A Shooting Star

A Shooting Star                          October 24, 2013

A shooting star was extinguish'd in Life
If only that were to be the Truth,

For the sweet little girl shall ne'er die
So long as we shall remain alive.

The sands of time descend'd 'pon her flesh

And hath pass'd unto Eternity's abode,

For only then she hath exit'd Stage Right
Of Life's melodramatic cast upon this night.

And the sweet little girl could only smile

When Humanity was amid her eyes;
A humor so infectious, and countenance, fair,
And she hath spread her spirit abroad!
Lo'! How I do wonder how it be so!  

She ne'er shed a single tear in fear
Of existing post mortem away from here
And her family she held dear;

Of this, did she ever listen to the fear?

A world shall always hold your candle,
Always lit fresh, each and ev'ryday; and

God hath set you by His side

As you break a piece of His bread.

And so, my dear, sweet little girl,
How we shall ne'er bid thee farewell!

For the time shall come when all will sing;

Herald'd as angels amid your eyes!

A Babe's Discontent

A Babe's Discontent                       July 30, 2008 (Revised October 18, 2013)

As he dies in her eyes, the angels wail,

The gray clouds explode from Hell,
Shooting rainy bullets, so deadly,
Upon her first newborn babe.
Lovers will unite 'cross wayward seas,
Yet a dam barricades the mum,
Separating her from her babe;
The babe, angst-ridden, cannot reach, see,
And the mum appears blind, happy
Sans her firstborn babe nestl'd
Against her bosom which begat Life.

Cart'd off to a mental jungle, a frenzy,
The babe is told it disappoints all

O'er speakers so loud, so vibrant, yet bleak,
'Tis infinite if you only knew o' its reach.

The babe is but a mere wretch
Amid a mysterious wild a-fire,

Manifesting head, which begets snow,
And so too arrives Prophesy
And her seasons, total'd in four:

Little will he know the fruits winter bears.

Seasons pass as doth the pages o' a calendar;
The babe, now a man, must tarry onward.
Full o' life, still young at heart; and
The mother doth bear the brunt of their wrath;
Gray she be, the clock strikes Midnight,

And Father Time's hand doth grab
Her soul's clammy hands; 'tis Death.

Let it be time for all seasons to pass,

For the man and his posterity sail the skies! 

Shooting Stars

Shooting Stars                  September 24, 2008 (Revised October 18, 2013)

Across the amber waves o' wheat,

You may see Dick and Jane run;
Across many miles amid their smiles,
And they laugh, always having fun.
And what of these prognosticators
Who would kill that vivacious love?
Their spirits shall be shown the path
Towards Hell from Heaven Above.

Lovers whimsically delight'd; and
Lo'! How they shine 'neath a starry sky,

For t'was foretold once 'pon a time
They shall dance till the day they die.

One wrought 'pon the smile of the other,
And how they laugh'd all the while!
Across the fruit'd landscapes;

Only Jealousy shall be in denial!

'Tis two lovers, lost amid a wilderness,
Ne'er set 'pon a path; always a-flex'd;
No blades to split them 'part for day,

And I wonder what kind o' love
The world has, 'tis so blind, and yet
They are but two souls, sailing the skies
Like shooting stars amid the night light!

And a tussle in the grasses
And the heat hath spread.
Lightning bugs herald their anthem;

Two loves in Nature's bed.
Life shall march its soldiers unto glory!

Ne'er shall it be disturb'd; and
Ne'er shall its light be dimm'd.

One Gun Shy of Life

One Gun Shy of Life                 November 1, 2008 (Edited October 18, 2013)

As I stare down His barrel,

A lifetime flies unto Eternity
'Fore it speaks of its peace.
O'! But the gun hath said
There shall be no such thing,
That life cannot exist

Now that sociopath
Rap'd you, but so slow; and
Exuding a curse 'pon you
Un visuel de la mort.
With his racing cap, and
A resolve, empty, sans morale,
He had only within his soul
To feign a threat so dire,
Calling me "thus and such"

Over and again; so that
He may abscond with the money:
To run towards a Lone Star luau.

O'! That gun owns me now,
For I hath not a clue how.
The natives, restless; and
Always the wildebeests they be;
Are busy amid their slot machines,
Winning t'all times o'er me. 

They pull the levers, I do not see;
And I am bleeding; my scarlet flows,
And yet 'tis far deeper, yes,

So much bleaker, and I am to die?
Ev'ryday is not God's play date,

Yet Death is my twin bill, my check;
Paying my way to his river daily,
For I am but one gun shy of life, and I
Shall ne'er again see my soul 

Nor the day cometh The Light.

Dreamer

Dreamer                          January 27, 2007 (Revised October 18, 2013)

Duermo todo el día en directo;
'Tis for you, Blue; 'tis bad Spanish
For no particular reason t'all.
O'! I can see things so clearly
When I am awake in my slumbers;
O'! I can see things very well,
Enough to inquire if It is The Grail;
Enough to cry foul 'pon the le faux bois;
And yet you say I am but a dreamer;
Ergo, I am but Liturgy's misfit.

'Tis sinful to speak of a day in time
When the dream doth fly as the time sails,
When mothers smile, the children play,
When we each may grow old
With our lover till we are gray.
O'! I can see things so clearly now
Amid my unconscious expanding mind.
The sun ne'er sets nor the rooster crows
For I can see all so clearly well;
And yet I am but a dreamer; 'tis a sin,
And I am relegat'd to the Holy Roller's jail.

O'! Siddhartha! Where art thou?
Are we to reach Nirvana sans losing our grip?
Will we see The Light? Our spirits be free?
Shall we agree to disagree, only to agree?
What is a world t'were it not for its gods?
Would we sit and ponder life's odds?
What if The Bible is at odds with us?
What if it is that and a material manifest?
Could we then be free to abscond in absentia?
Criticize me if you dare! O' Wick'd Monstrosity!
For I shall grin, say, "I am a dreamer!"

Lovers sail amid her high blue seas;
Gods live atop mounts, clouds above trees.
What is matter and shall it be call'd God?
What is the meaning? Why so odd?
Why do I inquire what is on stone?
Am I but a sinner, just black to the bone?
Is Jesus My Reason, the season, that?
What is to happen if I call the pastor and that?
Am I a heathen? Shall you call me a fool?
Or am I a dreamer questioning The Golden Rule?

I seek a New World where I am to be free;
No ties to bind, and I may fly with wings
As if doves amid the heavens, her angelic choir,
And a god who serves me, ne'vr hold me to a wire.
If not for me, no deities could exist; and
Yet I am inform'd I must live beneath His Fist.
'Tis all so bizarre, we art borne of sin,
Despite all I do to be good again; and still again!
Why alienate souls who inquire You of Truth?
Is it a crime to hold ardors for a sleuth?
Serve me well! For I keep thee alive!
For if not this dreamer, you shall ne'vr survive!

Glasses (An exercise in mindfulness)

Glasses (An exercise in mindfulness)

   November 20, 2008 (Revised October 17, 2013)

Holding the ear piece is ecstasy
As I rub the smooth metal, her groove.
Blindness, unfortunately, the main foe;

For at this time, the researcher
Hath not the major tool of his nose
Till now, 'pon which the time past
Collides with the future, apparent, uncertain;

For now, the test of the nose pieces
Proves to be most steadfast in countenance,

Preventing the body from denouement.
A certain lukewarmness besets them

From the intercourse with the nose,

And the researcher thinks himself a pervert.

'Fore stat'd, Vision supplants blindness,

And doth so oft, in so many ways.
'Fore he plac'd his glasses 'pon his head,

His eyes had lied to him,

Lying about the world, what beheld.

Now, he may witness Truth

And her infinite sibling, Wisdom;

Even comprehending subtler points

Of celibate, amorous seduction.

Cannibals East

Cannibals East                November 20, 2008 (Revised October 17, 2013)

Amid the murky depths 
Of Mother Russia's steppes,
The people starv'd, many died;
Desirous of dirt if they could,
If only t'were not for the snow.
Temperatures -31 Celsius,
The butchery surround'd;
T'was all out of sight,
And one could only sense
That more than carbon dioxide
Left the lungs with each breath.

Those German troglodytes 
Tore ev'ry last shred
Of the flesh 'pon which
The vodka had fill'd; tho'
When Mother Russia held firm,
She slic'd the Huns at the balls,
And they ne'er again wrought
Another krystallnacht 'pon t'all.

T'was this eastward land of intrigue
Once rul'd of Muscovite tsars
That slaughter morph'd into
A bloody beef stroganoff.
T'were the cannibals
Of these frozen hinterlands
Kiss'd upon their chalky white lips
In celebration of each dead Hun,
Tho' not so much in the name of love.
T'was the taste of pouring scarlet
Emanating from their lips,
Whose tongues were clipp'd:
T'were the cossacks' wrath.

It might have been 1942,
But t'were cossacks amid them,
For t'were only 130 years past
Since the last grande armee froze.
The death, disaster, the macabre
Ne'er prov'd to be such a drag,
But for the Huns and the Rus,
It meant the world's posterity.