Bootless walk the muddled mess
pebbles prod, thorns prick
a blood sacrifice
mingled droppings of a generation
without distinction –
equal
(first appeared in “The Lyric”, Volume 73, No.1 – Winter 1993)
Poor me, we cry, then wash our hands;
this world of ours makes such demands
and no one knows just where we stand
and so we stand for nothing.
For now we hold, as science shows:
that nothing is and no one knows.
Our course is cast upon the flows
of, from, and back to nothing.
We build our castles by the sea
and conscious of the irony,
ignore the tides of destiny
as if we thought them nothing.
(first appeared in “The Lyric”, Volume 73, No.1 – Winter 1993)
Awake again to tasks and daily ways;
Reluctant rise to foot the well worn soil,
the stomach calls, the spirit set, obeys;
surrenders contemplation for the toil.
Plunged from a slumberous sanctum into moil,
the mind proscribed to nigglings magnifies
each feather-weighted doing to a deed,
each step to leap, each act to enterprise.
The flesh, disdainful, strives to solemnize
the squalid thoughts which witlessly obey;
that void of sovereign value hold the prize
of sustenance for the ensuing day.
The torpid night serves only to restore
sufficient dint to propagate the chore.
(tweeted 01/16/2014)
Symbols etched in standing stone
mark the rest of flesh and bone.
Pains forgotten, pleasures past –
it’s only words and work that last.
Easy to promise
difficult to reach
if only thought
preceded speech.
It never ceases to amaze
amidst such wonder
such malaise
Labor loved though labor still,
you’d think it’d pay at least one bill.
(Ok the credit is longer than the poem… WHISPERING WORLDS-The A/A/ Productions Horror/Fantasy/Science Fiction Poetry Anthology 2001)
Some moments pass, transcending time,
aware of their transgression;
while those within claim their own minds
distorted the progression.
Value not the praise of fools,
neither fear their condemnation.
Corruption is their coin and trade.
Misery the compensation.
(first appeared in “Mind in Motion -summer 1992)
The harvest is ripe,
the file soon to be closed.
There is nothing left to push
‘cept for pencils and buttons:
signals cuing signals,
it’s as endless as credit
and infinitely more costly.
There is nothing left,
no new things to acquire;
all is transaction,
all is a changing of hands.
Each ringing it drier and drier,
’till there is nothing left,
but symbols and signals,
and us, the thirsty,
and us, the hungry,
and all our pencils,
and all our buttons,
and push we will;
’till we wear the skin from the last of our fingers.
And without our eyes
we will know only our own pain;
and that of those we touch- during
breaks.
Please Brother, drink from my empty cup.
It is gold and it is platinum,
with diamonds round the lip
and emeralds at the base.
Please drink and share my hunger.
Let me push your buttons,
let me file your soul.
Let my acts be justified by numbers;
come with me,
be like me,
die with me,
please Brother, drink!
Fill me with your emptiness,
calm me with your sorrow;
for I too am sorry,
sorry for you,
but mostly sorry for me.
But there are buttons to be pushed
and papers to shuffle;
my empty house needs an addition.
Please Brother,
pay me a visit.