I Concede to Love's Power

I Concede to Love's Power          March 18, 2008 (Revised October 13, 2013)     

As I stare into thou gloried eyes azure,

Lo'! How the stars shot 'cross the Heavens,

Penning to me letters of grand ardor,

Manifesting within my soul bliss, gross passion;

My lips doth quiver; and what of your's?

'Tis what I know I most feel desirous of you

At the failure of all, and I, a fervid beast, distraught,

Wanton of love, yet unlucky if not any to be.

Share with me this day, mon âme soeur;

'Tis nature's manure; 'tis our love which breeds!

O'! I concede to our love's power,

Your spirit guiding mine through the opaque,

Beneath skies which art the bleakest

Since times past when I knew not ever.

My emotions cede to a dam devour'd by tears;

Flooding, how our canyon must be delug'd,

And I concede to you, my soul, my heart;

I concede to our love's power this night!

Our hands amid a tight, amorous vice;

The palms, sweaty, and yet sans speech,

They tell a fable scarce, yet constant in ubiquity;

And into the arms of the other, we embrace,

Clutching one and the other as if time and space
Doth end at midnight, not the rooster's crow,

And we? Two lovers, never to relinquish infinity!

And into heat, we beloveds commence our tarry
Amid action, consumed by sighs, our eroticism

Flows from the loins from one abroad
Till the pitch doth peak, the frenzy spasms,

And our drive stalls, and tho' but brief,

Till the following charge doth fly, I, erect;

And you, the dam breaks: water falls,

The Wall of Jericho between crashes hither;

Never to live another winter discontented:

I shall love you once, and forevermore, my liege;

I shall love you forever, to Eternity and beyond;

Let us never quell this feeling inside our bosoms:

'Tis our love, mon âme soeur pour toujours,

 Propagating Life till the Seven Trumpets sound!

Tennessee Fried Poetry

Tennessee Fried Poetry                  July 6, 2004 (Revised October 12, 2013)

Languid, on the couch, amid my bloc,

Placing pen to Modernity's papyrus,

The imagination well, now barren, 

As dry as a long-dead bone, rotten.

All I can muster are a few scratches,

Incoherent; so naturally laconic,

And thy soul perishes, drifts oblivioni,

And I shall dance with Nihilism

Till the Seven Trumpets sound
Upon the dawn of our Rapture.

The Seven Trumpets are to sound,

As I have felt free-fallen, a tryst
Between the idyllic pen, unsheathed,

And his muse, the metaphorical

Characteristic of an Egypt long past.

A poet and a historian? Who am I to ask,

When each tick begets a conception of life?

Who am I to thee? What, pray tell you?

Who am I? Need my spirit bleed?

My lover, tho' transparent, is present,
Rolling 'tween me and the air we breathe,

An amorous encounter 'tween pen and pad,

My bloc, delay'd tho' it may have been,

Hath now come 'round in full.

Some ask me my style, you see?

Lo'! I live amid the mounts of Tennessee:

My home sweet home, and precious,

And as a poet, may I never again 

Experience this inevitable duplicity,

This Tennessee Fried Poetry.

Mornings Upon Granny's Kitchen Counter

Mornings Upon Granny's Kitchen Counter           October 12, 2013

T'was such a young lad; t'was so long ago,

And yet, it appears just like yesterday, tho',

When I sat upon my Granny's kitchen counter,
A woman, aged three score, but a soulful gold:
A tower of strength to me even at five feet eight,
And I, but a wee tot, gazing 'pon her fiery eyes

As she would lift me towards her kitchen's skies
To coronate me unto her coy throne, 

A surface, white, as the snow embodies Purity.

O'! How I was such an impressionable lad

Fascinated by her country colloquial virtues; and
Imbued within the Southern comforts, the ambiance of
Her native mile-high, the ancient Carolinian mounts,

Embodying the yeoman ethos, resolve; and

A love cultivat'd from only the richest salts

Our Lord Thy God embedd'd within His Earth!

And Granny fried that bacon so crisp,

Stirr'd homemade gravy in her black iron skillet;

Her biscuits made from scratch, so billow'd like clouds,
The dough rose amid my fancy in a caring heat,
Bak'd golden, a taste chewy with a crunch amid

Piety's dichotomy of Pleasure's textures.

Yet the greatest ingredient of all was her love,

A quality, tho' she be in the denouement of her years,

Shall never fade at twilight of a day once dawn'd.

Upon dining at her triclinium in spiritum,

There was more than meets the eyes:

A congregation of our collective bloods,

The embodiment of passion amid the family, and

The likes of which are today mired in obscurity,
For libertine values prevail in society's malaise.
Granny is a trip to simpler times and their charms,
For 'pon me I am imparted with her love and wisdom,
And unto her, I bestow my eternal gratitude as her legacy.

The Man Shall Forever Want More

The Man Shall Forever Want More         November 22, 2006 (Revised October 11, 2013)

Always am I spectat'd with a microscope's scorn,
Tho' 'tis never enough, for The Man always wants more.
I cut open a vein to bleed a little sympathy for mindful peace,
And tho' the pipeline runs dry post being tapped, alas, I doth cease;
'Tis still not enough for The Man: He shall forever want more.

When I was young, still alive, and my body could jive,
The Man's eye follow'd me North, South, East, West, to five,
And at his behest, I would do a cart wheel, a break dance or two;
The more I swoon'd, the more I would hear him crow, in lieu,
For 'tis still not enough for The Man: He shall forever want more.

Well one night, I escap'd the cell of my heartbreak hotel
Amid a night sky that shin'd upon me The Light, and well
I remember the kid always wearing the dunce cap in school;
For t'was me, you see? I was naughty in my day.
Pin the tail on the donkey, let him cackle at Ol' Scratch by day,
Send me to Hell, foregoing the Pearly Gates decries
Because St. Peter was disgust'd 'pon my sight for sore eyes;
And yet 'tis still not enough for Him, my friends,
He shall always demand more to meet his ends.

Pour la Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité! Ou la Mort.... (Translated: "For Liberty! Equality! Fraternity! Or Death....")

Pour la Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité! Ou la Mort....              October 11, 2013

"... In order then that the social compact may not be an empty formula, it tacitly includes the undertaking, which alone can give force to the rest, that whoever refuses to obey the general will shall be compelled to do so by the whole body. This means nothing less than he will be forced to be free; for this is the condition which, by giving each citizen to his country, secures him against all personal dependence."

- Jean Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract (1762)

A Condemned Man Ponders the Validity of a Revolution Towards Freedom

When the Citizens are Forced by The Sovereign to be Free:

My life hath liv'd 

Amid chance, circumstance,

A star-cross'd love 

Always in the midst,

And what do I, pray you ask,

 Say with each instance
When the partisans 

Conduct my trial against?

I am declar'd an enemy

To the people, mostly State,

Tho' be it obliged,

 I am but a collective of one,

And as I look 'cross

The square at His steeple,

I weep deep in my abysmal heart,

But display Pride before the sun.

O'! How shall I meet my demise

Upon the Madame's blade's wrath?

Liberté, égalité, fraternité for all

Hath been, through coercion, wrought!

The Bastille hath been tainted with atrocité

Symbolic only of a blood bath

Courtesy of Ambition and Avarices'

Prodigalité abjecte et la fraude!

God hath descend'd into the pit;

 The idols manifested, exalted,

Where shall the people turn

Upon incurring crises despotique et de malice?

O'! I should think that 

Dear France will be salted

Upon His wrath; for to drink

De la glace de l'enfer 

From the Eucharist's chalice!

From the Words of a Dead Father Walking, 

Facing the Wrath of Madame Guillotine,

A General Admonition to Your Sensibilities from His:

Till the day doth arise

 When the people again pray,

I will still within my heart 

Continue to mediate to Him,

And as my life hath reach'd

The conclusion of its sojourn, 

La fin de la journée,

I impart upon you, mes enfants,

 My Eternity shall never be grim.

An Amorous Encounter in the Moonlit Gardens of Aestheticism

An Amorous Encounter in the Moonlit Gardens of Aestheticism        October 10, 2013

Mon chere Madamoiselle!
O’ resident muse of the
 Moonlit gardens of
 Our Heavenly Father!

How you have captivat’d
 Thy famish’d heart!

How I hold for thy
Bewilder’d senses only pity,

For I feel as if a lupus howling

Beneath your seductive
Nocturnal gaze!

Pourquoi, ma chère?
 Is it that we are meant to be?

To frolic amid His wildflowers,

To germinate with our
Engender’d byproducts

Life post our conjugal encounter:

A love betroth’d between 

Two souls wild in erotic passion

Immersed in a tryst west o' Eden?

Let it be, I say! For ’tis all well;

Our amorous collaboration
 Amid a flourishing sea rich
Of beds of roses, and as our
 Collective bloods boil, my flag
 Rais’d at full mast awaits,

And you imbued with warmth,

And the dam, like a peach,
 In between your fleshy trunks lift’d,

Cleansing my patriotic sorrows

As I penetrate my manly love projectile

Towards your heart‘s contentment.

Sing! Sing! My fair lady! Sing! 

And I shall accompany thee
With thy lyre provid’d me
Courtesy o' Aphrodite with a kiss!

We coexist in a spacious humidor,
A tryst comprising of no
Other characteristic but you
And myself at heart, and

Our hearts a-fire in
The sweet embrace; with  

Our inhibitions so weak,
 Non-existent: Shall we engage
 In the Lover’s Dance beneath
The stars of the midnight fury

As we quench our collective thirsts

 Requisite of solving this nocturnal riddle?

Lo’! How I am howling beneath

A moon whose auspices enrage

Thy crashing tidal waves in blood

Coursing through these veins,

Begetting to me a power to wage war

 With only a temporary libertine reprieve! 

As our quixotic world
Is comprised o' nothing
But o' our own devices

Amid the legitimacy
O' our flesh, we must
 Never hinder the processes 

Imploring o' our extinguishing
Any threat the cold of
An ominous winter may pose
To our posterity and our world:

A world construct’d with
 The building blocks of our ardors:
 The manifestation of a new Eden,

For tho’ in our presence
Lies a cache o' trees
Ne’er bereft o' the presence
Of Lust’s Fruits: we are endow’d
With the virtue of Truth;

 We shall slay the serpent
With the fork’d tongue:

For we are the two
Lone survivors o' a holocaust
Of Hate and Avarice’s legacies,

The next best hope for Man,

And the restoration of
A perfect kingdom

 Beneath our God, in whom

Our covenant is held in trust

 Free of devilish deceits
And monstrosities.

Cleopatra, originally written November 15, 2005; revised October 9, 2013

Cleopatra                         November 15, 2005 (Revised October 9, 2013)

The sands of time hath descend'd with regrets,

But History's annals still retain her total recall: 

You, Cleopatra, a lover of rulers and glutton for intrigue,

Cast erotic spells as your votre diplomatie de choix.

O' Fair Cleopatra! How you shall never know!
How you shall never know the truth if it be told!
You are no longer among the living caste,
But rather schmoozing in Death's peanut gallery.

So long as Death finds its way to the backdoor,
You shall always find that Life is the eternal whore,

And Cleopatra, never shall you rue the day to reckon
Where the sun did not set and the asp's appetite was whet:
Just walk alongside Ra and let your ka fly eternal!

Love was never anything but the name to your game,
For Caesar, a nude centerfold in you was unrolled.
Power had begat upon your political ardors,
Rome had conquer'd the known land of the West.
But for all to the victor that was bequeathed the spoils,
Caesar's marriage to Calpurnia was a ruse, with she the pupa :
And you, Queen Cleopatra, rul'd the dictator Caesar:
A power base predicated upon licentious endeavors,
The source of his legitimacy resid'd within the debent Nili.

The trip to Tarsus bore most amorous of fruits
Amid mitigating her kingdom's plight post the Ides of March.
A timeless tryst with the triuvir Marc Antony ensued
As she align'd herself and body with him in politice
Amid the acrimonial emoting of Octavian Augustus
As the fight for power bore little more for Antony
Than love so epic, 'tis the subject of drama,
And in luctuosa more, Death bid them Love Eternal.

A love so timeless, 'tis the standard it sets:
So precious, so ordain'd, yet it lives beyond Osiris' realm.
Was it an asp or poison? Forever we shall debate,
But the legacy remains from that quite far,
For the ardors between Anthony and fair Cleopatra remain
The greatest fairy tale love story in History:
Yesteryear, today, and for its eternal posterity.