Garden Of Dreams
(Prologue)

Nothing is as it seems.

Sometimes there appears to be no gain
Here in the garden of dreams.
The fruits of my labor seem in vain.

The butterfly screams.
The maggot deems
My flesh the milk of demise.

I pass through the garden door,
In awful surprise.

But I am wiser than before.

Fast-Falling Night

When I was young, how young I was!
How bright was the sun when I would live forever!
How clear was my cause,
When nothing was my endeavor!

How long was the day!
How clear was my sight,
Until fast-falling night
Changed my perspective in every way.

Ode To Grieving Poetry

Praised be poetry inspired of seething grief,
Though wrought of unpolished words and rough lines.
No poem was composed of greater belief
In the power a poignant stanza defines!
Blessed be song born on uncertain quills,
Distress poured freely forth from anguished throats,
Whose lyrics the crudest comfort impart!
Sing on, verse whose theme a troubled soul stills;
Intoned in mourning’s delirious notes
That solace an aspiring poet’s heart!

I’ll See You Tomorrow

Spare me all the warm and cheery stories
  Of precious-supposed deeds that are quite done.
  Worn and wasted are yesterday’s glories!
For me my better days have come and gone.
  My weary head is full laden with lies.
Me thinks it high time truth were exposed -
  Whose hand shall wipe the sand from my eyes,
And turn out the light, and seal my sight closed?
  To hell with yesterday! I know today
I am full to my sad soul with sorrow.
  I see no real sense in further grieving.
I don’t care if the world wants me to stay.
  For a long time now I have been leaving.
I’m on my way! I’ll see you Tomorrow.

Helter-skelter

She holds her head between her hands.
Her face is flushed with crimson fire.
Upon the edge of loss she stands,
Staring into the abyss of her desire.
Once by passion deeply burned,
Her dreams of love have now been spurned.
And paradise has become hell.
Perhaps in limbo she is doomed to dwell,
From warmth and light apart,
As some burned-out star.

Helter-skelter, she felt her heart
Swelter like a throbbing scar.

I Cannot Say Just Why She Left

I cannot say from whence she came,
Nor for what cause she came at all;
The sweetly-smiling peach-faced dame,
Who met me at the garden wall,
And like the morning spoke my name,
As tinkling silver bells might call,
Who with a touch of golden flame,
Filled full my heart with warming fire -
An overwhelming sole desire,
To which the daffodils aspire,
A yearning to burn ever higher!

I cannot say just why she left,
Nor why she ever came at all,
To make a worn man feel bereft,
Here withered, dried, and feeling small.

Forgive Me, Teacher

Forgive me, teacher – your wayward student,
  Belatedly returned to the straight track.
Would that your wisdom might judge prudent
  Reassessment, now that I have come back.
Though woefully late to heed guidance spurned!
  And all my textbooks long rendered to dust!
I was made to see as you once avowed.
  I am sincere at last – my lessons learned!
This solemn praise of scholarship, I trust,
  Should raise your sullen brow, and make you proud.

Farmer

Farmer, from dawn to dusk in faithful toil,
  You endure without asking or knowing
The final price of servitude to soil -
  Never reaping quite as much as sowing,
Trading seasons for an interest of years,
  Your harvest in labor twice over paid.
Summer grows shorter, and winter colder.
  Your eyes grow dim, but your debt never clears,
Till a most grim reaper, with honed blade,
  Comes leaning on your languishing shoulder.

The Fall Of The Walnut Tree

The law said it had to come down -
Some code against blighted trees in town.
The tree had been there before the law,
But law protected cold hearts from thaw.
And they issued forth a death decree,
For an old and weary walnut tree,
A mighty black walnut that had fed,
With nut-laden branches overhead,
More mouths than the oldest could recall.

Young and old came to witness the fall,
The execution of their great friend,
Determined to stand by till the end -
Some not believing their tree could die,
Some already beginning to cry
Before the first chain saw motor growled.

How steel against the tempered wood howled!
Loosing their tempers blade after blade,
Stone-faced men, in frustration, forbade
Onlookers to come nearer the fight.
Having lost their initial delight
At profit, they set their minds to pride -
In case mourners were moved to deride.

A cheer went up when one chain saw broke,
As if there was hope for loving folk.
But more saws came, like wolves in a pack,
Determined to break the old tree’s back.

There transpired a morning-long battle,
Before the trunk began to rattle,
And then popped like an exploded dream,
Sagging with a bloodcurdling scream.

The great walnut fell with many hearts.
The saws growled louder as the giant lost.
Staggered minds calculated the cost.
People a half mile away could tell
When the friend of many ages fell,
And concluded its long endeavor.

The fall shook many souls forever.

The Strongest Man In Town

He was small, even from a boy’s perspective,
A tiny, ugly man with a sun-leathered face.

I had seen him twice before – once fixing the roof of a barn,
And once on a January morning, cleaning a cow stall,
Leaning on a fork half again as tall as his most exaggerated stance.
But I had never seen him so close, so real, more than a yarn.

I heard he had spent time in prison for stealing a car on a dare,
And once he was married to some Westside hag,
Who still asked him every year to the Valentine dance.
But that was all I knew for sure, except for the jokes going around.

And now there he was, sitting in the alley behind the liquor store,
Leaning back awkwardly against the stucco wall,
As if he were worried someone might come out the back door.

He didn’t see me coming from the other direction.
He was too busy sipping from a bottle in a brown paper bag,
Grimacing with strain as if laden by some unseen weight,
Countering some imagined argument with a sibilant objection.

Since just getting by was my only objective,
I calculated I could pass unchallenged, as long as I didn’t grin or stare.
I tried to keep to the center of the alley, taking the middle ground,
My focus straight ahead to avoid his possible inference of disrespect,
Keeping an expression that implied neither threat nor disgrace,
So as to seem completely impartial to his aspect.

But when I came even with him, I couldn’t resist a sideward glance.

He scowled, with lifelong humiliation behind his frown,
And growled at me with a worn-out sort of hate,

"What you lookin’ at, kid! Better walk away!
I could whup you even on a bad day.
I can take any two guys in town!"

For You

Before the close of my day,
Before my short show must end,
Before I am history,
I should take the chance to say,
I consider you my friend -
You, whose face I could not see.

Kept apart by time were we!
Therefore, before I must go,
I do the least that I can do.
To you who looked up to me:
I leave this so you may know
I never looked down on you.

The Nature Of the Beast

At the garden’s edge roamed a vicious beast,
Visible only to retrospect truth,
For it engaged in a gradual feast,
A piecemeal consumption of naive youth.

First it licked the fair features from a face.
Next it ate strength away without a trace.
Then it tore dreams and memory apart.
And last it made listless a restless heart.

The Storm When It Comes

    It comes without warning,
    As a complete surprise,
    Arriving one morning,
    As clouds before your eyes.

When a dark horizon becomes your sky,
And your sunny visions are swept away,
When cultivars of hope wither and die,
And winter in your garden comes to stay,
When frost nips the buds of mortality,
And cold blow the winds of reality,
When all desires in a tempest expire,
And your dreams for tranquility are through,
When the whole of existence your mind numbs,
Gaze longingly at the sky, and suspire.
There is little a battered soul can do,
But to weather out the storm when it comes.

Miraculous Fire

  It’s hard to burn a candle in the rain.
It’s hard to turn a drowning spark to flame.
  My memories have frozen in the cold.
But my hands are too numb to feel the pain.
  Darkness and light appear to be the same.
I believe that soon I shall lose my hold.
  Now that only raindrops and tears remain,
It seems the storm shall only grow stronger.
  The horizon is too clouded to see.
Still I will linger here a while longer,
  Watching the puddles forming around me,
With fading hope some miraculous fire
  Might arrive to lift my spirit higher.

Shadow Of The Sun

Deep is space beyond the winking starlight,
  An endless firmament surpassing sight,
That stretches further than wonder can stray,
  Past the authority of night and day,
Into the awful shadow of the sun,
  Where past and future are forever one.

Despair, foul despair, to what dismal end!
  – Gloom that shrouds souls with a deepening dusk,
Dimming the light on which faint hearts depend.
  Damned be the depths from which proceed such musk!
Tainted whispers that from the abyss wend!

Author of oblivion, cursed be;
  The fiendish tenets of iniquity
That dictate a measure of misery,
  Taunting consciousness with mystery,
But to banish all for eternity.

As It Burns Up My Days

Let the sun shine for a while,
As it burns up my days,
Upon the frown in my smile,
And the pain in my gaze.

Let the world rage around me,
For I am deaf and dumb!
I am blind to all I see.
And my soul is growing numb.

The Khan

Genghiz Khan knew how to fight;
Assailing the world with offhand spite,
Without regard for wrong or right,
Vanquishing everything in sight.

Who Made Fleas?

Who made fleas,
And lung disease,
And merciless germs
No prayer may appease?

Who thought up tapeworms,
And bloodsucking ticks,
And hornets wielding poisoned pricks,
And scorpion stings,
And mosquito wings,
And the bleaching bones the vulture picks?

Who made the lonely coyote moan,
And hungry turtles that eat their own?
What mind conceived of crocodiles?
What sadist designed hyena Smiles?

Who gave ants fire,
And raccoons rabies,
And dogs the desire
To decapitate babies?

Who made pigs’ greed,
And jaguars’ speed,
And white sharks with their voracious need?

Who put points on the Brahma’s horns,
And claws on cats,
And plague on rats?
Who gave roses such vicious thorns?

Who indeed?

Who painted the mighty tiger’s disguise?
And put the gleam in the polar bear’s eyes,

Who put murder in my brother’s heart,
And hate in my sister’s head?
Who tore the fabric of peace apart,
And trampled universal innocence dead?

Who made death my only friend?
Who made me look forward to the end.

The One And Only

A raving raven ranted to me,
From the crotch of a midnight tree,

This is what we earn through misery.
This is the end, the one and only end.
This is the last of forever, today.
This is hurt we cannot mend,
When soul and body rend,
When time, as we measure, passes away.
This is the universal plight,
The wages of our fight,
The end of pain and pleasure, sadness and delight.
This is the face of fright, on a cruel and heartless night.
This is my message, the awful truth I tend.
We reach the unknown bend,
The dubious friend,
On whom we must depend.
These are the last scenes of all we ever knew.
This is the final note,
The irrevocable quote
We utter when we are through.
This is when we search for what we cannot recall.
This is the end, the darkest place of all.

Bird, I heard the heavy words your song imparts,
But such dark art has little effect on stoic hearts.

The Bird Sits

The bird sits in the doorway of her cage,
  Halfway between freedom and security,
    Halfway between the window and me,

Weighing the merits of adventure and old age -
    Perpetual seeds or riotous play.

Her ultimate question is to stay or fly.

But certain mundane is more sure than uncertain fame.
  Consideration is but an entertaining game.

Expecting that she would leave me someday,
  Knowing that birds, like dreams, wither and die,
I never bothered to give her a name,
  Fearing the pain of her loss when it came.

Time

Weep, children, with a thousand tears!
With a voice of one, wail your plight!
Assert the weight of all your attrited years!
Plead in vain to the deaf and bottomless night!

Time, in its wanton apathy,
Envenoms with seconds and hours
All to the heartless hold of infinity.
Milk of youth in the space of a moment sours.

Time conquers with a sure onslaught -
The slaughter of a silent thief,
Reducing all consequence to utter naught,
Gradual so as to rob mourning of grief.

With pendulums that never cease,
With a broad, meticulous sweep,
Beats the cadence of the celestial timepiece,
Across the vast reaches of eternal deep.

Cross a sea of corrupted blood,
Rise the waves that never subside!
What day may escape the omnipotent flood?
What creature crawl from the inexorable tide?

In Our Cold Cells

Grand delusion, mass confusion crowds inside my head.
I wish I could sort all the pieces out.
A dark incursion, cold aversion fills my thoughts with dread.
I wish I had the answers to allay my doubt.

In vain the hand of despair is raised to heaven,
To the clouds from which descends no relief,
There falls no rain that may wash away terror.
Fearful faith is the failing heart’s leaven.
Prayer forms upon the lips of wishful belief,
With no divine finger to point out the error.

The gods appear to be deaf, dumb, and blind,
Or there is no architect of my pain!
At length we prisoners in our cold cells find
Our cries for mercy are all in vain.

The Only God Around

If the hungry one is starving, who will give him sustenance?
If the naked one is freezing, who will find him raiment?
If the fearful one is troubled, who will hear his lament?
If the melancholy one weeps, who will brighten his countenance?

Man must do all that he can,
If the answers are to be found.
Man rises upon the shoulders of man,
And sees he is the only god around.

The World Moves On

Spring blooms with flowers and diseases,
With wrongs and rights that no reason appeases.
The baby sneezes.
The old man wheezes.
The universe does as it pleases.
Hope flickers, then is gone.
November frost freezes.
And the world moves on.

Leave Me Ecstatic Pain

Leave me ecstatic pain;
An awful-aching heart
That no thought may allay!
Let no remnant remain
Of those dreams torn apart
By sorrow and dismay!
Let love and life be past -
Vanished in a black hole.
Leave me but pain at last,
To numb my heavy soul.

I Wish To Think

I wonder what perverted mind
  Designed the lion’s mane,
And made the shark and all its kind,
  And gave the cobra bane.

What hand set the hare in its hole,
  What cruel, sadistic sort,
That arranged for a timid soul
  To be the hunter’s sport!

What fiend would wean a worm on silk!
  What sick and twisted thought;
That puts the poison in the milk,
  To make a calf’s flesh rot!

What monster formed the vicious test
  That fashions trusting heads,
Then snatches fledglings from the nest,
  And children from their beds.

I wish to think that some fair power
  Will compensate for pain,
And see that each and every flower
  Gets equal shares of rain.

I wish to think, before I part,
  As my destruction nears,
There must have been some gentle heart
  That gave these sad eyes tears.

Prayer To Spring

Spring, what magic do you bring;
That puts the life in everything?
At one kiss from the May queen,
The phlox bloom and the grass turns green!
Everything I build falls down.
Everything that I see turns brown.
What strength lies in your embrace!
What splendid light shines from your face!
Shine on me in the dark deep!
Remember me, when last I sleep!

I Don’t Want To Know

When death and his minions
Come calling at my door,
Spare me your opinions.
My glassy eyes ignore.

Ignorance is a blissful state.
I’m sure you will agree.
Death is truth, and truth is fate,
And truth may set you free.

But you shall find
That I have a mind
To deny what has come to be.
So spare me your groans,
And the funerary moans.
And no soulful soliloquy!

At my demise,
Don’t find it a surprise
That I ask you not to weep.
‘Cause when they blanket me with clover,
I just plan to roll over,
And fall back off to sleep.

Thus, when it comes time to let me go,
Just pretend not to see.
And please, don’t anyone tell me,
‘Cause I don’t want to know.

Where He Has Gone

Where is my dear friend? Where is my brother?
  Why should he not embrace me as before?
I know him as well as any other -
  He was once here, but he is here no more.
Why do you look upon the silence there;
  His form – weight discarded as if shed
Of old life and traded for a new one.
  What folly causes you to stand and stare,
And think that beyond his flesh he is dead,
  When you cannot tell me where he has gone?

They Hint Of Peace

I cannot see how fallen friends can be
Gone forever – fallen eternally.

In half-mad sequences of memory,
I see their faces again and again,
Like shadow shapes of smoke and emery,
Whose reason mere logic cannot attain.
With voices of falling water they speak,
From deep pools or across some distant lake,
Whose concepts constantly abrade my mind.
And though they never reveal what I seek,
Far beyond what my senses can partake,
They hint of peace my soul may someday find.

House

House, where is your light?
Where is your fire tonight?
Who left you all alone?
Who took the marrow from your bone?
House, where is your home?
Where did your heart roam?

Winds On The Acropolis

Winds on the acropolis, forth expelled
  Across unforgiving waves, daily blow.
By an ancient unkept promise compelled,
  Moan mournful words of many morns ago.

It is I, Theseus, no more to roam,
  With redeeming account of my story,
Victorious, arrived from my fight!
  Aegeus, your son is safely home,
Whose brow is crowned in glory,
  Whose ships return with sails of white!

Ballad Of The Persimmon Tree

When spirits of autumn through the leaves moan,
                Hear the persimmon tree sadly intone
                  Mournful melodies of days long ago,
         When he stingy cuss stayed at his window,
                   Vigilant from early dawn till late eve,
      Watching the fruits form like gold in his pash,
         Accounting with hash marks upon the sash.
      Lo, how the weeping branches sorely grieve
                The memories they are fated to relate;
                Of the old man searching for any flaw,
                Wickedly beating his daughter-in-law,
                 Cursing her to the dogs as an ingrate,
                    For the theft of a single bite of gold.
          On lonely nights the tree sings to the wind,
Of thieves, long gone to their graves, who sinned
                     In a ballad that each season is told.

Ghost From A Wishing Well

He strikes at the stroke of midnight,
At the last peel of a distant bell,
When the dark owl sounds the witching hour,
And the laments of the bullfrogs swell.

He appears in a moonlit bower,
When the rings round the moon are bright,
Whispering a wish that he once made -
A wandering ghost from a wishing well.

He creeps slowly through the tall grass,
For a reason only he may tell,
Concealing his face beneath a shroud,
When whippoorwills from their mantles cry.

His shadow falls across the window,
A silhouette of the deepest shade,
When the cold wind murmurs through the trees
Of promises broken long ago.

He hides behind the lilac bush,
When clouds sweep low across the night sky,
Waiting for his penitence to pass,
Calling some mystical name out loud.

He gives the gate a gentle push,
Canting the words of some ancient spell.
But there is no magic to appease
A wayward ghost from a wishing well.

Haunting

Behind a cloud-veil hidden,
The stars turned their gaze away
From scenes in heaven forbidden -
A parable of dismay.

Woe was she!
And for what yearning?
Such that she could not see
Beyond the fire of her soul burning.

Stately proceeded the lady of night,
Shadow-shrouded her dark face,
Raven-haired, and robed in white,
Stirred from her restless resting place.

Wandering, squandering an infinity,
Upon the swards of yester thought,
In search of tranquillity
That death alone could not wrought.

Among the cool stones,
Wailing of doom,
Liberated of flesh and bones,
Stepped she from tomb to tomb,

Her misery sung, for a hundred years,
Of fortune missed and love lost,
Unassuaged by time or tears,
Turned straightway to silver frost.

For the cup of death
Quenched not her thirst
For another drink of breath
As fresh as was her first.

Raised she the goblet of fate
To blood-ruby lips pursed in prayer,
But did not partake of the sacramental bait
Laid to venom her soul to eternity’s lair.

Cheered the noblest ghosts,
Made numb by endless procrastination,
And raised the wine of empty toasts
To her refused consecration.

And sounded the mocking howl
Of wind upon the fog-scented air.
And scorned the night owl
From his secret chair,

Until the face of dawn
With widening eyes
Of denial looked on
In feigned surprise,

While an usher of mist
Bore her from the ceaseless fray,
From the guest list
Of another day.

Thus to her sepulcher she retired,
To abide another morrow,
Where she dreamed, and conspired,
And silently sipped the spirit of sorrow.

Hearts

Owner of a lonely heart,
When all friends from view depart,
In the halls of rue detained,
By love alone be sustained!

What is mere time and space
To the unyielding embrace
Of love wrapped around a soul?
Console in forever as your goal!

Owner of a broken heart,
From a tranquil mind apart
Torn by loss of love and hope,
With what succor may you cope,

Left to misery’s device,
You, e’er denied paradise,
Left to pangs that never cease,
Sore discovering in silence no peace!

For The Living

Weep for the living,
And not for the dead;
Some solace giving
To the bereft instead.

The Sleepwalkers

    Some elusive yet persevering conception
  Rouses them to phantasm from their restless beds,
Where somnolent incense of musk-breathing twilight
  Weaves visions from the fabric of their illusion.

    Filaments of reason twine into perception,
  Filling with sweet opiate dreams their muddled heads,
Until they are oblivious to mortal plight,
  Content to resign themselves in stark delusion.

    Aimlessly wandering across an endless plain,
  Where dry-throated winds whisper through the sweeping grass,
Where light and shadow blend in diverging gray shades,
  They dwell in a realm that is neither day or night.

    They search for answers though their efforts are in vain -
  For no will of mind has ample force to surpass
The cloud of stupor into which perception fades,
  As ethereal expectations veil their sight.

    They slumber, but in their sleep find no true repose,
  For they are never really awake or asleep.
Lost within an ever-shifting fog of fable,
  They stumble along on a never-defined quest.

    And whether they are alive or dead no one knows;
  For the stream of all consciousness flows slow and deep.
And in their best reckoning they are unable
  The certain truth of greater fiction to attest.

    They try to fly, but in tempests of time are blown.
  Amidst faceless ghosts calling for them to come back,
They wish they had the strength of mind to run away,
  To flee an anguish eternally unrelieved.

    But sleepwalkers search for what can never be known.
  They wander through fate, following a forlorn track,
Seeking the direction from which they went astray,
  Finding errant footsteps may never be retrieved.

The Face Reflected There

    Adrift in universal flow,
    In its rip tides do not tarry.
    Should your burden be too much to carry, 
    Let it go! Let it go!

I walked the streets of yesterday,
  Wandering a forlorn track,
Believing I might go back
  To time I left along the way.

But I couldn’t find the past.
  It had gone astray,
As untended things may,
  Like some dream not meant to last.

In a mirror of retrospection,
  I stared long at my reflection,
Wondering if it could truly be
  The face reflected there was me.

On The Eyes Of Those Who Reminisce

They glide like specters along the wayside,
  Shadowy visions of a life gone by;
Scenes of happiness that appear then hide -
  A sore heart more a portion to deny.
There! They are there! Does your mind see them not?
  – Those days far away removed from worry,
When joy was all and sorrow had no say -
  Remembrances in fevered wishes wrought.
If you would seize them you must hurry!
  Savor the significance while you may!

Now they are gone, like phantoms of tired mead,
  Long faded as gray into the fog night,
Passing on with inestimable speed,
  Out across the limit of mortal sight,
As lamplight that flickers on fair faces
  Only to be trimmed until the flame seems
Never to have burned but in rhymes amiss.
  Fled are the ghosts of those haunted places,
Though the silhouettes are sufficient for dreams
  Left on the eyes of those who reminisce.

Snapdragons Blooming In The Bower

My head clouds as though draped in shrouds of fate;
  Shadows wrought by sudden remembered scenes
That fill full my heart as with some leaden weight.
  In my eye I find no viable means
Of extricating joy from this dark hour.
  When the dream is done, the price must be paid!
Unseemly that I should gleen rue this day
  From snapdragons blooming in the bower!
But sunshine gives way to deepening shade -
  This moment and I shall soon fade, as they.

Something Nice To Say

The evening of grief has passed to night.
  Forever! Forever! The day is done.
The final summer has slipped out of sight.
  The flowers are wilted and the leaves gone.
O hold my trembling hand! I am so sad!
  I am sorry that I am just a man.
If you could think of something nice to say,
  Then maybe I would not feel quite as bad.
To dream of when across the grass we ran,
  Singing of sunshine streaming on the day!

Acumen

What is cold if I have never touched frost upon silent stone?
What is warmth if I have never known a gentle embrace?
What is companionship if I have never been left alone?
What is salt if I have never tasted tears upon my face?
What is kindness if I have never experienced cruelty?
What is loss if I have never seen the face of fairness?
What is life if I have never worn that petrified look of incredulity
Graved in the instant of awareness?

Anvil

Time is the fire in which we burn.
Life is the forge in which we turn.
Of temporality we learn.
For immortality we yearn.

Age is the anvil that tests our mettle,
And tempers us for a timeless settle.

Panacea

I drank a very bitter cup.
It tasted much like rue.
‘Twas folly sure to pick it up.
Have you been drinking, too?

Let me treat you to a higher state.
An elixir is what we need -
Laughter’s prime inebriate!
A panacea indeed!

Rekindled Fire

From pestilential blackness his soul is freed -
From the adulterate peace of silent woe.
He has labored from burdens of long ago
That his wretched soul in its sorrow decreed,

Pining away a thousand years,
Until his grief lost its madness,
Until hope replaced his sadness,
And his shackles rusted with tears.

Behold the rekindled fire -
His bosom filled with desire!

The Subtle Song Of Rain

On one cold and bleak November,
Clear as my mind may remember,
Stirred the ember of my love of life to life again.
Long before the sun ceased shining,
Eclipsed by my soul’s deep pining,
Blackened by the stark divining
That my heart beat on in vain.
From a dark cloud’s silver lining,
Gentle on my windowpane,
Came the subtle song of rain.

Came a song so sweetly singing,
To my very marrow ringing,
As celestial angels earthward arrive to rein
In wayward spirits to repent,
By way of divine chorus lent
To liberate kindred bent
On clinging to damning bane.
I heard voices, heaven-sent,
Joined in eloquent refrain
With the subtle song of rain.

In a rain so softly falling,
I fancied nature’s mother calling,
Until my fleeting streak of sorrow waxed wane,
Entreating me with blissful weeping,
Love of life upon me heaping;
Blessings of eternal reaping –
Power to cleanse the darkest stain -
To my soul, sublimely seeping,
Notes to soothe the deepest pain,
In the subtle song of rain.

Thorns On The Flowers

Tempestuous showers
Do roots firmly tether.
Thorns on the flowers
Turn soft hands to leather.

Subsiding rain,
And conquered pain,
Turn the vine to bloom again.

To The Smallest Victory

O overripe sweetness of victory!
For the intoxicant of triumph’s mead!
To know the slightest moment of glory!
So that someday, when in defeat I bleed,
Lying dying beneath my mortal shield,
Thrust heart through by an invincible foe,
An oath to past fortune may be my toast!

O great gods, grant me a trophy to show,
When the sun sets upon the battlefield,
As I raise my sword in one final boast!

While Will Prevails

The mortal spirit should be as fire,
Striving as if desire never fails,
Ever yearning, ever burning higher!
Though life dims to the darkness of the grave,
Let it not without glory fade into inexorable night!
While will prevails,
Let intellect rave!
Let love be bold!
Lest divinity straightaway surrender its light,
And warmth yield unresisting to cold.

Give Me Will

    Give me will, and I shall fight.
    Give me teeth, and I shall bite.

Provoke me, and shall I not defend?
Taunt me, and shall I not defy?
Silence me, and I shall cry!
Restrict me, and I shall never end!

Teach me, and shall I be convincible?
Tether me, and shall I not fly?
Birth me, and I shall die!
Kill me, and I shall be invincible!