Tag Archives: poetry

Empty Shell

Empty Shell

With red propaganda filling with rage young beasts
with want and screams of terror drown into the night.
Where is light and to what page do they turn?
Does the terror of true faith now come through the major carrier of green flag run
in nations that fill with rape and horror?
These men are beasts tamed by much worse.
At schools, media and public play, one cry: coerce!
And though mad young boys terror commit,
why through Babel does this world commit.
The crafty snakes hollowed out the truth, with faith and tribe an empty recluse
and maybe now few wake up
as the shell is crushed.
This heap of trash will compact and my people’s peace with death may come.
And we cry to God in praise at Heaven’s gate
where only God can unite what He hath divided.

Before that day, I still declare
that true faith is good in each tribe and tongue,
but now we all have differences to know
and as good neighbours, we shall sow.

And in this dark night, my people may end
and it is up to the rest to hold the last stand.



Rusty Steed

Rusty steed

He had everything his heart had desired,
but now there was a void.
Here he had gathered his wealth.
It was as though he had been foiled,
because of the wicked he was tired.

His body was winding down, but he had good health.
Though, inwardly he felt weak.
His car glimmered in the sun,
but nothing could satisfy or bring a new peak.
He was a prince of greed with skills of stealth.

By the sweat of his neck, his white collar, brown.
Life was fun.
The car was fast.
He could get away and just run.
After much thought there appeared a frown.

He thought hard, because of his past.
Life was fast.
Cars are dead.
Nothing under the sun can last.

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.


Everything done. Everything built. Everything broken and
because acid does not ask questions nor do any seek an alkaline.
Just keep pushing things down the gaping maw. Faster and faster until
the glutton grows older and older. Shaking and then slower as the hands cannot provide
and the pain from within starts to burn.

Some push staples through the papers on their desk.
That’s their staple and life is just a test.
Go high, go far, but burning comes from near
and though soaring… still burning.
Others let it burn away… skin and bone.
Often alone.
Others get their own little pill… voices making the sour go still.
Suppressing it till time’s end.
Few can stomach the common household supplies
They say it changes the tongue and the sour sweet zest goes
gone with the wind. (As do all things under the sun)
However it gives a new flavor… sweeter.
The appetite slows down.
Nothing can be broken. Everything is repaired. Stabilized so to say.
Alkaline, when first gulped… a reaction from within.
The bubbling when the pain fades away.
Alkaline neutralizes acid’s sting.
Eventually everybody passes away.
Some holding their stomachs  and
others with a smile within.

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.


A surprisingly sunny day to be dressed in black. The shades some wear…
hides the tears.
Some say some funny words about the man they knew.
They listen in silence and nodding and laughing.

However… they weren’t talking about you.
Two holes and thus two lives. One touched more lives.
An eagle’s view would show the sadness.
No words spared to praise your neighbour.
It makes you wonder why they gave them for a corpse.

It is probably the right thing to do.
Tradition is the old black… and only so often a glance at the man lowering your box.
They cry because dead men can’t hear.
They laugh because they say things not there.
They hug for they fear.

This is what I have to say about them. I knew a group of people once who were very funny.
Yeah… I remember this one time… this one…
their noses were runny. They always wore the most stylish clothing.
No, they were never boring.
Much more I can’t say…
good men
good men

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.