Peniel

I am ashen now,
oh Esau will you wait with spear
to slay me in Canaan?
Will you, my brother,
only let your ruddy beast inside
roar to devour me
after these many years?

And now I must not
let the sweat and pain
avenge themselves
while my strength is still in my grasp.
Flashes of Laban drown my mind
for this duel before Jabbok
grows so heavy in my senses.

What being do I duel
that I must not stop
through pants and exhaustion -
oh Canaan womb I must know again!

Death stings my sinew and tendons
my back feels aflame,
how my soul is in wretched recompense
having this eve found a tide of lament
through this clash.

Though ny heart feels close to bursting
for how can any being equal my iron?
Lo in my son, Judah, has that metal thus burst,
Yet this hour all my thoughts blur,
within I am only rags,
but I can not cast aside this chance of blessing
anymore than when I won the birthright
by that deception.

Only that feels so hollow
against this struggle.
So empty is my defiance,
still comes that ghostly voice of Issac and Abraham.
All I can do is listen.

Woe is my refuge,
tonight I will die or know my inheritance
for this match is my Peniel,
the whispered witness of God’s face.

Upon my heart

By rustic flights and vernal plumes
my soul immerses
within the flow of tranquility's tides.

Basking in the splendor
of that harmony
between soil, stream and sky,
which clings to my essence,
tracing the eagle's soar,
where I see
through the Holy Spirit's eyes,
a dove,
forming Heaven's wings
upon my heart.

Neutral

Like an engine revving
the voice was full of roar,
never trembling from the energy,
but the transmission in the heart
was stuck in neutral,
no fuel of the will to shift the gears
and race towards in finish line.

Hands groped at any litter
just to feel,
the trash explained as goal
to explained with fabrications
why the brain with whirlwinds
just never gets to any destination,
settling for the mementos
of crafted clutter as crowns.

Passay

The Captain stood on his ship’s deck
proudly holding a stack of very old books,
they hadn’t been in print for years
with the words faded and unreadable.

But his mind recalled their seafaring wisdom,
he refused to consider any new version
even though he had changed to a vessel
whose inner workings and repair needs
were not covered by the out of date writings.

Now in the siege of a violent storm soaked sea,
his orders were bellowed in phrases
that hadn’t been used in years,
the crew were confused and chaos came
as the waves began to flood the decks.

Oh none had read up on panic
when the boat began to sink,
since they had all be trained
by an teacher with a modern instruction manual,
which didn’t include any section on drowning
because that was considered ancient times.
With drowning now being only treated as a myth
thanks to the new innovative technology
making ships, in theory, unsinkable.

What insanity loomed in the deluge of crests,
eventually all the crew and the captain
were washed over the side and drowned.

Finally after the end of the raining rage,
everything was gone from view
totally swallowed by the ocean,
except for one old book
not even read by the captain.

It covered the used of life preservers
and it was floating on top
of one of those white rings.
None of the ship’s crew or staff
had even understood
what it had as a purpose
from spending all their time
watching fantasy films
about mermaids.

Choral Echoes Of Lament

Halls of the heart
moan their symphonies
of throbbing pleas
in deepest dire pain,
of dirges sung out
from the soul’s hollows
into the graying morass of torment
where questions die
about lives that were swallowed.

Oh this serenade
like a mourner’s touch
reaches into the ruination of torment
and screams against
the brutal accolades of sadism.

Strings sigh their grief bow drawn psalms
as the orchestrated
shame of wrong is unveiled
on a passage of dulcet
tones in plaintive sounds,
gripping so tightly upon the insides
as a melancholic melody
so seizing the senses.

We are lost in the symphonic
succor of holocaust horror.
The utter bond of guilt and sin
entwined in graphic harmonic song.
There is no respite to the reality
about the dancing over corpses,
this rigor mortis tightness in serenade
moving us farther
into the ashes of despoiled dreams.

Ghosts rise of victims
joining the musicians,
you can feel their suffering
summon a spirit’s solo,
it slides deep through your bones.
Shudders and shakes felt
because it is the reaper’s
artistry of incredible harmony.
Capable of hold us its prisoner
then bringing us
across the tear filled fallow fields
that entombed
those dreamers
with violated trust.

Dour Genesis

What pageantry of prosperous plumes
withered in the dark dirges of deepest grief
as two titans bear the lifeless dawn
of their failed legacy’s future
while their precious blood gems
lay in their final clutch of fatal parting.

But it’s the somber solo of a mourner’s dull throb
hidden in eyes beset by their loss of luster
that bleeds the light from their minds
for now they are hollow and devoid of dreams,
hemorrhaging in their heart’s rivulet of silent sorrow
flowing through the atmosphere in a grimaced grasp.

If love could have only held onto life’s tether
if this moment wasn’t ashen to the face,
it could have denied the dour dawn of fury’s heritage
where embittered souls dance around verbal clashes.

By two hands did the dueling lives
offer oblation unto the fissures of ancestral trail,
yet their lips stay mute to pool that swelled inside
the ageless rage that wouldn’t die
though the price of virgin sacrifice was shed
and its cruel quake struck within the chest.

Overtones of night shroud bequeath a solemn essence
amid the lost of every throb and precious profit
wherein the lie as tombs in the mind,
tombs of lament to never be sealed.

Oh maudlin tragic of pathos poignant presence
stripped of their feathered hopes,
now mere shells of spirits dimmed in flame,
illumination surrendered to the eves
spent relieving every act ending in despair.
eternally living each twilight in a flashback hades.

In the aftermath of formality
they will endure the dour dawns
lips bitten to smother the sobs,
rising to walk a zombie of blessing
buried in a child’s grave.

Visions Of Vibrant Vernal Tapestries

The rolling hills spread as a sloping canvas
where the road serpentines in ascending passage
and the heart calms from the bewitching array
of festoons in rainbow flares in foliage
as it flows over the spirit
with its calming majesty in hues.

It’s the journey of retreat from stress
a passage through natural bliss,
alone in the chariot of tranquility’s hum,
slowly winding towards that pinnacle
where the air is thin and fresh
while it cleanses the mind with its purity.

Among the thickets left to wander
through its blooming magic dreams are inspired
about life without the strain and struggle.

For a while the beauty bathes with euphoria
rising so gently in the heart like being kissed.
Contentment displays the moments of sadness
paradise caressed keep the second perfect.

Oh it’s the sojourn that has a ceaseless pause
unto the claws the city grows,
just a traveler now beneath a quiet sky
utterly at peace within
turning off the radio
to savor the music that sings inside.

I’m Healed, It Still Hurts, But I’m Healed

Pew sitting ears quickly learn
all the favorite scriptures about healing,
each passage recited and memorized,
so easy to repeat, so hard to accept
when you’re a follower
dying from some disease.

The Lord has promised healing,
yet it doesn’t happen to everyone,
why is the mystery left to opinions
many of which want to blame it on the person
for a lack of faith or some sin.

Then ensues the name and claim fanatics
who will be blessed no matter if they really are,
like the one lady I knew
that went to a healing service,
oh the swore the pain in her foot was healed
in the name of Jesus.

Her reply, by her version of faith I suppose,
was “I’m healed, it still hurts, but I’m healed.”
To me that was other than realistic,
especially since she was always hobbling around,
and in my voyages of faith
there have been some who were healed,
others who were not.

No way I can explain the reasons
just know He can heal
only have no way when it doesn’t,
which is why I keep on believing
despite two bouts of skin cancer
plus a heart attack,
so I sit with scars and all,
grateful for another day,
accepting I’ll never have all the answers
until I see Him face to face.

Darkness to the Soul

A stroll deep into the shadows
where the chocolate snacks of taboo morsels
waits in its tainted and will leave
a black stain upon your spirit,
but the day was so long and boring
inside you crave the need for a fix
some sugary black concoction
to end this dull and monotonous existence.

The first bite rivets with its spell
so what that the light is gone
no problem that within
all your feel is gut sense
this trip down the forbidden path
will only lead to disaster.

At the moment it just feels so good
while there comes a urge
for moving farther down into the shade
ever farther away from the day.

Then the constant gorging
on what you once feared
stops bothering your conscience
no longer stabs at your concept
of write and wrong.

Only around you it seems like paradise
totally convinced this is bliss
skipping along in pure content
while totally ignoring the ebony archway
that has no exit
and leads to hell’s fun house.

Oxygen Tents

Purity encased in chastity’s chamber,
stale and devoid of scents,
nostrils sterilized in the bleached bliss,
old factory virginity
strings its pearls of presumption,
dwelling in aromatic ignorance,
existence without incense,
fragmented fixations floundering for fragrance.

One whiff of the world
rupturing the gossamer tube
and suddenly reality
finds a heart beat
among the brisk bite to clarity
of roses and decay,
pain opening the nasal passage
to the blast in blends of aromas,
discovering sweet and sour
entwining in life’s daily array
death and birth’s air fresheners
sprayed upon the world.

Sinuses no longer clogged
over reality’s bouquets,
the sting of newness
arousing an appreciation
for what was never smelled before,
but now is an addiction.

Recitals

Celebrations in quiet, refined elegance
where time slips into a serene chamber
and life from the chase of coins
to sit and explore the melodies of peace,
each blessed harmony of the heart
that mercifully covers in its calming blanket.

Sitting near that fireplace with its dancing flames
as the piano is played to string its notes
over the mind with such soft seductive sounds
for this moment is the precious retreat
from the demands and duress that come
during the journeys through concrete fields.

But for a while the soul can savor
some seconds without the drama or stress
in the chamber where value is still remember
as the spirit is allowed to dance
instead of feeling burdened
by the steady pace of work and the world.

It is the sweet communion with the recitals
rising out of times we pause and reflect
when we remember and cherish
how life is more than about making money.

Unto that contemplation retreat
is felt a tranquility worth more than gold
because it bonds us to what matters
while sitting apart from those place
that only have price tags.

The Pinnacles Of Maturing

Climbing the jagged slopes of time
each level reached summons new eyes.
From the echoes of the wind
comes the voices of inner sight
as those endless sounds of questions
asked when the view opens the mind
unto some new pinnacle of maturing.

Each height touched with clarity
never is a victory enough
to cease the hunger for more,
that is the deep craving to know
of life’s many crevices
with more a profound grasp.

But we gaze upon the face
for that mountain we all must ascend
where some are left dangling
at some elevation in between
the temporal summit of ascension.

And so they linger for countless reasons,
groaning and sighing over their fate,
like a child in their behavior
because they have yet to keep on rising
so they truly can see
what is the vantage
only gained from experience
at ascending beyond that point.
How lives often get stuck
when too preoccupied by dangling
that no attempt burns in the heart
able to inflame a need for finding new peaks
beyond some given precipice of lucidity.

Set Apart From The Night

When heaven’s spark touches our inner wick
with a power to ignite our soul’s eyes,
suddenly we become ablaze by His love
as His eternal illumination
sets us apart from the night.
It is visible and obvious
by the flame of faith in the soul,
the fire of love in the heart
and the torch of His insight in the mind.

How they cast a radiance with unspoken glows
slowly allowing us to rise and stand so firm.
To be like a lighthouse that sends its radiance
out to those who are in need of help,
for it truly burns so bright
from what people see and not what they hear.

And it exists when charged by His Spirit
through a beam that we don’t control
sent out across the waters of troubled times
where something is seen in our lives,
which gives an inspiration to aid others
according to their need
instead of what brings attention to ourselves.

Oh we feel the warmth inside,
yet it is enough to keep us content
so we don’t have to flash
our own deeds as fireworks.
Happily appreciative from what blessings
when those rays He has causes
bring a rescue unto someone else.

It is all the gift unto us,
shared if understood so correctly.
Often without even any thought
because it is there by His will,
while if embraced for the right reasons
shall it bring joy
just from letting it be like a sunrise.

Somewhere

Eyes see
through years
with a child’s
memory spectacles,

always looking
for magic.

The Stripes Of The Sun

Lines of radiance
burn deep into the mind,
cut their vibrant etchings
into the crannies where we scream,
we shelter our thoughts from their creations
or worship their scorching
by the images they induce
only never can we say
there is no artist in the dawn,
no tattoo that is placed
upon the morning.

Whatever the eyes choose to see
among the brushes of rays
will be the tints we mix
within our own brains,
where some feel a sting
others a caress,
but it always leaves a mark
for us to love or protest.

The Boughs Of The Heart

The strongest branch that beats within
is one that is pure in ivory truth
since it was grown with honesty
about what flows so deep inside.

No season rises to slay the spread
of what is faithful to the roots,
they are those values and nurturing desires
that truly make the base of life
have a power for perseverance.

How many begin to ascend,
to dream of towering over others,
but they break and bend so easily
because what gives them real identity
comes from a core that is weak and decaying,
always infected by termites
from the disease of deception.

But the true quercus in mortal form
stands in the steadfast pose,
ever stalwart to things that last
instead of what will fade soon enough.

For there is no inspiration better
than the simple faithfulness that doesn’t die,
it is always expanded in obedience
unto what actually gives life,
content to tower in the mind
by being so secure in existence.

Deadlines

I’m convinced that devil inspires schedules
he zaps the brain of those expected to attend
so the last thing they do is arrive when needed.

Or perhaps it is all the plot of sadistic creeps from another planet,
they make sure that only those with no sense of time
are the ones you have to depend upon to be there
will be brain dead imbeciles who think snails are fast.

This dire and evil disease infects so many businesses,
which is why you can’t get a cable repair guy,
telephone or even UPS dude
tied down to a single specific hour’s commitment.

Course what paragons of promptness can you find?
Doctors? Forget it, they don’t call them waiting rooms by accident.
Salesman? Yeah, if you make sure you bribe them
then try and worry what big fat lies they’ll bore you with
during the extra time they bother to be there when asked.

Politicians? Doubt it. Lawyers? Maybe in Oz, but not earth.
Bureaucrats? Only if they are pissed at you and going to ruin your day.
Professors? If they are don’t forget from thinking up things.

That pretty much leaves us three options,
Policeman, Firemen and the Military.

Guess the idea is sadly becoming so true,
only place you can expect a break in terms of someone
being there when wanted,
is if your butt is either going to be shot or fried.

Unless you want a nuke shove up your behind
or have your house turned into a crater,
then you can be sure, they’ll be early,

So the lesson is, death can’t wait to grab your throat,
while any desired flickers of peace
are always under the control of some gremlin
with a sick sense of humor.

His Almighty Arms

Oh let us sing the psalm of His provision
who can work miracle by a word,
who lifts us into His winged mercy,
so we will shout, Amen, unto His holy grace.

Now He has spread His hands
and nothing has power over His will,
praise with lips glowing from gratitude,
praise from a soul filled with love
for His almighty arms.

What rejoicing there is in Him
over every blessed touch He has given,
let us speak the jeweled sounds of faith,
let us rise in His perfect light
and celebrate His everlasting power
that none can ever make to cease
the accomplishment of His purposes.

How the thunderbolts of His ways
totally move through our spirits
as we feel the boundless caress
when surrendering to His throne.

Ring the chimes of the heart
with the sounds of thanksgiving
because our God is good ,
He is merciful and perfect.

In Him shall we always be covered
by a shield nothing can penetrate,
always we can cherish
our God who rules forever and ever.

Carvings Of Light

I sliced a brick out of the sun’s face
set it on my edifice of jigsaw puzzle pieces,
little stones of reflections that hold my mind
on top of a pyramid were I entomb mistakes.

Wish they would stay mummified
instead of screaming their complaints,
it is another monument built
on the desert of my soul,
one more arid plain wander as a nomad
where I look for Eden
and find only those dark paradise
with salvation being a crooked cross.

Some day the wilderness will end
the trails I find won’t lead to cliffs
and nobody will die of broken hearts
or have clouds rain so hard with tears.

In between the rocks I’ve culled
is the passage I have trod,
a path not cold or hot
filled with winds the bring emptiness
before I wake in the shadows
hearing my name called from a summit
with getting their taking a lifetime
often falling more than standing.

Crafting The Sky

Eons in existence that cherished crafting the sky,
carefully collecting lofty airy hues in minerals,
methodically and devotedly preserving
the free spirit felt in the wind
as necklaces, rings, headdresses and more.

Artistry from across the world
through so many ways and times,
captured the blue in such soothing serene shapes,
forever conveying that sense
of what is so tranquil amid that sunlit canopy.

Left with a stunning array of their finger’s jeweled song,
legacies of the soul to endure for generations
laid upon so many shelves and senses,
visual vignettes in fashioned mastery
meant to share the heart’s serenade.

They sing when held or worn
a music that brings flight inside
from the soars in creativity,
taken by the one who made it sounds
with caresses of loving appreciation
for all that its color expresses.

Writing The Wind

We write the wind within our soul,
a breath blown by the heart in fantasy’s gust,
floating upon life’s breeze to the soothing sky of whims
that we long to soar by the delicate wings of hope.

Wanting to find that cloud to fill the emptiness
where the reviving seedlings of dreams,
which can rain the showers over our days,
making the soil in our heads that is so dry
become a fertile paradise, enchanted and beautiful.

Each wish is a thought parachute gliding towards heaven,
softly caressing that spellbound golden realm,
wandered while wearing the sandman’s gown.

In the stillness of reflection we hold the stems of our desires
being the flower whose beauty gives us sure pure joy,
gently releasing its petals as butterflies,
praying we can follow them from our cocoons.

Feeling the mist of peace clinging to the moment
because we didn’t stop loving the featherweight power of visions,
happily aloft on a carefree exhale of imagination,
alive from never giving upon rising above the weeds.

His small shop existed in the shadow of a towering and timeless church,
they only met at night since all its members worked at day.

He had tried once to attend, but the wind and light had painted images in his head,
which he had crafted as glass artistry,
just happy to share them with all, not merely to make money,
more thrilled to pass on the joy since to him everyone was family.

The believers shunned his work, said God only spoke through this book,
if you heard Him any other way you would surely go insane.

So he left their communion with the wind and light growing more vivid in his head,
continued to let it make creations that made him feel God was so real.

Inside that assembly hall they remained strangers slowly their brains losing logic
due to the toxins in the whitewash on the walls.
The minister grew more demented until he was a screaming maniac,
still to the members it just meant he was more spiritual
and they kept up their meetings, no matter how bizarre or crazy they became.

Meanwhile the old artist sat in his little shop,
happily greeting everyone they chased away,
though the people in that building all said he was demonically depraved,
it never deterred him from the path that brought peace
those devoted scripture beating advocates were unable to find.

Chain Letters

I penned a parchment of positive and prosperous promises,
prayed over its lines with such ardent conviction
that this message would infect the reader,
inspiring it to be forwarded with intense passions
so the energy would reverberate with waves of blessings
rippling across my life in tidal flows of enrichment.

But I got so busy writing what I wanted to hear
never gave thought to what the other person would think,
only letting my greed control my fingers,
so very persuaded if my desire had enough power
nobody would detect the truth about its selfish motives.

Oh how I dreamt of all the bounty in enhancing vibrations,
which would charge through my essence
making me a magnet for good fortune and luck.

It all seemed so perfect and an ideal means for reaping
every wish and whim my being had been denied,
thinking my ruse in words would never be discovered,
just weave some manipulative magic
with enough flattery and hope
until the letter generated reactions
and every recipient couldn’t resist
sending me some increments of compensation
in keeping with my sentence’s suggestions.

Then sitting back and waiting for the mail
to bring a harvest for my labors.
The days past and nothing came,
discovering later my phrases had brought enlightenment
about how to con others,
inflaming the receiver to merely forward that correspondence
without bothering to mention me at all,
because my lust for gain was what they absorbed
instead of my attempts at seducing,
ending up a victim of my own orchestrated endeavors
by ironically giving others the means to act out
what I thought I had disguised as offers to improve
while secretly craving to make them my pawns.

Cobwebs and Promises

Silky spun sayings thread over the mind
like delicate strands of weave.
They lure you into the clouds
where they become a swing in dreams
ready to believe in miracle
prepared to see tomorrow
as amazing, hopeful and bliss.

But it was black widows whispers,
venomous vows filled with acid,
before you can escape
and seek some release from that snare,
it's dinner time for your mind
a putrid feast upon your trust,
soul devoured by the lying cannibal
with prowess to devour,
a skill to thrill with deceptive thrill.

And when your guts are ripped out
with a pool of blood on the floor,
these same lips spill more toxins
deep into your wounds,
because its never enough
to make you crippled
unless they can disembowel you too,
leave you mutilated and paralyzed
so you are always terrorized
of any phrase possessed of positivism,
utterly a shell in spirit,
just ghost of essence sucked dry inside,
trapped in that web in the head
incapable of doing other
than being a prisoner of fangs.

The Chorals Of Jubilee

When the morn falls in shadows,
when the night turns cold and bleak,
it is the time to pause and give voice
unto the blessings He has given.

To let the sounds of praise sing forth
and be filled by the power of His Holy Spirit.
Until the heart can feel His love
move us so far out of any doubts
while He touches with the remembrances
of every blessed moment in the past.

How easily by faith we embrace
the chorals of jubilee,
slowly moving so much more willingly
into His arms of grace.

Then the glow of His joy
becomes a mantle over the soul
where the lips find the words He gives
to allow our eyes the sight
for seeing the bliss He places before us.

What renewal, what pure happiness comes
with the peace of celebrating
how through all the challenges and struggles
there is the boundless gifts he bestows.

Slowly being drawn into that tabernacle of light,
the endless mercy flowing through the heart.
Left abiding in that richness of His compassion
as we cherish the renewal in our spirits
from every way He brings
that psalm of inner serenity
far into our beings.
Completely satisfied and totally bathed by His Spirit’s
anointing flood in spiritual joy
rich in the beautiful contentment it brings.

Diadem Tumors

Festoons of shimmering ego diamonds
strung through the mind as a deified diadem.
It is to see life through their indulgent opulence,
arrogantly set in one’s gaze as a monarch’s view,
while the heart bakes in the illusionary greatness,
slowly turning cancerous to the pride,
which swells and slays the mental marrow
of its capacity to still feel mars and flaws.

Slowly the infection spreads its toxic venom
until one imagines being ensconced upon silvery pedestal ,
possessed of a luster igniting the air
and everything that dwells in one’s perceptions
so it creates a golden aura
to reflect a superior quintessence.

Oh the stumbling steps taken while only seeing stars
each one envisioned as possessing one’s face,
totally enthralled by the view
that is self induced with a counterfeit radiance.

But it is all a cerebral game of fairy tale pretense
where happy endings are invented and measured
by what glitter sticks to one’s life.

What eloquence is composed to justify
the madness of feigned fame,
a passage of decaying truth,
utterly fatal to one’s clarity
with demise coming to any sense of harmony.

For once one thinks god lives in the head
the sickness has no cure,
just left to wander into denial’s play land
blissfully surrounded by angels only you can see.

That Blurry Splendor

Then I paste tomorrow to my mind
as a tapestry of Oz and Disneyland,
toss in some talking animals to soothe my fears,
before I dribble another seizure of dementia
where compulsion and extremes
are these two drinking buddies
who have all the fun
while I get their hangovers.

There is no normalcy in my thought closet,
just moments the door is kept closed
unto all the wild men living inside.
Meanwhile between the shivers and fright,
between the ghost who scream my flaws
from under my bed,
some how I still stroll towards the morning.

Above me floats the brain flotsam
of every mar and mistake
carefully blended with those blurry splendor sights
from the parts of my life that actually work.

On that tightrope of anxiety I balance my days,
aware it will never stop being a stress and strain,
only each step I take that moves ahead
gives me a small sense of victory.

Calm is the glance where the mirror is well lit,
upon it are features I’ve learned to not ignore
while looking for the few that shine a tad,
in them I hold their luster as my gold,
quietly polishing them mid all the darkness.

Somewhere through it all
finding the quiet contentment
from continuing to move,
even though I know at times I will fall.

When I stop excusing the bruises
and visualize the times I didn’t plummet
there is the simple joy of honesty.
That yields a capacity to keep going
without finger pointing or pretending
those wounds aren’t at times
self inflicted.

Maturity

Aging has so many seasons of springs
by countless steps upwards
for mind, body and soul.

Yet they can also lead downward
when time has some lesson to teach,
but there is never a single staircase
one can walk without some unexpected changes
since we can’t control all the options,
merely decide the one that works for us.

I delved into mystery of hand rails
those supports that give us stability
on any direction we choose to take.

If we survive long enough
wisdom is found during our labor
with the hardest knowledge ever gained
is that there is no end to those steps,
a single group always leads to another.

Resting is not the blessing
from all the climbing done,
it is the awareness,
the revelation from having moved enough
to realized you never stop growing,
at least in understanding
as true maturity comes
after accepting ascending is truly essential
because without it
we just never discover all the truths
that come from the experience,
which without moving
would leave us so stagnant
from seeing the familiar every day.

Eating Equators

Palms of power probe the planet in plotted precision,
their scalpel of wealth slicing slivers out of the earth,
carefully carving their own demographic pie,
across the world the make poverty’s pawns their chattel,
unconcerned the landscaped despoiled to play their game.

Wars used as chess matches to control the squares of soil
while they barter over ground to suck it of resources,
valor is the victim as warriors are slain at their command,
battlefields the wasteland of their avarice
as they hold the planet as a ball to treat as a private toy
never worried the parts they break to win the game.

Circumvented consequences buried in the bowels of industry,
venomous vapors from the cadavers of greed consume the air
until it silently chokes those who already suffer,
but the winds of sermonized speeches
skillfully preserve the illusion of humanitarian rhetoric
even when the crowds listening hack from the tainted air.

Palaces built on bones of sacrifice lambs
are mausoleums of consciences
where geography is globe lined of with words
written to define this land is mine!

Those scrawls of ravenous hunger to devour
don’t care they cross over lives or their possessions
because in the view of the kingpins of control
whatever exists always has the label of ownership
merely content to lease a small plot to the multitude
while they prepare their strategies
for abusing resources to fuel their maniacal musings.

Naked

Now he walks totally exposed in the night,
any apprehensions discarded like old clothes,
stripped of the voices that controlled the hands,
because he feels her fingers being run through the hair
and there is the smell of forbidden nicotine in his nostrils,
so in the dark to him it doesn’t matter what is right
no one is there to complain or prevent giving in to the urge.

Wasn’t long ago that the day burned away the haunting eyes,
the ones that came in the mirror behind his face,
but now they appear everywhere
with each look summoning their own spell.

His imagination is dipped in dementia
as it conjures its twisted mistress from marred memory,
she has the power to undress his brain of its reality
utterly clothe it in a new sense of truth
then his actions can feel so free and good.

In the bloody trail he now creates there is only laughter
for tonight all the fear and conformity will be a joke
then tomorrow he’ll see her impression on the mattress,
an image from so long ago,
though all he really has is the recollection
of one fated encounter in an elevator
where she left a mark upon his brain,
but now she lives so alive instead of as a ghost,
which is why he must behave those looks
to make sure she has friends in her solitude.

Perhaps among the mutilated corpses
he’ll find some type of balance
that will make the chaos seem normal,
but as long as he feels her wisp enter his evening,
he won’t listen to the inner screams that it is all insane.

Tans

July radiance on the heart
leaves its tans in muted touches,
forgotten in the haste of August
until the cool of fall blows it breath
and suddenly that warmth remembered
blossom in the intensity of October’s tones,
They softly cast a spell of caresses
as the leaves, which grew in summer
by so many countless kisses ,
feeling like floating on a wind,
mind so swept a loft in the airy drift
where that sweet balm of longing
flows its power into the nostrils,
inhaling it with all its spell.

And all around the landscape and sky
bring their own fall magic to each sight
until you can’t gaze without throbbing inside,
unable to stroll that it doesn't sway
so insides feel like dancing on the breeze
on the current of love’s thoughts.

How deeply grows the urge
for holding what burned so hot
under the sun of the long hot season.

Now it haunts with its own vivid charm,
happily accepting its power
as a harvest of heart beats.
Ready to move deeper into the magic
created by the way each scene observed
becomes its own silent reminder
of days filled with quivering quintessence
giving unforgettable fiery tremors
so craved to duplicate
during the moment s of being
apart of September’s canvas.