what is our high
what is our choice
what are the reasons
we have no voice
because of the things
or because of dear dad
or because of the conflicts
we too often have
well our reasons seem simple
and our reasons seem true
but more than too often
they’ll leave us so blue
this undying need
for glory and fame
has taught us sincerely
to play this game
yeah we’ll dance with our prophets
dance them real slow
say hello to the legends
before they all go
we’ll live like the gypsies
and blow like the wind
and dance with our prophets
till they let us in
when our eyes grow tired
and our desires grow weak
when our internal martyr
you know he’s begging for sleep
then we’ll reach for the heavens
and reach for the stars
we’ll reach for whatever
for we’ve traveled too far
now the words of the wise men
you they’ll dance on our tongues
while the white dove sheds tears
for what we’ve become
and our discarded children
whom we’ve left alone
no longer will cry
and now they’ll throw the stones

she has an innate talent
to show off her charms
she’ll draw you into her web
she has no illusions
just lots of confusion
and pretty boys that wait by her bed
she runs with the masters
throws stones at the *******
and swears she knows nothing at all
she’ll encourage the demons
take part in your treason
and soon another angel will fall
when I first met her
I couldn’t know better
pure as the white snow that falls
but despite her convictions
she fell to addictions
when the neon wolves came to call
the lights of the city
offered no pity
she was stripped of her wings and her grace
now her second look beauty
is rippled with duties
of cheap wine roses and lace
now advice don’t you render
cause she can’t surrender
from the vices that hold her in Hell
and if you foolishly fall
to her beckon call
then soon you’ll be under her spell
for her doors always open
to those who are hoping
to satisfy desires of lust
but take from her tree
and soon you will see
your circle of light fade to rust
she has an innate talent
to show off her charms
she’ll draw you into her web
she has no illusions
just lots of confusion
and pretty boys that wait by her bed
she runs with the masters
throws stones at the *******
and swears she knows nothing at all
she’ll encourage the demons
take part in your treason
and soon another angel will fall

The Poet
©Mark Maysey (1991)

Down on the corner of Highland and Odin
Not far from the Hollywood Bowl
I Met a man with a sign that poetically rhymed
And he wasn’t but forty years old

He said you may not know it, but I am a poet
And for a token I’ll write you a rhyme
He said my pockets are bare
So please show you care
And soon he wrote me these lines

Down on Odin street
Everyone’s lonely I meet
Though we’re birds of poor feathers
We all flock together, down on Odin street
There’s outcast preachers and out of work teachers
And building with old weathered doors
Someone’s Grandmother
Some guy that calls me brother
And Veterans of foreign wars

He said he once had a good life
Had himself a good wife
Limos and first class he’d fly
Now it’s cardboard condos
Old cars with bondo
And strangers that quickly walk by

Well I thanked him for his rhymes
With nickels and dimes
He was grateful and he bowed his head
And with nothing more to say
He slowly turned away
And he walked to another and said…

Mr. You may not know it
But I am a poet
And for a token I’ll write you a rhyme
He said my pockets are bare
So please show you care
And soon he wrote him these lines
Down on Odin street
Everyone’s lonely I meet
Though we’re birds of poor feathers
We all flock together, down on Odin street
There’s outcast preachers and out of work teachers
And building with old weathered doors
Someone’s Grandmother
Some guy that calls me brother
And Veterans of foreign wars.