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.