Walking in the woods, I fell
Down into a knothole that lead
To another realm, unlike our own

‘Twas a wondrous realm like a twilit dream
Where the dazzling sky at night engulfed all
And satyrs who were young like me
Beckoned me to their sordid ******
Fountains of wine poured into streams,
And wood nymphs danced and bathed in falls
Deliciously drunken and sweet, calling me
To pick their flowers.

We caroused and we aroused
As we fired our slingshots into the sky
And watched the night shimmer with the
Comets we launched up and away.
I fired mine, foolishly unaware
That my target was the moon so full
I shattered my joy to pieces
And brought this realm to darkness

The satyrs howled in fear
The wood nymphs withered away
The fountains of wine turned into blood
And I was left drowningl
Until a glorious golden hand
Went from the moon’s place to
Shield me, carry me back to reality.
I awoke in a sweat and a shiver
'Twas always night in the Satyr’s Garden
Be it drenched with stars and ecstasy,
'Twas night, and night to remain.

I mumble, I quake and I quiver
I search for truth and for laughter
Ache for hope to follow after
A prayer sent to heaven
Rises up like bread leaven
Not to be ignored or forsaken
Wishes and dreams for granted taken

Once a smile, now a frown.
Once a city, now burned down.
Excite yourself, have a visit,
Paradise awaits you, it’s quite unfit.

Lies, hate and treasures untold.
Wait, you haven’t begun to see it unfold.
The magic, the glory, the hammering sound,
All being heard from under this ground.

Silence and mockery at the final gate,
Once you enter, your soul disintegrates.
Trapped forever, unlike any other dimension,
You’re gone, it’s not just a suspension.

The world you once knew,
Will finally wish you adieu.
You can now be in peace, and wish your lucky seven;
Here in my hell demented version of heaven.

I clang to hope for so long

but it was no longer worth it, I thought

I held on for seven months it seemed
it felt like forever since the slightest glimpse of light


the darkness wrapped it’s arms around me

and held me tight, whispering that there was no hope



when I saw the flicker of the candle

I knew it was You



“Happiness hit me like a train on a track”

Over my rough spot I’d finally come

Praising You while looking back and seeing

Everything You provided.

You gave me a fresh start

You gave me a new home



You put my heart back together

And You gave me hope.

My parrot is emerald green,
His tail feathers, marine.
He bears an orange half-moon
Over his ivory beak.
He must be believed to be seen,
This bird from a Rousseau wood.
When the urge is on him to speak,
He becomes too true to be good.

He uses his beak like a hook
To lift himself up with or break
Open a sunflower seed,
And his eye, in a bold white ring,
Has a lapidary look.
What a most astonishing bird,
Whose voice when he chooses to sing
Must be believed to be heard.

That stuttered staccato scream
Must be believed not to seem
The shriek of a witch in the room.
But he murmurs some muffled words
(Like someone who talks through a dream)
When he sits in the window and sees
The to-and-fro wings of wild birds
In the leafless improbable trees.

Sun leaks through bullet holes in the sheet-tin ceiling,
Sprinkling light on dead mens' clothing
Piled stiff with dried blood and dust of fifteen years.

What does it mean when the stained glass windows
Left intact
Let in less light to this church
Than the small holes in its brick walls
Made by grenades  
Thrown from the hands of its priests?

What does is mean when the left overs of dead believers are
Speckled the holy white color of
Bird ****
That drips
From the bullet holes above?

Nearing the aisle's end,
I feel an urge to touch
What I don't believe I see

And look more closely.

Tangled human hairs, crusted blood,
Loose threads torn from hand-stitched hems, in shreds,
And insects nesting in the decay of the dead.

I recoil and suddenly, reach...

The eye can hardly pick them out
From the cold shade they shelter in,
Till wind distresses tail and main;
Then one crops grass, and moves about
- The other seeming to look on -
And stands anonymous again

Yet fifteen years ago, perhaps
Two dozen distances surficed
To fable them : faint afternoons
Of Cups and Stakes and Handicaps,
Whereby their names were artificed
To inlay faded, classic Junes -

Silks at the start : against the sky
Numbers and parasols : outside,
Squadrons of empty cars, and heat,
And littered grass : then the long cry
Hanging unhushed till it subside
To stop-press columns on the street.

Do memories plague their ears like flies?
They shake their heads. Dusk brims the shadows.
Summer by summer all stole away,
The starting-gates, the crowd and cries -
All but the unmolesting meadows.
Almanacked, their names live; they

Have slipped their names, and stand at ease,
Or gallop for what must be joy,
And not a fieldglass sees them home,
Or curious stop-watch prophesies :
Only the grooms, and the grooms boy,
With bridles in the evening come.