fegger
American
I have often defined myself as one who 'has no choice but to write'; as if this passion had chosen me--for some unknown or perverse reason, and I must humbly abide by such wishes. Inherently reticent, it is only within the past 18 months that I have considered publishing or circulating that which I have written in the past 30 years. Perhaps 'time' has selected me, finally. / / 'Thorn of the Rose' is now available at: http://www.scribd.com/doc/37560892/Thorn-of-the-Rose / / "FaithQuest" is now available at: http://www.scribd.com/doc/37114086/FaithQuest / / "That Little Piece of Fluff" (short story) is now available at: http://www.scribd.com/doc/37906665/That-Little-Piece-of-Fluff / / Songs/song lyrics may be reviewed at: fegger.net
Pretentious youth--
Fervent sapling, impatient
In your early hours;
Whimpering, persuading
Premature unfolding;
Quelling such desperate hunger.
Perhaps you dress so quickly
In fear that canopy elders
Will flout your need and
Consume all of your pledged sun.
Pliable and shallow rooted,
You elope toward unobstructed light;
But are remiss of your future.
Bent, curved, blossomed--
You will feed well
As the banquet is first set.
Yet, Summer shall find you
Strained within the shade;
And only narrow filaments
Flowing between green cloaks
On which to feed.
The advent of Autumn’s wind
Shall press firmly against
Your crooked breast; and
Displace your sipping feet.
You will flame quickly, blushing--
Then disrobe amongst the clothed.
Naked and unable to suckle
the sweet reserve
Ahead of Winter’s frozen grasp.
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
Awakened by the summons
Of the moon, he wanders.
His eyes, vaguely responsive
To light fluctuations; and
He often weeps when dishes are washed.
He calls my daughter, ‘David’ or
Simply barks at her.
At midday he routinely gathers
All family photos, stacks in towers.
He interchanges tasks of the dinner table
And the bathroom, incognizant.
The cat seeks him out and
They seem to find comfort together.
We keep mittens on his hands;
For, without them, he’s prone to
Bore holes to the bone.
When outside, he’ll rush toward the maple;
Embrace it, like Mom, and cry.
On Sunday mornings we have come to expect:
A laundry basket prepared, by him,
Brimming with loose crackers, milk, cheese,
Broken eggs and cat litter.
He creates knotted chains with his shirts;
Laughs, hysterically at the sound of the vacuum;
Sings, ‘In The Garden’, whenever it rains.
While, for years now, I have prayed
That this is solely dormancy;
And someday, he will be full again.
I solemnly wish that I had no memories of him;
This would make my love for him less complicated.
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
Curled beneath the Christmas tree,
On this snowy Christmas Eve,
Lay my daughter, nearly three
Upon this perfect bed.
Asleep and warm in footed wear,
Tinsel static-ed to strands of hair,
Glistening lights ‘gainst skin so fair,
Halo her youthful head.
There she dreams of dreams her own,
That circle ‘bout her life, her home;
Doesn’t fear the world unknown;
I pray such times remain.
With eyelids’ flutter, weaves tomorrows,
To fill with splendor, not of sorrow,
From her, such vision I will borrow;
And will live my life again.
Nestled lone, in face of fire,
Breathing deep, this sweet admire,
With new eyes see all my desires,
How life has blessed so far.
Then, with scent of piney resin,
Awakens precious Christmas present,
Blue-eyes sparkle, sleepy crescents,
The babe beneath the star.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 5:03 AM UTC
Sweet eminence;
Your weeping in quiet hours,
Mute and solitary,
Has suspended you
To the indifferent mercy
Of fresh winter;
Thorns, dulled and smooth,
Lend no armor or salvation;
No blossom to whisper tribulations
Toward chaste suitors.
So unkind
As to entomb you
In your own crystalline tears.
Captive and preserved,
A hand-blown ornament,
With but a history of beauty
To entice.
From the East rises
Your tardy champion,
Whose eyes behold
Your *******
Passionately reminiscing,
Former design;
With righteous vehemence,
Strikes freeing strands,
To emancipate such glory.
Yet, as forces pare unevenly,
And tears trickle anew,
The weight of neglect
Burdens the vestiges of youth.
Tense and straining to liberate,
Healed wounds succumb,
Divide and detach,
Falling lifeless upon the linen.
Too old, or too cold,
To bleed the farewell of allure.
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 1:59 PM UTC
Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?
Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.
The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.
T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.
Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.
Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.
Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.
Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
There inside the chamber sits,
Awaiting patiently;
Gathering discourse and their wits,
To match with Chimpanzee.
Primate statues loom the loft,
‘Mongst whitening Baboons;
Fidget in their seats too soft,
Indifferent of this room.
For ghosts of former nobles peek,
In shame, as they observe;
The power of the abject weak,
Enable them to serve.
Parrots cackling ‘mongst themselves,
As peacocks flaunt their fan;
Gorilla preens, while tries to quell,
With gavel in his hand.
Chimp arises, intently poised,
To embellish his appointment;
Words rehearsed to fill the void,
Deliberate and pointed.
For he, and only he, shall reign,
While rendering his will
Upon the reaches, lakes and plains;
‘Pon feather, fur and gill.
Yet irony betrays this horde,
Of chosen beasts that thrive,
Who seek to witness own accord,
On who should live or die.
Baboons and the Chimpanzee,
May climb to endless heights,
Gather fruit from tops of trees,
And relish in their might;
But those who scrounge upon the ground,
Or forage in the sea,
Cannot relate to this debate,
Nor self-idolatry.
So this becomes an exercise,
In futile words exchanged;
In bartering the truth for lies,
Leaves jungle quite estranged.
Such is then, the sacrifice,
That satisfies this troop:
Lions shall compete with mice,
For homeland and for food.
This seems just, this seems right,
So pleased to then arrive,
To alter former terms of plight,
Ensure the like survive.
Commune must have order,
Compliance is then deemed;
Life must have its borders,
Confining self-esteem.
Parrots flee to bring the news,
Of brighter days ahead;
While creatures of the air and blue,
Fear the distance spread.
Content to reconvene again,
As this is their employ;
Govern those outside the pen,
Such honor they enjoy.
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 6:08 AM UTC
Evolution complete:
I am faceless.
That, once recognizable,
Is disfigured and ugly;
And exudes the smell
Of gangrenous life.
Eyes of strangers, friends,
Horrified by my transformation,
Look beyond, toward safety.
My stare will consume them,
And labor them,
Into my hollow.
It is my soul,
Pure and discontent,
That cries for emancipation
And deliverance.
It is the cyclones
Of failures echoing,
Again and again,
Abrading my use,
Paring my value.
The dust in my palms,
Is the former me;
And even the breaths
Of God
Cannot reconstitute
This undead.
I resign,
To the solitary
Choice
That remains:
To free the soul
From its heinous captor;
To bait tranquility
With selfless mercy
Until the final drop
Dries unnoticed.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
You have such small,
Gentle hands.
The softest of touch,
As you trace invisible lines
Across my temples
And relaxed brow.
You stare into me.
I’d left windows open
Secretly hoping
That you’d brave
My weak defenses
And seek me out.
Inside, you comfort me
More than the fire
I had waiting for you.
You incise my soul
Drawing no blood,
Caressing open nerve.
Your skill of navigation
Within me:
I sense that you have been
Here—before.
Perhaps in a Time
When Dreams lived, flourished.
So petite in size—
Yet my own passion
Enwraps you and
I feel and breathe
Your every selfless,
Deliberate move.
My eyes, weary
And guilty of your entrance.
They complied when
Words failed to shield
From an intruder
Of Need and Desire.
I shall keep you
Safe, here.
Should you peer out my chest
You will see
The palm of my hand,
Guarding you in.
So fitting you are.
I am intoxicated and
Delirious with the liquids
We are now sharing.
I feel our flesh grafting,
As it always belonged.
I close my eyes,
While you settle in
Your forever home.
I will sleep now, dream
That you someday may be,
More than a photograph.
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 5:59 AM UTC
Cocoon suspended ‘neath a branch,
Out of harmer’s range;
Churning in tight quarters then,
Awaiting for the change.
A cast she’d spun with great detail,
To blend into the scene;
Remain innocuous, choosing plain,
To spend such days serene.
This sanctuary has terms of time;
Yet flippant so, of sight;
Blinded by the darkness kept,
May only dream of flight.
There, outside this nurturing crypt,
Lies futures yet untold;
Exploring freedom, airless hours,
As wings will then unfold.
Alterations to her inner form
Complete in all detail;
While oblivious to worlds unknown--
Mem’ries without a trail.
As perforations tear a fold,
In which she will embark,
To crystal, glowing cast of moon
Within this evening, dark;
She wrestles to uncurl her girth
And wingspan so anew;
That seems so awkward, foreign and
Has converted different hue.
Now perched upon her drying bed,
She fans while instincts try
To capture sens’ry explosions
That lay to foundling’s eyes.
Beyond the glen, a spot she sees;
A single glowing blur.
Just then each tree bends toward one side,
As breaths sweep under her.
Weightless, floating, movement new,
She tests her longer arms,
That reach, manipulating wind,
Should quivers strike alarm.
The lure of the eerie glow,
Possess investigation,
As closer toward the light she flies,
Embraced with consternation.
Near collision with the beacon,
She’s halted in mid-air;
Translucent strings of sticky form,
She didn’t see, were there.
She wrestles, tries to free herself,
While a shadow looming near
Smiles with contentment of
His cunning craft of snare.
Slowly he approaches while
She looks to see his eyes,
So vacant of emotive flush,
With fear she starts to cry.
The octo-legged creature then,
Inserts his poisoned quill,
As venom circulates her life,
He waits until she’s still.
Then coils her in silky thread,
While dancing ‘bout his room.
Tho’ this is of his own design,
She returns, inside cocoon.
As thoughts of life, such brevity,
Released of any pain.
She closes youthful eyes at last,
And dreams of flight again.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
She sits, emotionally bland,
Speaking mechanically;
Her right jaw, slightly misaligned,
From calcifications of former fractures;
And he is left-handed.
Lime-green circles about her
Distant, blue eyes indicate
That she has pleased him
This past week.
She believes that she
Is Improving, is better;
As the distance between
The necessary corrections
Is elongating, and she doesn’t
Nap as often.
He seems to love her more;
And frequently resorts
To audible amendments,
Or is too fatigued, himself,
To properly intervene
In her enlightenment.
She inhales, fidgets, re-adjusts,
To breathe without pain;
Calmly expressing accolades for
The strength, perseverance,
Of her son who doesn’t fail;
But weeps, in anonymity,
For her daughter who must
Have inherited her propensity
Toward weakness, malfunction.
Perhaps, over time,
He will see fit to guide
Their daughter with
Identical acts of love;
And she will be well.
She stares out the window,
Toward the windswept willow;
Catatonic, citing that
Past years, learning years,
Were resonating like the
Dry-fire echo of the
Empty Chamber in a game
Of Russian-Roulette.
The sound, repeated and
Sustained in dull memory;
The clicks that fed
The ugly tomorrows;
But her eyes sparkle as
She admits to a yearning,
For the strike of the pin
To fresh primer;
And she may only regret
That she will not hear
The Sound
Heralding her freedom.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 5:27 AM UTC