surely that was a demon
that stood at the gates to our town
reeking horrible noxious odors
the rancid body bubbling
darting eyes filled with avarice
and jaws grinning, panting, consuming
hindsight screams to shut it out
leave the town in sanctuary
but tar glimmered gold in that moment
and in that myobic blink
the gates were flung open by greed
but what entered was endless hunger
death left uncounted in wake
this creature of sludge oozes on
ravaging without regard or care
in this town of simple folks
where we embrace our visitors
without the casting of prejudice
since the ancient days of myth
many gods and earthly spirits
have paid patronage to our quaint town
we celebrate with great joy
the whims of each visitor god
and we accept their gifts gratefully
but this god brings about death
its hunger rages unshaken
it smothers and constricts indistinct
the people must all be blind
to drink and cheer on merrily
while the toxic creature grows immense
it gives nothing but sickness
but I’ve never seen such worship
laurels left to rot on the putrid beast
and people brought to their knees
out of their frenzied devotion
to this annihilator of life
this must surely be our end
jumping into the wretched maw
like a moth dashes itself to flame
one day all life will be dead
consumed by this malignant god
when the whole world is wrapped in plastic

I’m sick of this
melancholy
genocide
****
deforestation
feeling like I could
do something about it
terrorism
fascism
despotism
when I’m just a man
halfway around the world
Ferguson
police abuse
riots
and feeling alone
in a world full of people
racism
sexism
income gap
crises just replace each other
like a revolving door
did you know Manson’s still alive
dreaming of Helter Skelter?
crusade
slavery
apartheid
I am so sick of it!
if I just go back
to living my life
and forget about it
ignorance
apathy
privilege
would anyone really
be hurt or even care?
……
NO
No
no
this is not me
I am melancholic
because of this world
but I can do something
because this world exists
and this world matters
I am small here
but I exist
and I matter
so I can do something
even if it’s
insignificant
I swear
I
can
do
something

down where the river bends
standing upon the hill
is that old cathedral
still tending to its flock
and the bells ring and they boom
and they sound thunderously
a roaring call for penance
echoing among sinners
the warm message remains
set on the oaken door
preaching the word of love
to crowds taken by hate
but those days are now long past
priests were traded for spiders
and dust owns gilded altar
ill-gotten gains neglected
the chapel, long empty
still hungers intensely
hungry for confessions
and still hungry for gold
so the belfry resonates
summoning poor, wretched souls
in the grasp of the abyss
to empty what they once held
the men do not hold hate
they lost that long ago
but they neither hold love
for that was robbed also
these sad men hold nothing
the cathedral lies empty
filled only with hollow men
yet its never satisfied
so tolls always fly under gray skies
from the Cathedral of St. Matthew

mist covered us as
we sat ‘round the fire
beaten broken men
haunted by the shade of war
the looks we exchanged
were of sullen depth
from killing, dying
for men foreign to
this field: holy and hellish
the commander stood
his immense stature
dwarfed by bitterness
and then he bellowed:
“we have won today
because we are still alive
glory is for kings
our crux lies on life
and death to others
dead men cannot boast
and earth will hold them
keeping them always
but we have survived today”
our bayonets fell
and our heads hung low
at his sordid words
that clung to the air
floating like a ghost
phantom of the moors
staying as we fade to death

The ocean gently lapping at the coast
to a steady rhythm
desert sands carried away by the wind
flowing aimlessly
a tiny stream trickling out its own path
calming by all means
water drops falling on a pond’s surface
rippling across
love forming in the eyes of youth
silent but explosive
the barista pouring milk in my coffee
swelling pleasant fragrance
the last embers fleeing a cigarette
from a passing stranger
the first strums of a performer’s guitar
playing a sad song
our daily lives follow cacophonous
overactive themes
and we might find the lack of stimulation
really disturbing
but sometimes you just need to unplug
and take time to feel

When winter does come about
And all of life falls to rest
Even mighty oaks grow bare
Giving in to frigid force
That turns all to bleak and grey
Even a wellspring once dence
Colorful, animated
By all forms of harbored life
Is emptied of what it held
Filled instead with cold silence
The surface lies still
Basked in bright moonlight
The silvery ale
Cool tranquility
Begins to ripple
Modest at first, then growing
It reverberates across
The pond fills with emotion
Reflective of the season
Spreading farther and farther
A lone swan paddles forward
His head perched and his wings arched
He croons and fills the cold air
And sings of reminiscence
Until silence wins again

rain in the streets
falling like
pitter patter
children on the sidewalk
playing in the puddles
that are no longer water
students in the café
practicing lessons
like politics or ego
people on the crosswalk
alone in a crowd
forecasts depression
rats in the alleys
waiting for wasted food
or spoiled carcass
thoughts on a rainy day
can shine like a jet
in a whitewashed world