Poems
#1
O what sweet scars arise
from wounds recieved by those most loved!
How great the bitter memory
now running in the blood.
It is a vaccination
most rude when first it comes,
But when the deed is finally done
we thank the doer for the cut.
Never again will this occur, one says to his own heart.
Within will live the hurt, and happy kill the trust.
#2
This wood burns slowly
But so bright
So bright when finally the light.
Ignite the passion for the fight
And take away the sense.
the brain too fast
the tongue too tied
the hand too clenched to hit
and if you can escape the vise
so awkward is the strike
#3
words have the power to destroy
the meaning of the word.
the cat is not the cat
the thing is not the thing
and life is never life
but something undefined
and love is never quite
exactly what it means.
what are these clumsy tools?
but tools and only that.
they are not what they try to be
or what we've made of them
#4
Tonight I saw a glimpse
of greatness in my life.
I tore a hole in the old sheet
from under which I hide.
And living quiet, undisturbed
But yearning for release
The beating heart of POWER
From under it did peek.
#5
Sleep is for the weak
And yet I love to nap
Under an ancient tree
and in the greenest grass.
To feel the breeze blow through the skin
and cover me in dust.
Exposing me to every being.
I feel the the gravity of things.
And yet in dizzy dreams
I may forget to wake
And sleep on through the day
Til it has gone away.
And suddenly I see
that everything is dark
and I have laid there, sensitive
but never moving on.
#6
The past is all I have to hold.
It's comforting to know.
It is a treasure that has broken
and still you can't let go.
The present is so fleeting that it becomes the past.
And often is forgotten, because it never lasts.
Oh yes, the past is golden
Forever in a box.
A coffin.
And so we fear tomorrow's ghouls
and glorify the ghosts.
#7
I went walking in the woods not knowing why or where to go.
And yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I was very lost.
But how? It is a paradox!
If I don't know the destination, what use to me's a map?
#8
Express yourself.
How odd this phrase.
Take what's inside and give away.
And ecstasy? So very strange.
Outside yourself you try to stay.
Impress yourself? That doesn't work...
And instasy is not a word.
What now? These verbs all seem to say
it's what's inside we must escape.
#9
Hunger is an empty state.
And how emptiness hurts!
I find that I am never full.
I like to feel the burn.
Addiction to the pain is life,
And what I have is this.
I give myself the eptiness
all by refusing it to fill.
Dysfunction comes in many shapes
but always is to seek the pain.
And mine, addiction to the void!
Not wanting, ever, to enjoy...
Not letting it all be the way
that nature wanted it to be.
And hissing violent like a snake!
At God, and beauty, and at fate.
#10
Recycled souls? Is this a truth?
Was I a bird or something else?
Was I a discontented youth
so many days ago?
Or lovely girl with glowing skin, so fresh,
and golden curls?
Or a brave soilder with a sword?
A coward, beggar, king, a churl?
I do not know what lives I've led
so many moons before.
I do not know yet where I'll go
I guess I'll never know.
#11
To the GREATS
I dedicate this poem to you all.
Not the ones acknowledged, for you have had your time.
This is to all the people who never had a voice.
Or whose good deeds unnoticed, will always be, untold.
This is to all the people who've never had a chance,
and fought a silent battle, all heroes to the last.
To all the men and women, who sinned and sacrificed.
All ordinary people, all heroes in my eyes.
I'll never hear their stories. But I know that they are TRUE.
Maybe this is religion, the faith I have in you.
O what sweet scars arise
from wounds recieved by those most loved!
How great the bitter memory
now running in the blood.
It is a vaccination
most rude when first it comes,
But when the deed is finally done
we thank the doer for the cut.
Never again will this occur, one says to his own heart.
Within will live the hurt, and happy kill the trust.
#2
This wood burns slowly
But so bright
So bright when finally the light.
Ignite the passion for the fight
And take away the sense.
the brain too fast
the tongue too tied
the hand too clenched to hit
and if you can escape the vise
so awkward is the strike
#3
words have the power to destroy
the meaning of the word.
the cat is not the cat
the thing is not the thing
and life is never life
but something undefined
and love is never quite
exactly what it means.
what are these clumsy tools?
but tools and only that.
they are not what they try to be
or what we've made of them
#4
Tonight I saw a glimpse
of greatness in my life.
I tore a hole in the old sheet
from under which I hide.
And living quiet, undisturbed
But yearning for release
The beating heart of POWER
From under it did peek.
#5
Sleep is for the weak
And yet I love to nap
Under an ancient tree
and in the greenest grass.
To feel the breeze blow through the skin
and cover me in dust.
Exposing me to every being.
I feel the the gravity of things.
And yet in dizzy dreams
I may forget to wake
And sleep on through the day
Til it has gone away.
And suddenly I see
that everything is dark
and I have laid there, sensitive
but never moving on.
#6
The past is all I have to hold.
It's comforting to know.
It is a treasure that has broken
and still you can't let go.
The present is so fleeting that it becomes the past.
And often is forgotten, because it never lasts.
Oh yes, the past is golden
Forever in a box.
A coffin.
And so we fear tomorrow's ghouls
and glorify the ghosts.
#7
I went walking in the woods not knowing why or where to go.
And yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I was very lost.
But how? It is a paradox!
If I don't know the destination, what use to me's a map?
#8
Express yourself.
How odd this phrase.
Take what's inside and give away.
And ecstasy? So very strange.
Outside yourself you try to stay.
Impress yourself? That doesn't work...
And instasy is not a word.
What now? These verbs all seem to say
it's what's inside we must escape.
#9
Hunger is an empty state.
And how emptiness hurts!
I find that I am never full.
I like to feel the burn.
Addiction to the pain is life,
And what I have is this.
I give myself the eptiness
all by refusing it to fill.
Dysfunction comes in many shapes
but always is to seek the pain.
And mine, addiction to the void!
Not wanting, ever, to enjoy...
Not letting it all be the way
that nature wanted it to be.
And hissing violent like a snake!
At God, and beauty, and at fate.
#10
Recycled souls? Is this a truth?
Was I a bird or something else?
Was I a discontented youth
so many days ago?
Or lovely girl with glowing skin, so fresh,
and golden curls?
Or a brave soilder with a sword?
A coward, beggar, king, a churl?
I do not know what lives I've led
so many moons before.
I do not know yet where I'll go
I guess I'll never know.
#11
To the GREATS
I dedicate this poem to you all.
Not the ones acknowledged, for you have had your time.
This is to all the people who never had a voice.
Or whose good deeds unnoticed, will always be, untold.
This is to all the people who've never had a chance,
and fought a silent battle, all heroes to the last.
To all the men and women, who sinned and sacrificed.
All ordinary people, all heroes in my eyes.
I'll never hear their stories. But I know that they are TRUE.
Maybe this is religion, the faith I have in you.