It was shallow water, rippling
a watery moon quivering
on the surface seen
It was night fire
burning water into steam
gray smoke screened
It was willful drowning
upon a lily bed of lies
parched a wilted garden
slowly withers, dies

I would love
to sit in a sunny room
and drink coffee
and have
a long talk
with your heart.

Do you think
it would listen?

Do you think
it would respond?

If so,
call it
a date.
   ~mce

How Poetry Comes To Me**

It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light

Kiss me, Love.

Your body
is a soft,
white temple
discovered
at the end
of arduous
pilgrimage.

I stand
before you,
the pilgrim
who knocks,
waits,
and hopes.

Kiss me;
open your
secret heart
that I might
enter you
and dissolve
in your
mysteries.

Let me worship
at the altar
of your flesh,
of your spirit.

I have traveled
long and hard
seeking
the one
engendered
by two.

I tremble before
the possibility
of who you are,
who you might be.

Kiss me, Love,
please be
the end
of my journey,
the sanctuary
I have sought.
- mce

Someone once said,
"Vietnam is
the great, epic poem
of our generation."

The greatest epic poem
ever written about war
is Homer's Iliad.

So I wondered,
which character
would I be?

Agamemnon? Too pompous.
Achilles? Too deadly.
Odysseus? Too crafty.
Paris? Too dishonest.

Hector, of course.

Destined to fight on
in a lost cause;
his death inevitable,
already foretold;
courage in the face
of doom.

Hector. I like that.
It has a bold ring
to it.

Maybe I'll change
my name.

  ~mce

They see all the good
    They're torn towards all the bad
             They know what's coming
   But they never look back
          To all they could have had
     They want their justice
              Yet, they leave it to the devil
        Dressed all in black
              With wilted roses
   Tattooed across their backs
           They've fallen,
    Deceived, tortured and abandoned
         Their holy calling
  There's a war raging between
            Their moral stance
       Their inner desires
                And their loyalty
         They never leave life to chance
  These Angels in black
          With wilted roses
       Tattooed across their backs,
Daggers, swords and knives
          Have red stained faces
     And hold the fate
             Of all our lives
       They can feel the shame
    Of this deadly game they play
          Yet, these Angels in black
With wilted roses
        Tattooed across their backs,
    Sacrifice everything for our souls
            Yet, a soul
   Is *all they truly lack

Got it buzzed
back to GI days.

A quarter inch
all over, I said
to the dubious barber.

It took some
getting used to
when passing
mirrors.

But now I love it!

I call it
my Monk's haircut.

No maintenance.

Wake up, perfect;
Swim, perfect;
Stroll about
in hurricane,
perfect.

Now I love
to feel
the wind
in my hair
that is
no longer
there.
   ~mce

it was on a hill of a clever neighborhood
the errant flow well guised beneath the clay
upon reach of the summit
she is all that can be held
her pull far too magnetic
her skin, akin to milk poured by Luna
her hair is the black of midnight
on the eve of the new moon
she sits facing inquiry with her injured one facing her
on a rounded copper colored chair
placed curbside
Sophia speaks then
a monotone misgiving
that pours out
as a sly pompous
indifference