"My name is Ligion , for we are many"
    Luke 8:30

Every Sunday we went to church
Never really thinking what was it for
Always wore our best shinny shoes
***** slacks , and who was it for

After church we would always eat out
Get lucky and have trout Almondine
Spanish Mackerel fresh off the grill
It always gave me a thrill

Couldn't wait to jump out of those clothes
Put on shorts and go outdoors
Collect toads right about dark
Put them in the bathtub
Mother looked so stark

Everything was going just fine
Then we moved to the heart of Dixieland
Home to more Bible Thumpers
Than a toad bops his ***
Told my ways must change
Or I hadn't a chance

So I was graced by the light of the Lord
Baptized in the holiest of ghost
Dwelt on a heavenly high
But things changed for the worst
In the by and by

Once saved always saved say they
That's not true oh by the way
I fell into repute , became angry at all
I no longer heard the voice
Of God and his call

I got worse , let evil come on in
I became gaunt , more bone than skin
An evil presence I projected like *****
People stepped back
They didn't want any of it

I was one ot the many
I was surely destined for Hell
But like a new copper penny
Two sides are there to tell

I was struck down
And my ways were clipped
My boat was cast out
Someone had cut all my slips
I floundered on the fast rising seas
God had knocked me down onto my knees

I remember you as a boy
Captured toads and did so much more
Then you changed and walked out of my door
Have you ever even thought about
Coming back for more

You became evil , deep in wicked sin
Over and over you sinned again
You mocked me , my son
And sacred holy of ghosts
I ought to make you into
Blackened burnt toast

But I see one glimmer of hope
If you return to your former post
And repent , no need for forgiveness
It's already spent , come now it's all for the best

i.


monet's passion written in
whispering tears.
the still lake smoulders
in ripples, all shadows and smoke.

a dragonfly presses the air
into whir, memories in my
pocket saddled to fire.


ii.


the air murmurs with death-shouts.

is this to sink, deep in a dungeon
of opulent blue

or to shimmer, iridescent
like a moon-lamp, empress
of ocean green and river blue
beyond the stilling light.


iii.


this is a bed of decadence
drowned moment of golden fire
in the sipped leaves that trumpet
to the clouds, that this is their day to
die.


iv.


water lily, white light of the pond
following the drowning dark,
flower of drifting quiet,
flower of dream.


v.


root treading past
the stillness of dusk,
utter existence,
daughter of the moon,
daughter of the silence.

Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write **from the heart