Category Archives: rhyming

Mutiny in the Middle Class (Snowdens of Yesteryear)

Posted on by under poetry, rhyming, solemn

Did the brute of Neanderthal,
as he lay awake in dark of night,
pray for mighty mammoth’s fall
so he’d rise in ranks and be paid more
in higher rocks for higher walls?

Did he think, the Viking man,
as he plundered England’s shores,
of team cohesion, project plans
or the hurt his raids might do
to the image of the brand?

Did that Templar Knight of yore,
as the pilgrim road he trod,
heavy find his shield and sword
and fret if he’d make enough
revenue to please the Lord?

Where have the Snowdens of yesteryear gone?
Where’s that whistle which once was blowing?
Who stifled my protests, once sharp and shrill?
And where’s the hero I longed to be,
standing true on highest hill?

Such questions make poor company
to the weary and worn, little me;
and beyond my door they stalk, sickly and sore:
all my hounds, crying for war.

Coming to Terms (version II)

Posted on by under poetry, rhyming, solemn

White were the walls and the thoughts so loud,
as white as the writing on that wall;
that one last line I can never make out
of how temporary is all.

I set cups on the table and I watch them fill
with wine and water, with truth and time;
and truth is that one day each cup will spill
and that’s what was written on that last line.

Time and Fate

Posted on by under poetry, rhyming, solemn

To and fro, to and fro
for that is how things must go;
pulse in men will one day cease
like drowning throes;
there is ease

To and fro, to and fro
for that is how things must go;
words alive will one day fall
‘neath the black;
for dust is all

To and fro, to and fro
for that is how things must go;
we suspect we ought to fear
the shadows cold;
for they draw near

To and fro, to and fro
for that is how things must go;
in fever dreams we can see
through the looking glass;
we are not free

To and fro, to and fro
for that is how things must go;
our eyes know truths we’d rather not
like prize for our burdens;
we all must rot

To and fro, to and fro
for so are things cursed to go;
this weary toil will one day end
from our proud houses
we descend

Bound

Posted on by under non-rhyming, poetry, rhyming, solemn

Locks of hair and the hope to be a silver key
are Myth and Creation – are Haven, Destination;
beyond Earth and Sea smiles that scarlet world
whose kingdoms came and regents wept
for martyrdom:

It is Beauty, it is Grace
of poets who write, in apathy to act;
conduct a fury! yet lack the very motion,
and to dearly want is to dearly despair,
for the Face of God I have touched
with Desire, my Truth threadbare

I wished for whims and the heavens obliged
with a stroke of skin; Sweetness she unbridled
and ‘twas a second I slept on foreign shores,
in Elysium’s lap, ignorant of Doom or Decline

To turn Sphere Celestial, to force Heaven askew,
to be bound to her who lifts Affinity aloft –
that is to be Chosen, build Firmament anew

The Continental United States Is How I Disappear

Posted on by under non-rhyming, poetry, rhyming, solemn

I have things to pass the time and I have things to smash the clocks,
I have things to take you there and I have things to bring you back,
I have:
– a hundred thousand in $20 and $10 bills,
– a beat-up four-door, just for the feel of it,
– the next three motels mapped out,
– all the cigarettes Philip Morris ever made and
– a love that I’m not afraid to use

So drive to West 51st and switch cars, pretending to be invisible
which we all are. Give up the handicrafts and drama
to drown in handshakes, in Americana.
Leave behind five-star bistros and their rustic feel,
alongside what once was the American Dream;
boutiques so quaint which really ain’t,
suits and ties and the Man and his lies,
the money and the pie charts, piled atop the downtrodden hearts,
the infotainment, the “I want to be famous”,
the bagels, the crap coffee, the sweet taste of nothing –
and the rooms pregnant with silence.

With silence. That serves but threat and dust.
With silence. That is a bullet in the chamber of us.
With silence. That has swept our purpose aside.
With silence. That at gunpoint laughs at our lives.

– and I want to make it out of here with you
for Uncle Sam may want you, but not half as bad as I do.

I want to find the center point of Kansas’ plains,
there bury the keys to our Brooklyn loft;
to bring down the killing Texan sun
and howl at the Montanan moon,
so silver and aloof; on wolf hours walk past each
empty seat of Soldier Field, and for my kin
claim the land they dubbed Illinois;
to see the spirits as they shift the seasons,
as do believe the Iroquois.

To rob and ruin Fort Knox so a billion lives could reboot;
I’m ready and willing, but with nobody but you.
It would take four hands a hundred years
to carry and sink all that gold to San Fran Bay…
and “yes we can”, as they always say.

Synchronize watches and hearts in 3… 2… 1… now.