“No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper;
and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.
This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD,
and their righteousness is of me, saith the LORD.” 
                    ———— Isaiah 54 17 KJV




"This was not an impulsive act." she said
Snowy tears heated by burning gun fires.
"This isn't even a close call” Count it
Once more: how many Angels are falling?

And at this moment ominous cloudy pressed world
And it arises wondrous sorrow
And crying sentence, roaring-high
As grey as ghastliness

Through the drifts the chaotic vibrates
Loud call without sounds
Nor action of men nor beasts we ken—
The gunfire was all within and between

The angers was here, the shots were there,
And the gunshot was not for bonfire night
It busted and roared, and chapped and howled
Likewise, a rumble thunder was all around.


We all sat in the corner of darkness 
Stop pray, everyone try to shout
“You who lost” the boy screamed
His voice ignited the midnight ballad,

An unexpected early Christmas chorus
Isn’t justice God upon the heaven
But her son blinked his red eyes again
As she touched his wounded soul

"This isn't even a close call’ she whispered
We ought to kiss Uranus at night sky
Where we danced in better cheer
Where the morns haves no tearing fear

Desiccated youth has bones like cork,
So porous strong in cells.
Lost time perfuses emptiness.
And heavy dolor quells.

Supine, roads sprawl so lazily
That they collapse to planes,
Not aiding stumbling travelers
As knotted sinews strain.

The trouble started on the day
After the day before.  
Youth and hope and love decay,
And regret won’t restore.
It seems this old and weary world
Holds much more bad than good.  
I’d have assayed, but I was hurled
In this life before I could.  
A world of cloud and bitterness,
A life of scrape and thorn,  
So who would ever acquiesce
Ever to be born?  
Because briars outnumber flowers
By ten to one at least,
Weakness humbles mighty powers.
Famine goes before the feast.  
But feasts are more than fillings ups,
And hunger’s just a pinch.
And emptiness can’t stopper cups,
And straitening can’t cinch.  
Bounty and joy are plenitude,
And destitution lack,
So revel in what’s nice, or lewd,
No loss can take it back.  
A single flower fortifies
To brush away the burs.    
Striving wins because it tries.  
Forlorn despairing errs.

Badinage and Persiflage
Make such a merry pair,
Chatting and bantering all day.
No spiteful gossip there.  

Each goes without acquaintances.
Each has one single friend.  
As solitary sprites, they speak
Of words, without an end.

Some thieves have burgled every house;
The rich are sorrowing
At sacrilege and heirlooms lost,
Spoons, silks and sapphire rings.  
The poorer tenants mourn as well;
Their losses are their doom.  
Without the coin for food or rent,
Hunger and eviction loom.  
Just down the street, a misanthrope
Who lives in an old tub
Cackles at their lamentations,
And gives his hands a rub.  
He used to own a battered cup,
That and a bowl for alms,
But then he saw an urchin drink
Right out of his cupped palms.  
He learned that cups were luxury,
And threw the thing away.  
He’s happier in poverty,
And that’s just how he’ll stay.  
He boasts to passers-by he’s safe,
Since thieves can never steal
Knowledge or virtue from the good.
Wisdom alone is real.  
How better for that mendicant
If thieves could somehow take
Self-satisfaction from such prigs.
Oh mellow him for pity’s sake.

A drunkard’s guzzled several days,
And staggering outside,  
Dull and disoriented, seeks,
But cannot find, a guide.  
The hour proclaimed is even six,
Twice daily otium.  
The arrow hangs at bottom rim
Like a dead pendulum.  
The birth and dying of the light
Are symmetry in dim.
The day is leaching into night,
Or morning’s failing him.

Black shadows are all sycophants
That mimic every shape.  
White shadows seal their bearers up,
And bury what they ape.  
Black shadows curl off thick sunlight,
And launch themselves from dust.  
White shadows flake from winter’s breath,
Congealed as vapor’s rust.      
In two dimensions, or in three,
Shade and snow are booleans,
Dark in intersection tracing truth.
And snow in difference.

The crystals groan, whenever crushed
Under a melting tread.
Snow faithfully fulfilled its oath,
And did just what it said.  

In recompense for stinging cold,
This mantle vowed to be
Finer than the finest of white sands
And never slippery.

The elevator’s sealed its lips.
It keeps its secrets well.
Inside might hunch a nameless face,
I really cannot tell.  
To stand, a pair, so silently,
Bound in an unvoiced pact,
Is sore and heavy awkwardness
Light coughing can’t redact.  
An almost empty iron box
Is crushing loneliness,
Better to take on dozens next,
Shame smothered in that press.  
Anonymity’s a heavy weight
To carry between two,  
But shrouded multitudes can share
Whatever burdens you.