Tag Archives: poet

Fun era l

Fun era l

The child doesn’t seem to grasp
that no one can outlast
the curse of death
from the past.

The stone is not a plaything
Daddy is not coming back.
Laugh, while you are young.
Enjoy the fun.

The grass above the bones
look pretty today.
Go ahead and play,
while the men march all the way.

The trumpets calls for the homeland.
Yet, the patriot is home.
Look at the brass band.
Now you will grow up alone.

Hang around and hop from rock
to rock.
Ignore the dark ties that bind.
Be a happy child.

This era will fade like bone.
The world will fit.
The hero is home…
we are in transit.


They dangle by threads proclaiming and uttering the lie of
being flesh and bone. Boxed into an office of their own.
Directed by the tall chairs, yet under the impression of
being real in the way they act.

They manipulate the crowd, but above their heads hang
a hand. Some of them feel the relentless tug and burn out
in the lights… so bright.
Back in the day there weren’t the same chains.
The shine seemed less, but the ropes were longer.
Even now they are free to move until the extension
fails and can only be cut.
Then it is rebound and cut and rebound and cut.
Sometimes they think they believe that they have more control.

Others realize the futile attempts to place a permanent mark.
They bark and bark until their own little paws are given some string.
They compete… yet they utter the restraint… wishing they could
pulp wood and inscribe their own name.

They are polished by their brief fame,
but alas,
even this wood must go to the flame, before paper does.
They have forgotten… it is a crying shame.


Skinny sheep

Skinny sheep
At first there was darkness… then ardently he rose.
Sweet smelling music played and lifted his heart.
Moved and touched by melodies alone.
“Where… tell me where is the start of faith?”
It can’t be found in that empty place of emotion lead.
Slowly he sat back as the music faded.
Time has done what the ears have missed.
Emotion has lead him astray.
Searching… he went, running out of fuel, so to speak.
Cropping up memories of experience, but malnourished indeed.
Where oh where does he seek?
For a time will come when the weekly kick will be dull…
and questions arise and darkness comes and everything fade as the melodies do too and deafness and sickness and crashing…. and burning and yearning.
At last there was darkness and he sat down.
A comical skinny sheep uncertain in his ways.
He keeps eating of the barren fields… sure of the “fruit”
it yields.

“The prose and cons”

Let it not be said that this was an easy task, for
no man should isolation ask.
They stared… they mocked… they laughed.
“A novel? Ha!”
However as words multiplied and ideas came to be… so I came to see that I had to give up some to become more. One foot was already behind the door.
An epitome of individual thought. The prose… my worlds, my mind’s subsets. Characters… failures, pondering and philosophical thought could all be wrapped up in narratives.
Maybe a lesson could be taught.
I am strange… I always have been.
Yet, this pursuit is nothing compared to the one we all need.
We will be mocked and they will make their jokes. We will be tested for sure.
It is more than art or abstract thought.
We are to have faith and count the costs:
ostracization, humiliation… exclusion… among a world full of delusion.
Let it not be said that this is an easy task, for no man should isolation ask.
Let us not despair, for though we feel little, we ought to know:
We are not alone.

Sonnet of a thinker.

Through struggling to close the eyes and escape the thought
they wake up to go to others
and so they walk and talk
to men that could never be brothers.
Funny enough the comfort comes with a great price bought.

Silent times can cause them great despair
as they draw their power from outside.
They know not a poet’s lair
nor do they convey many things on few minds.
Seldom do they think about the darkness of pride.

Then it is so that thinkers must rejoice
when their minds are rejuvenated
and they should become elated
when thinking comes as if not even by choice.

Reflection beneath the skin.

Reflection beneath the skin.

The first person view we hold let’s us see our hands and all it has
accomplished. From the sand it was built and the risks we took.
A certain man could listen to his voice and all that jazz… maybe proud.
Another will reflect upon his reflection and feel lacking in muscle.
These thoughts are seldom tussled with to go beneath the skin.

Though subconsciously we hear the ticking clock and we fear that the alarm was set.
Though, this knowledge is only a thought away… we tend to forget.
Those who go to deep will sink so far, or so
they say. Then what is this life more than the changing of the guard?
Big Bens and little men taking risks after risk to grapple for their
own existence.

Seldom do they ask who provides their breath, food.
And aquatic needs till end.
A chemical process of course- a quick response given by the brainless lab coat and his biased lens.
All knowing? Maybe not. Looking at his hands… to the ticking clock.

Another can look back and smile at his mansions and sport cars. His bid he placed for a great life and so he did.
Green paper and crystal clear diamonds… and of course that little sip of water. Then he also faces the common cold
that consumes us all. Maybe near his end if the alarm rings long… his thoughts will deepen, but just maybe or not at all.
No blanket brings the comfort to a restless soul like that old green one. Yet the dying body feels the cold like no other.

Even the family man can look at his home and think about generations to come.
Just bodies of loved ones beneath the dirt. Soon they will all be gathered.
Though this might seem dumb.
It would be as if nothing mattered.

But things do matter, they adamantly demand. Survival of our species and the existence of our kind. It’s seems to me that we are respecters of certain molecules of a higher order. We have contributed so much to this pretty planet.
Hero shim… ah, have we forgotten? So torn. Nag and shake the drinks for we live for now don’t we?
What a lovely view of this higher organism… surviving and thriving.
Looking these days at pixels on a screen… lifeless mind you.
A slave to the dead.

There are other views… a man in a big hat and many tics sucking the blood out of the free market.
Both kissing babies… one for government and another for Rome.
Terrorists follow their hearts and so do the poli prayers. Hoping that their dueling gods can save this man.
Save from what?
The most important question no one brings up.

Thou dare not point to the homo sapiens. Even the greenies say otherwise, but they only scratch
the surface of their heads and bellies of the cuter arrangement of molecules.
Save us from our own random chemical reactions of course.

There is another view that discusses the nature of things and man.
This is a sinking ship, but it can be pretty sometimes.
The core of this organism is corrupted. Even passed on.
It’s more than genetics, you know?
That’s why the magnitude of the God Man that died for this corrupted hearts
is so profound.
That a King should suffer for less than an ant.
However, this is only a vessel and the road to redemption is as
simple as climbing on the lifeboat.
The mocking molecules will go down in the abyss,
but you, oh Christians will sing in your bliss.



I wonder if you want to
look forward to the blue.
Monday, they play and sometimes
mocking you with ambition and

If only they knew your strife.
Bending and picking, placing
papers in their metal casing.
While the others are talking and

What a life to behold, but food
won’t be scarce. That is a fact like an ant.
And if the blue suit makes you

Lighten up, your mind is yours.
Their luxuries, theirs. Distractions at their best.
Keep on smiling and sing the blues.
You won’t sing them forever when we’re all in the bin.

Mad Scientists

Mad Scientists

We all laugh at the sight of that
little red fictional button.
We can’t imagine why people will write
something so… nonsensical.

Maybe it reflects what we already know.
A little button in our chests.
We only need to follow and then…
Sometimes we fight… we have to.

We need to. This is our lab, isn’t it?
We need to. Press the button.
At the end… we are allowed.
Self destruction… we only kill ourselves.

Rhetorical Question

This is one of my poems. I sometimes write poems based on fiction, because I feed off fiction and reality. The following poem is actually a humorous one I came up with. It is where humor and tragedy meet and I strive to do this in novels too.

Rhetorical Question

When I asked you to join me
that day, I needed the obvious
that was simple.
I feed off despair and sadness,
but pity is taking it too far.

Your face read like a book.
I’m a writer… believe me I know.
A simple no, but no…yes.
Welcome to the pity party.
You could have been silent and
just shook your head.
Then your sorry made me sorry
like watching a bad talent show.

Perhaps I should have told you…
it was a rhetorical question.

Lay Down Your Twigs

Charge the castle and believe. They have the heart and the guts, but no brains.
Positive they will conquer or preparing for the fun of battle.
Lay down your twigs.
They charge the pristine castle. They hate the good King.
Some imagine that the castle doesn’t exist, but they swing.

Somebody paid the ransom… their only chance – a gift.
There’s food and shelter and safety and beauty.
However they love the mud, because they are free.
Freedom, is a lie. They are caught by their own…
they do what they want.
Lay down your twigs.
Time is running out, yet they laugh.
The castle is just a mirage.
Staring motionless at the merciful gun…

Every second fun and so free, but still gearing up for war.
Invading the country.
Lay down your straw.
Even those with white flags needed help to give up. Not so free, hey?
Lay down your twigs.
Battering, beating, biting and kicking.
Staring down the barrel.
Fighting till their end.

A hopeless sight.
And funny too, because every tree was planted by the King.
Swinging like blind men. Cursing and invading.
Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight?
Lay down your twigs.