This bright believing band
Far from foolish
Neither narrow, nor numbed
Not a bit of what I planned will work
Excruciating, their sound;
How they strummed...
E Major, A minor, E Major, A minor
Endlessly repeating
Waiting for a sign ...or something
Sit, stand...
Make polite conversation,
Our hazy cocoons enshroud us
And we can believe
(Or not believe)
Either is easy-
We're not proud of this.
We attend this mimsy mayhem because we're searching for something lost here during our childhood
A sense of tribe
Of familial bliss
But we've lost touch
We are isolated
Disillusioned
Done
We don smiles and walk out
Wordlessly

Plodding through these piles
Such a pit I've dug
Longing all the while
For a pang or a tug
A seed for creation
A speck to commence
The thought's crystallization
To throw me from the fence

Come back to me
     From that vague memory
Those hazy retreats
     With singing and sweets

The word in my hand
     From memory, bland

I can't imbibe so much as a word

Oh pleasantry
     Come back to me
Plunge me deep beneath the river
Fond behemoth, make me shiver!

Hold me down... Hold me under
     Hark! The curtain torn asunder

The darkness is spread
     I lie in my bed

I can't imbibe so much as a word

I've children who yearn
     To learn and to learn
But what have I here?
     Doubt and great fear

What will this fire do
     If I try to paint it true?
Will it burn them, burn them up
     If they choose to drink this cup
                                                     ?

i sat to write a poem
tapped on the key
words turned lame
thoughts mystery

blank blinked the screen
mocked its cleanliness
while the head's din
made mind a mess

i thought of the girl
who gave my eye a cut
the one with a curl
stole my childhood heart

and the ******* her door
i met on way to school
she has grown no more
still gives my heart a pull

the one who ran me down
called me foolish child
the cutest in town
in her love i was wild

one upon one
floated up the face
my poem was undone
unborn undressed

Death is approaching by year's end
My father is next in the family to go
And I, his eldest, with him to the end
Who should be his friend,
                               - am I really his foe?


I prayed once the reaper would take me instead,

Still being naive, and yet full of zeal,

In my dread at the news of another near dead,

I thought: if I was struck it would prove He is real...


Another thought now,
And this one less pure:
Why bother with treatment if
                 it
        is
               that
     sure?

And when the night has come
The eventide dusk having flown
I lay flat, knowing I am transient here
There's pain, ...but not fear...
Except for daughters, wife, and son.

The sickness is whispering, moaning,
Metaphorical, or real, never knowing.
My father's is bubbling over, they've shown...
And psychosomatic as ever, I own
Such guilt, for my lack of atoning.

His voice is not in the thunder
And the purpose of plague is to flounder,
And know in one's heart of the most perfect art,
That causes life's ending along with its start,
And allows for the will to lead where it may;
And to save all creation, but not in a way
That would breed automata, just to rip them asunder.