We   are the echoes of those Famous
Long ago.  We are the little people
But never little to ourselves.  Born
At the end of an age we were last but
First dying.  Dysfunctional.  The last
Breath to give voice mortal -crying for
Immortality.  Crying for immortality
Not for ourselves alone but for all of
The other little people who cried out
In elegy their meaning of being lost
Unheard were  still famous long ago.

I traveled through a wooded land
To a high suspension bridge that
Was only wide enough for one to
Pass.  the canyon at great depth
Above the river far below.  It was
almost freezingly cold.  I could
See a great range of misty peaks
Before me.  Then my feet seemed
No longer to completely touch the
Wood but as if being placed on a
Cushion of air compressed not
Completely down.  Then my
Aged companion said: It is the
Rising air that protect the child
Still in the womb.  Then I knew
The Truth, I should not take  the
Crown for it belonged to one not
Yet born but it was art to know.
And was for peace not for grief.

I'm a part time poet
though you likely wouldn't know it
I get in touch on the fly
just a glitch in my eye
between the patchwork smile
the catalog file
of a mind that finds an opening
once in a while

I could never do it full time you see
it would undoubtedly be the end of me
full time negativity
twenty four seven reality
round the clock visions of the truth cannot be
I'd sink too low to view the light
into my well of darkest night
where truth and clarity
reside
where truth and clarity
reside
I'd drink and smoke in my little cell
like Poe or Plath it would not end well
and unlike them there's nothing when I'm done
but words remembered by few
or none
so I'll keep smiling and read my lines
and dance among the thornless vines
and when I get that glitch
I'll play
in the well of truth and dreams
and stay
for just a moment
then I'll be back
before the dark gray turns to black

Let me tell you about God
Sure he is a lover of  Peace
Loves gentleness;  wants us
To be joyful in His abundant
Gifts, but make no mistake
When He breaks a man he
Breaks him and he can He
Saves only the good part.
The rest he   throws away
And it is likely the greater
Part of the  treacherous; the
Hypocrite and the  braggart
The  deceivers the lovers of
War and such like.  Sure
He is patient and slow to be
Wrathful but you would be
Wrong to think He is weak
Afraid to let you know who
Is boss in case of forgetting
He said: Vengeance is mine
And I know He meant it too.
So remember that the next
Time you meet some fellow
Wearing love beads or a girl
With Flowers in her hair.

I slander and belittled the Truth
Join the crowd that stones the
Saint uknown.  I do what I would
Not.  Love not when I would love.
I am not in control.  How can it be
That I am losing my soul.  Lord,
Make me good again as I know
That I am as I choose to be.
It is not the wrecklessness of this
False freedom that I seek; to be
The crazed actor who thinks it
Virtuosity to strut and fret hap-
Hazardly to every random cue.
But to be true .  Hear the noble
Call to yield to Heaven' Truth
That beckons me to all that is
Good, and True.  Oh God of
Mercy restore my soul I will
Obey.  Oh God of grace hear
My cry while yet I profane thee
Know that I am not proud but
Dying except thou Claim me.