It would be too easy then
to say: all is cast in iron
the will should withdraw
recede and the eyes no longer dare upon
the face of fate confront-

look not away
only allow your patience
faith and courage to hold you
in position. Stay, stay
never mind the oppression
and angst of the day
the heart is not made
for pampering
it's tougher than you knew
what if it should bleed?

Nothing
(if you will make
your stand and seek not
the easy route--the escape passage)
is ever cast in iron
for man is born
to be tested and tried
in the burning cauldron
(he's the raw material
to be forged, moulded
and shaped
to reach the finished product
that makes him larger
than a Promethean)--

the pain
the suffering
time and again
is the in-between
of time and the struggling
to be--what if the sun
shows no mercy
the rain
pelts the eye
what if the earth
shakes and the sea
in its rage breaks its bank
and inundates
the shore
and the night
blinds the weary traveller?

every flicker
of a hope then
shall be a beacon
and coalesce
into a tonne
of strength

nothing is cast in iron
for the tougher -than-
steel-man.

I have never met such  
A universal conundrum
As the God of my truth,
The God of my folly.

You need God in your life,
They told me once when
I was drowned in to a river
Baptised by a southern gentlemen,

The snakes like the feel of
Grass on their bellies I thought,
And yet get whacked with a
Shovel once discovered;

What did I do to God to get
Born and then asked to find
Him, some glorified game
Of Hide and seek and ye will find?

Still there is no driving force
In this world as to who is right,
Or who is wrong on God's Monopoly board game, the dice roll

And it's my turn,
This poem might burn in hell,
But if I get a get out of hell free card, I might as well finish
The game.

How your arms reach
Like the moonbeams
Over the Mexican jungle,
Only the smallest tips
Of light enter over her canopy,
    The vanity of
The first moon of the wet season,
The escaped light that hits
The grounds,
  How little the canopy
Can be seen when
Planted so firmly to
The ground!

I must readily admit
I am guilty of this deep pleasure
When it suits me to find a justifying reason to do so,
     But like a sweaty fat man
Waiting in line at an out door
Restroom,
I must admit that I find it
Quite uncomforting when
I find one written about me,
    As good as it may be,
Some lines genius and genuine
Grasping me to a T;
   I feel naked as a blank paper
Being written over and told this
Is what I will be, or am,
    Or will never achieve,
Archived in a thought,
    Popping my bubble of
Existence and letting a stanza
Didctate my life's
Unfortunate,
But very well writ poem
Stake me in the soul,
     How well they know me,
Plagiarism of my own
Confessions,
And I realise
They are just peices of poetry
I have pasted in the past
Cleverly put together
In some Rondeau' or
Dickinson flurry,
    And wonder what the truth
About a plagiarism's gambit,
    Hoping to nail me onto
The front page wall,
   Disguised as poetic license
To hang me out in the open,
Yet I have seen these lines,
    And no one can expose
Themselves better than I,
   Read between the lines
And there is a hint of envy,
The honor becomes mine.