Progeny of Poisoned Seeds

We are the progeny,
Of loose worms,
Sowing poisoned seed,
Letting monsters breed,
In the backyard green,
Where once lilac bloomed,
As asterisk heads,
And the rainbow rose from the flowerbed,
Like heavens slide,
Where kingdoms hide,
Between perse and red.

But now no more,
The song is seen,
Just an endless repine,
Drawn and thin,
As strings that keep men on their toes,
Each phrase a gasp for passing woes.

We have lost the skill of silent charm,
And fire burns that cannot keep us warm,
For the wood is hollow, as dead inside
As the source of our secret pride.
The night is dark, and long and cold,
And we with fetal soul, and bodies old,
May never see tomorrow’s sun,
If we sit afar, than hold as one,
For we are the progeny,
Of drifting times,
With versed sentences for these modern crimes,
For we are the progeny,
Of dreadful crimes,
Weighing cost of breaths, against weight of dimes.


When the days are done,
And never for naught,
And dead are all those who fought,
What answers could your questions incite;
O jury who never witnessed the fight.

Came raising ,came rising,
Upon carpets of gold,
Elders with children,
And the young with the old,
Each with a blade thrust in their heart,
All heroes untold,
Lost in this play, without a part .

How can you gather,
Proof of their choice,
Only ashes as victory,
And wind as their voice.
Will the earth with her face, be far too afraid,
Won’t she remember how dark and deep ran the red;
River upon river of perishing men,
Eternal fire, unending rain.

They dreamed of no tomb, nor temple when gone,
They hoped of no praise, nor aria to mourn,
The Gods that they prayed,
Were friends that lay dead,
Who had asked them to brave,
One more step ahead.

What faith can you claim,
O Judge of lost cause,
Which ask you to act,
And not to applause;
Like puppet with strings tied to the soul,
Like scarecrow with straw, to fill all the holes.

When the days are done,
And never for naught,
And dead are all those who fought,
What answers could your questions incite;
O Jury who never witnessed the fight.


I had a coat on my shoulders,
A cigar between my lips,
An eternity of interval,
And a thousand half planned trips.

They were the last logs of winter,
And first sprouts of spring,
Nights, as the one I wandered,
With a handful of nothing.

I took a two pence loaf,
From a baker I knew well,
Well enough to gift a smile,
Even when the bread was stale.
One half I kept in my pocket,
The other I nibbled dry;
Leaning by the lake,
Watching lovers lay goodbye.

At midnight the great clock tolled,
For the world walking on wire,
It was time for some to wake,
And for some to warily retire,
But not me, never me, as I
Was alone without a cause,
Against this shelf laid life,
Above the men with laws.

So I took a dark left turn,
In an alley deep and damp,
Where the walls were two arms stretching,
Where I could not light my lamp,
Ever and ever I walked,
Without a halt or stay,
Ever and ever I walked,
Till I found the Lost Man’s way.

There against the sky,
Like a firefly in the night,
Stood a four spired Villa,
As bright as seashell white.
Its steps sang with my feet,
An arpeggio from broken strings,
Took me to a door that was Cobalt blue,
With handles of floating wings.

I knocked twice upon the wood,
And twice did laughter came,
The third worked as a charm,
And someone asked my name.
I said I was a wanderer,
With a bit of mud on my boot,
A lover, a vagabond, a sailor,
A gentleman, a conquerer, a brute.

I was ushered in the rousing gathering,
In that Hall of mirrors vast,
Where every face resembled,
Someone from my past.
But they knew me as a stranger,
So as a stranger did I try,
To love those who had laughed at me,
And to amuse all who I had once made cry.

Till morning did I dance,
Till the first drop of dew did I drink,
Till the silence made me lie,
Till the madness made me think,
So I wore my peaked cap,
And left the remaining bread,
Paid farewell to those smiling phantoms;
To their memory that never fade.

I had a coat on my shoulders,
A cigar between my lips,
An eternity of interval,
And a thousand half planned trips.

They Took Her Through the Ages.

They took me to a street,
Stood me there bare,
They said I was precious,
And would be priced fair.

They took me to a river,
Clothed me in grey,
They said I was a slave,
And should walk their holy way.

They took me to a lake,
Clothed me in blue,
They said I was a woman,
And they will tell me what to do.

They took me to a valley,
Clothed me in green,
They said I was a witch,
And to burn me wasn’t a sin.

They took me to a town,
Clothed me in red,
They said I was a lass,
And to warm all gilded beds.

They took to me a table,
Clothed me in black,
They said I was a victim,
And thus never answer back.

They took me to a desert,
Clothed me in gold,
They said I was a Saint,
And to suffer for young and old.

They took me to a temple,
Clothed me in white,
They said I was a Goddess,
And my blessing was this night.

They took me to a home, Clothed me in flower, They said I was to love, And that was all my power.


She is on the doorstep,
I upon the floor,
Her eyes are pleading to follow,
My hands motion; No more.
The horizon has come home,
And now the birds perch,
Not in a galore of bright calls, hidden under crests of deep colors,
But in dead nods of grey heads, as
Timeless pendulums, mocking
This synergy, of false prophecies.
I have tasted the nectar,
Pulsing and bright,
Like forged frost; wilted white,
And the copper shore,
Breathing against the lifeless flow,
Of envy, turned dust, turned rust,
Now turn once again,
To me, to you,
And everything true.

I Heard Myself

I heard myself,
Through passing prose of life,
In random echoes unending,
World’s single rhyme,
Each pause in time.
I heard myself,
Matching morning’s croon,
In silent noon,
Tuning strings of Brooks,
Counting steps that took,
A different turn.

I remember, the warmth of your hand
The feel of your fingers, like embers,
That winter night,
When you held me first,
Like marionette,
Strings leashed to your lashes,
As you undid me, and unearthed;
Piece by piece,
Till the fire awoke,
Behind my eyes, beneath my skin, beyond my dreams.
But you weren’t triumphant,
Nor red, with pride,
But as me, still,
As stone, as breath,
As world, as death.
And how we traveled, flew past,
Against wind, upon seas,
Within ships, without mast.

There be life, hidden beyond every edge,
And nook and crevice,
And love, in all broken things,
Dying with the wind.
There be laughter,
There be joy,
There be paintings,
There be ploy,
Tracing lives, through stone, wood, walls and steel.

The world may fall,
And the mask of man,
Fold into dust,
But we shall remain,
Here forever,
Reciting, the same symphony,
Through the crowning seas,
The tricks of trees,
And ebony stones,
And ivory bones.


I laid myself bare,
And they took notice,
Of all the wounds stitched,
Like embroidery upon my skin;
A flower around my navel,
Persian pattern on my back,
A stag hiding in dry grass,
With a hunter on its track.

Pour forth, ye night,
From my flute, my tulip, my coupe,
Till your calves kiss it’s brim,
And you step over the rim,
Dyed naive, carved naked,
Upon these paths, these cobblestones,
Burning silver bright,
For a copper coin falling,
Away, and out of sight.

This night, they toast to melancholy.
I raise my glass, with many others of the evanescent gathering,
(Faces one and all, surrounded, shrouded,
In a mist of obscure words;
Prophecies, promises, plans for progenies.)
And let it fall, alone,
Elegantly, without spilling,
Onto the floor, the cold dead floor.

The nectar in their veins,
The ichor of their existence, the slow tumbleweed of a dry and dying day,
Is poison to me.

I wake up,
Once again afraid.

The sheets are wet, greying at the edges,
Smelling of soap and lye,
And the old musk of a nearby barn,
And morning drenched with rain.
So many possibilities,
Dividing my desire.

There is not much to do, anymore,
A wasteland stretches upon my fingertips,
Like old oil,
Staining each touch, the mere memory of meeting
Silhouettes standing against the far wall, with dark cloud moaning, tracing upturned lips,
Dressed in ashes, hands upon hips.

I no longer believe anything I see.

Pages turn into paper planes,
Numbers in nonsense,
Geometrical theology;
Thesis upon dot,
Histories of fools who fought,
For a piece of stone, that belonged to a third.

So much has the human mind endured,
And we wonder why the world acts lost.

‘Your hands are too small to smother me,

Silent Reflections

I have woken before,
Awakened alive,
In a glass case curiously cut, into a shape,
I know was not of design.

There were corners,
Where walls didn’t meet,
And doors there, below my feet,
With windows so high,
That one couldn’t greet, any face, peering inside.

Should I venture a hello,
Or perhaps the howl of a ghost?
Was I buried alive or excavated almost?

Here voices fall without vowels,
Hollow shells; Wordlessly verbatim,
Sand dunes moaning with centuries of silence.

Why whisper when none can hear?
Why shout when one can’t answer?