be

Demarcated till the day scheduled to die, for love is sprung as

Eternal, and so is God, for to we his children, it is His greatest

Heirloom bequeathed of us all.

To You, My Liege, I Pledge My Undying Affection

To You, My Liege, I Pledge My Undying Affection

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Tuesday April 15, 2014 @ 1:33 AM

To you, my liege, I pledge my undying affection 

Upon bequeathing thee my just flirtations, as it

Is the dawn of a new morn, merci, and my mind

Wanders upon the rooster's call to arms within

The warmth of your embraces so tight, you lay

Away my troublesome light-punished eyes upon

An otherwise ecliptic sunrise, a bloody moon to

Always persist past the day shy of her April ides,

For the taxman has cometh, as sure as we are to

Abide by the natural law to pass over the ancient

River Jordan - our penultimate voyage unto our

Destiny's destination as we cry for our unbridled

Song to sing by me to thee and to me of thee, the

Sweetest melody to end our days, the requiem to

Inform to all of God's children that in death still

Our story shall never reach a sad last page, as it is

A tale of a finite love unrequited only in how we

Are to never succeed to acquire a capacity simply

To adequately communicate our love from thy

Hearts to thee, the smile welcoming always thy

Broken half home from the remnants of hours so

Long past, they're too excruciating to again suffer

Further indignations of a time we are bereft of

Our souls' presence, for you are my heart's desire

Traversing down the Appian Way to our newly-

Acquired Pax Romani, 1,000 years of peace, only

To die another undetermined day as we're to be

Betrothed to one second shy of an Eternity blessed

With infinite others obscene only in our show of

An unbridled song Pachelbel's Canon - Handel sees 

Fit to resolve our Auria to cry we not ever again of

Tears rejecting our faith in His design for us, but

Rather sing of our song as we chime to our seeds

For future progeny to join our peace hand-in-hand.

The Solo Artist (Video Recitation)

The Solo Artist 

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Sunday April 6, 2014 @ 9:23 PM

God bequeathed to all a Sunday to visit His home

For a quick parable, a tale, and I rode home insane,

Fathoming all in abject vain, traveling South from

My blue Heaven to the raging infernos of a Hell so

Familiar to the senses that it is my sight within the

Fair mirror - and I, the narcissist, the rage always

To engulf my silence on the surface demure, soft, 

But altogether jagged, points so razor blade sharp

At the ends of the pits, I know not how nor where

I am to measure the depths within a facial contort

Or the Bowie knife purging the cowardice of thy

Humble spirit, far less that in only the skin's depth

Never to be quantified, only the story of I, the solo

Artist's pain having never seen nor believed in my

Own heart's desire prior its decline of an age never

To have been lived in sin with my party in crime.

La mort éternelle de mon coeur

La mort éternelle de mon coeur

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Written April 7, 2014 @ 3:29 PM

The proud beat within thy lion heart of the temple

Never felt so barren, a dearth of pleasure and of

Unbridled despair, the despondency to be known 

By the lonely hearts of the winter's turbulent ocean

And her tempest, ever raging, to a climax to never

Have existed, the denouement only borne in accord

With my mere conception, a tide to kill the coming

Day's sunshine, for though Solis has baked those

Lucky backs upon the rites of Spring, my awakening

Will never bear for me any fruit not consistent with

That of the rheumatic fingers grasping the airs of a

Lifeless sky which reminds all of the opportunities

To experience the Forbidden Fruit never afforded of

Myself, but only the ascetic life of a stoic monk, of

The eternal sentencing to my monastic death many

Scores past, present, and into a posterity where the

Demise of my life, always fated for all my time, never

Failed to take launch as this was to be the fate ever

To be for me, for I never was granted a conception

In concert with fairest harmony, but requiem's song.

The Solo Artist

The Solo Artist 
Written by Jonathan Henderson
Sunday April 6, 2014 @ 9:23 PM

God bequeathed to all a Sunday to visit His home
For a quick parable, a tale, and I rode home insane,
Fathoming all in abject vain, traveling South from
My blue Heaven to the raging infernos of a Hell so
Familiar to the senses that it is my sight within the
Fair mirror - and I, the narcissist, the rage always
To engulf my silence on the surface demure, soft,
But altogether jagged, points so razor blade sharp
At the ends of the pits, I know not how nor where
I am to measure the depths within a facial contort
Or the Bowie knife purging the cowardice of thy
Humble spirit, far less that in only the skin's depth
Never to be quantified, only the story of I, the solo
Artist's pain having never seen nor believed in my
Own heart's desire prior its decline of an age never
To have been lived in sin with my party in crime.

Peachtree's Inferno

Peachtree's Inferno

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Tuesday April 8, 2014 @ 6:06 AM

Singing Southbound into Georgia, a brisk breeze nips

The early warm air of April's skies, and she shall ensue

Her rainy trickles of baptism's rites issued, its diffusion

Always till she begets o' my soul while sowing the seeds

Of May flora, and how my fauna sings to me of her blue

Bells across expanses of peanut galleries to Vidalia land.

Crossing the terrain over the highlands of Mt. Lookout

Till I see the delights of Chickamauga, and my! I recall

The annuls telling stories more than seven score and of

Seven pence of the man Gen. William Tecumseh, ye old

Butcher of a life once a sip of mint juleps upon lighting

Brightest his darkest state of despair, and to allow fiery

Embers percolate through Peachtree Boulevard's town

In the skies till Tara cries mercy, yet Willie T. died 'fore

The anathema's legacy scorched my earth of my blest

God's covenant of this, a life well spent.

She's a Rainbow

She's a Rainbow
Written by Jonathan Henderson
Thursday April 3, 2014 @ 11:45 AM

Spring sprung, and the bell has rung, the bees
Buzz around the birds, the butterflies have me,
She hums a sweet tune so divine, and I'm now
No longer mine, but her heart to heat or shred.
She's a rainbow, and I will never find a shinier
Pot of gold from any other emerald isle's glow.

I struck it rich with my fair maiden, an honor
To accompany with her in arm, just to tow my
Load as the hideous half to a gem, no greater
Luster could be found in a De Beers bloodied
Mines, no Austrian sweet chocolate of sublime
Could taste so rich and sweet! A flight of this
Old navigator to the skies of powdered azure's
Cascading to a dance alongside Roy G. Biv, and
I'll stand by my rainbow's treasure amid riches
Unmeasured, unquantifiable, non-qualitative.

Friday Night Behind Her Bars

Friday Night Behind Her Bars

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Friday April 4, 2014 @ 8:58 PM

Friday night in the arms of Hope's despair,

And how that angel too distant seems to lie

Afar beneath my lair of content, and how it

Should be the night the darkness consumed 

Of our window to tame the beasts to always

Lie beneath the heart, if only my maiden's to

Live nearby alongside by night into each day

As Spring stirs ours, but warmth apart frosts

Into states of utter, sheer, frigid despondency. 

I shed a tear commiserating all the times I'm

To ponder whether she feels a blanket of my

Clouded languid life never free unless I lived

Behind her bars, she owning the lock and key

To my heart, and now she is not nearby upon

A Friday night when freedom is reborn once

Every sixth gun's decry, and my source to die

Is the discontent of a dogwood winter ever to

Follow retractions to rheumatic hands' grasp

Till I am to die, if not by breath, then upon my

Last trip as the poet set sails 'cross the stars.

Quixotic Dreams Amid the Slumber of Ages

Quixotic Dreams Amid the Slumber of Ages

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Tuesday March 25, 2014

Years pass, and I toke my grass, the hippie within speaks

And you lend to me your right ear, cautiously an optimist,

Crying for reasons in a realm where we dare not claim so

Much as a twitch nor scratch of this apparition of a frailty

Where one is expected to never stop at the tracks nor ever

To pass go, and so the story goes, the moon, the sun, etc.

But if I ramble along, opining as I do of a universe to speak

Where the sun never sets upon the empire of one, the state

Sovereignty where you and I may be free, to allow to just

"Be," to just decry of fallibility and the imperfections never

To die, only to multiply, of a humanity only perfect due to

Its predestined state of collapse beneath the weight of itself.

The burden you and I bear will never be abridged, mitigated.

For you, Blue, I cry a sweet sigh, the tears which shed tell

If I am to do or just die, and my love for the zest of milk

And honey may be tasted only in my quixotic dreams amid

The slumber of age, the span a cosmos' ride through bleak

Skies ridden by Sirens' cries for a sweet summer ride along

The schooner towards the twilight of your sunrise's desire.

Candy from the Backdoor Man

Candy from the Backdoor Man

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Wednesday March 19, 2014 @ 6:51 AM

Lady Diamond, I shall sing of your tunes

As I walk, the conscious sufferer, of your

Wiles as the birds chirp and spring shall

Ensue a harvest of a new swarm, with so

Many honey combs within its confines, as

You, my queen, shall never be lost of your

Divine sovereignty of my dominion's day!

Come get your candy, for I will always be

Your backdoor man, and Toucan Sam, so

Exotic, can never bless you with his sweet

Identity, for you not only are my tres bien

Fete upon the sunrise of an eternal sky, for

I'll let freedom fly away, the buzzing zips

Past and winter again will slip a far until

The rapture cries "Armageddon" and God's

Seven trumpters herald a new age of peace

One thousand thither into a posterity only

To wave to us "goodbye," and how we shall

Fly shotgun across the cloudy pillows upon

Which we are resigned, the past is only just

A farewell, a slip of the chains prohibitive of

Our finite requisite pains as we are born of

A stench, sulfuric, as the fruit originally ate.

The swans swim the rapids of gentle ripples

Within our tryst, a bliss, of heavenly flight to

The city infinite by God in as we wave to all

"Goodbye," to see another sky upon the kiss

Of the sweet cherubs' wonders, as all eyes of

Babes penetrate their source for why the old

Stork placed in our arms my Sweet Chariot's

Troika for whom I allow lead my sleigh upon

A winter's discontent to His first star on the

Left till we reach our initial assent of a new

Sunrise at the dawn's earliest sign of light.

Springtime in the Southland

Springtime in the Southland

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Thursday March 20, 2014 @ 9:33 AM

Springtime breezes exalt me higher upon

The green grasses blue reach to tickle my

Ankles en route to my soul, and how the

Cold winter deprived me whole, and I'll

Sing the song the hummingbirds in love

Heralding the end of a blizzard only long

In brevity, never to deny my love for you. 

Shall we see sing of the rise of springtime 

In my Southland, and how the seasons sing 

To a fiddle amid mountain terrains? Shall

I serenade my sweet baby upon the rise of

The first warm sun with the kiss of a rose

As such a lovely incantation amid my old

Scots-Irish clansman charm and the wiles?

May I sing to you, s'il vous plait? J'taime,

Ma chere, to thyself and me be true...

Well the eagles fly around my beloved Smoky

Mountains high, the lone Olympus to my cold

Heart of mine bitten with Jack Frost's chilled

Nip at the toes, and how it aroused thy spirit

To subvert the icicle chandeliers' descent far

Beneath the abyss winter dug beneath the old

Marianas well, and the sun sold to her my old

Tales of brave Odysseus assailing a ten year's

Fortnight, but the nightingale will croon upon

The lark of a new tomorrow germinated from

My amorous incantation to a sweet sunrise of

Me with you at my side.

The Sun Baptizes

The Sun Baptizes
Written by Jonathan Henderson
Thursday March 20, 2014 @ 11:21 AM

Winter died for a thousandth Julian time
At the crossing of the great geographical
Divide, and how I herald Solis' emergence
From her hibernation decreed that it shall
Always forever be once upon a year, but 
Now, it's time to go, and the steel drums
Coronate you as the queen of my universe's
Isles of sweltering jungles so lasciviously
Begetting a new day for this Scots-Irish
Bloke comprising of an American soul and
How I cry for a death to an eternal eclipse,
A tryst, she calls my name, that dame, my
Lovely Lady Godiva, how I'll forevermore
Be your peeping Tom, for I wish to never
See another sight less than exquisite, for
You are my soul, and this, our Spring, will
Be forever ours, ma chere!

If the Sun Refused to Shine

If the Sun Refused to Shine

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Thursday March 20, 2014 @ 8:35 PM

At my night's descent upon a bush of rheumatic hands

And the sands cascade upon celestial stars over funnels

Through the black hole of my despair, and will you not

Simply catch me if you can? My space odyssey launched

For the nether sphere, and I shed for her a tear for my hot

Raging heart lies upon the day seguing into darkest sigh,

And I? Prithee, you are the greatest source of my soloist

Heart's to cry, to let my freedom fly till the day goes last.

If the sun refuses to shine, oh my sweet chariot to a city

Of golden fountains, and we? Beloved, entrenched solo.

If you sing of my tune, I shall cry beneath the full moon,

My nightingale, for I wish for you to deliver your lyrics via

Verse till my day rides high in your sweet chariot home.

Nature bakes beneath the requisite source of my life and

Happiness, contentment, and shall I inscribe for you how

You are my ray of sunshine, the spring begat new life as

The winter slaughters the final autumn flames that set me

Afire, and I pluck Cupid's gift, his lyre, making a noise of

Non description, but if I sing of your irradiating virtuous

Sweet chariot ride to that sun upon the horizon, let there

Never be another day polarized, for our ardor is but one?