Monday, October 25, 2010

Oh, Those Critics

So qualified and full of sighs,
They cannot wait to criticize,
They know their stuff, these clever bards,
Their game were poker, then their cards
Would always be a royal flush
With all those jokers up the tush.
How could they lose, 'cause they're so wise?
Crouched to pounce should you generalize.
An easy win! Or is it so?
Cheap little victory, but don't they know
That every time we speak
We guide our brains to make the leap
Across the gorge between our words
and trace the course that must emerge. 

Sunday, October 10, 2010

The Making of Carrion

In times of past the wings will fly;
and messages carried by pigeons on drafty winds
will, if in time, save the day, fewer will die,
or else vultures will fatten on splayed kings.

O'er such distance flown wrapped round tiny leg,
so urgently come, what must they say?
Rushed scribbles fuming terror, desperately beg:
"You know your dept, now you must pay."

Dark shadows shiver on frozen castle walls,
Torches hissing black smoke through flaming light
gather heroes to answer their dooming call,
air squeezed by dread and drained by whispered flight

Quiet orders prepare restless mounts.
Seers brought forth to foretell fate
quiver wordless as they count
the time left to those nearest Hades' gate.

While far away queering panic numbs
the courage in fleeing breasts. As pagan Mars
whips up the coming storm, they leave their young
to merciless conquerors for their swords to carve.

Evil nymphs out from the forest; they dare
to work their evil covered by terror's nettles,
their victims never knowing from where
the arrows came as to the earth they settle.

Culled victims mouth wordlessly to White Death
while nymphs rob their prey in remorseless theft,
losing all, violated until their last breath,
whence brute ogres spring from their lairs to drag away what's left

Sudden beguiling calm, is this respite?
or the receding tide sucked in by the seething
tidal wave? The silence: Might
the Gods show pity and intervene?

But hurrying demons harvest their last.
A fine yield it was and not much trouble.
The carnage is coming they know, and fast
as they retreat back to shadowy forest hovels.

And warrior waves crash in slaying, screams
terrorize the fleeing, their lives not long
as swishing axes leave bloody seams;
engaged in the timeless making of carrion.

And rescuer heroes on wheezing horses run,
eyes fixed ahead, but they cannot see
the last few minutes of their lives that are done;
and whose carrion will nourish a sapling tree.


that grows up high over hundreds of years,
spreading wide branches whose leaves enchant
us as we retell this tale of long dried tears,
shaded from the sun on green grass so fragrant.

Does it matter anymore what happened here?
Does its tranquility mock unfathomed history?
In a distant flash of time men would die for things so dear,
and be forgotten for the rest of eternity.


And their carrion has fed this tree,
Where we sit so comfortably.
The quiet breeze, the soothing calm,
Where we live so joyfully,
Where they died so terribly.

Oh, Site of carnage, unconsoled fear,
Coated by time, the tumor has disappeared.
And no one knowing what fate did here.
What does the caressing breeze conceal?
And a casual dig ... reveal?

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Are You Going to Bring Me Doom?

Are you going to bring me doom,
tales of havoc coming soon,
of draining seas and shattered moon,
of future bleak with pressing gloom?

Or are you going to bring me light
that sweeps all darkness from my sight,
forecast a future only bright
with hope, when goodness holds all might?

Or are you going to bring me dawn,
or offer dusk with shadows long,
or cloudy days that go along
with blue sky breaks and sunshine strong?

Heaven sent and Hades bound,
fate keeps throwing us around.
Lightened up and weighted down,
in bliss we bask, in dread we drown.

Yet always comes another day,
better times or worse some way.
Are not content we who can say
for nothing more or less we pray?