In this land of blight, you promised me my soul
In this world of lords, you promised me a home
Why do I find an incision at my feet
and an AK-47 at his reach?
Why do I find him entrapped in screens
that show darkness unlike that we’ve seen?
Why does the flag reek sick with blood
of bodies left behind the road?
You left me in a rotting land
where vino is blocking out the light
and in the frenzy of the fight
and at the height of Bacchanalia
I tore poor Orpheus’ mind, off-hand.
God, what have I
what have I done
The terrible party is done.
And the wine-blood beaten and wrought
to ink that keeps me from distraught;
In coming nights– et regina.
The bard sings quietly into the night
he doesn’t whisper, he doesn’t cry.
The bard asks questions up to the sky
and paints a picture, and writes a rhyme.
The bard strokes the lyre for the moon
a soft motif, a gentle tune
a sacred ritual, a lonely rite
that burns the remnants of that frenzied night
of sun possession, and godly spews
that threaten to taint all his views.
He takes the ember, he takes the fire
and he forces the ink to a line
a line of power, a line of hope–
maybe it was worth the pain after all.
I still freeze when she kisses me,
and melt down to nothing but a bliss—
so I hold tight, and I know still:
I love her; no apology.
Muse, with a touch you break me down,
and crumble walls of apathy—
you leave me with no cape or crown,
but longing for analogy.
Your kiss, my dear, unchains my chest
that is now nothing but a mess
which now can breathe— expectantly.
A second kiss, when will it be?
If we are destined to live alone then you and I are the exception.
No pretense of total understanding or immortal souls completion–
something more human, sacred, lovely lurks between our quiet words.
Knowing that, while with eyes we see and pulse we hold, we won’t be on our own.
But, if my heart doth last no more or to a strange land I am flown,
lover live on with this comfort,
my love doth live on for you with ink for blood and prose for incantation.
The strings of my lyre I gently pluck.
To the moon I sing my saddest ballad
and pray it brings me news, with any luck,
of a queen alone across the canal.
“Please tell me if, my love, it hurts tonight
or if she is dancing without me?
But either way I’ll weep; I’ll write a line,
another mirage short-falling from her sea”.
I’ll be ****** if, for me, she lights the pyre
and in saddest ritual burns her hands trying.
No word I’ve ever spoken, or ink I’ve put to paper
was ever worth a tear from bluest ocean’s labor.
I’ll slay gods and swim across the Aegean
If I get to kiss your hands to health, protean.
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
Will you leave me behind?
My god, will you leave me
even if I bow and curtsy
will I need to prostrate
for you to stay with me?
The apotheosis bites me back–
a false prophet I am called,
but was I really wrong? No.
A saddened god, a distant god.
When my prayers are not enough
and my worship insufficient
for your heavenly affection
to point at my weary head–
A loving god, a god of warmth.
But I keep coming back for more
the ambrosia from your brim,
and daily bread at the altar
(always a little stale).
I know your devotion remains,
its mine the inadequate love.
My god, say, will you stay
even as this fades away,
and a better worship comes along?
Will my hymn be sufficient
for the olympian to remain?
Could it be I kept you here
when you belonged elsewhere?
Is the mountain worth my prayer?