Two thousand years and miles away
a foretold child was to poverty born.
A tyrant willed to keep his sway
and murdered children in his scorn.

The child would live to preach a love
that surpasses the smallness of our minds;
The despot now dwells in a dim-lit grove
of shattered urns and skeletal time.

That child became a man of words
which fell upon unhearing ears —
They twist his love to sharpened swords.
To a tree he’d be nailed: hyssop tears.

Yet though he too had died alone
like the despot who’d hunted him,
his message of love has only grown
in spite of new despots grim.

A tale of two kings in memory:
One turned to dust, one love’s victory.

Finishing first
- a chapter flash back to Easter
in a Christmas Peace
reconceived past under stood
common sense before the internet
... sufficiently advanced know how
made accessible through this screen

Per one and a hap, laps
at once
sat
before me a Manet,

A boy pfifer, piping
a flat image,
catching
my question, why…

For the uniform

For the Zouave oath
to die before surrender,
Victory or Death,
as a child sent
to war
in the name
of God, by Time
assured the same iota one
assumed just used
to refer
to the God
of the Papal authority,
symbolized
by a cross, or two,
one for Andrew,
one for George, both saints.
in the blue field, left field,

at attention, observe the stripes,
thirteen, indeed so great a cloud
of coincidences, so same so often

money borrowed… jewels loaned
for instance
to forge a suitable crown

to suit the proven winner's incentive
to defend the title, each winter,
each longest  night, after
each shortest day, ever
time told true

Allah
In the name of God, the Gracious, the Merciful.
By Time.
Mankind is at a loss.
Except for those who believe,
do good deeds, encourage truth,
and recommend patience.


Waiting is, said Michael Valentine.

I blame the chemicals
Rome wents up in flames
Sometimes I wish I weren’t the one to say
That is just my mind
That’s not who I am
To quiet when it dies
To loud when people scream
I see them reach for me

I beg you on my knees to stay
That’s all I seem to do these days
As if your shadow would be mine
You say
“That’s the curse of a loud mind”

I wish it weren’t mortal truth
In my head I’d give it up for you
I’d loose the crown, the chaos and the pain
And I’d dance, I’d dance right in those flames

You’d blow them out
Just one by one
And in your hand a loaded gun
“Peace always needed people dead”
And you’d lift it to the emperors head

J. Edgar
You were a great men
Even the rest did not appreciate
You
There are some like me
Who appreciate your deeds
Your help with society
J. Edgar
Even though I don’t know you
I know we are similar
In mind and spirit!  
As well other people
Who go misunderstood

The mason works the living stone
to shape it for its slotted place.
Pale flakes of rock fly as he hones
it to a rough-hewn sandstone face.

With chisel and mallet in granite hands
and flinty grey eyes to plumb the line,
the rock gives way in grains of sand.
He chips and flicks one blow at a time.

His fingers trace each pit and dell
that he’d worked in with his iron tools,
while nostrils fill with chalky smell —
light dust clouds through his workshop move.

As one by one his blocks are laid
by his apprentice at his side
to fill the role for which they’re made:
they’ll be joined in one more arch of pride.

More arches form as months move past
then building up to many a year:
They mark the time of a life well cast,
his mason’s mark left on each stone sheer.

Each arch arises, pointing high
to the master mason of us all,
who carves and fits in his workshop sky —
by shaping, marking us in his wall.

Then piece by piece, the church takes shape
while grains of sand from worked stones fall;
The mason, now old, his final finial makes
as falling sand an hourglass recalls.

And here I stand in centuries hence
to spot the mason’s mark he left behind,
his arches pointing upwards whence
the mason built his final shrine.

They don't know what to do
When I say I'm a Witch.
Blank stares and fake laughter
As the words just roll
Like honey from my lips.

I'm not afraid to admit
Out loud my descent.
I take pride in being a line
Of Healers and Wise Women
Who knew secrets of the Earth
And took care of their tribe.

The ones burned at the stake
Because of fear and greed
Will live on inside of me.
Through my work
And my heart, and my hands.
For I, too, am a Witch you see.

A title that's blessed
For eternity-
An honor, royal, full of dignity.
There's no shame to claiming
My Heritage.
For it beats loudly in my chest.

Natural remedies come easily
A gift that I possess.
Potions made from oils
Healing herbs and crystals
Stored inside my mind,
While Mother Earth does all the rest.

So I dare you to look past your fear
And deep inside my eyes
Where secrets of ancient Wisdom lies.
Maybe then you'll start to feel the truth
When I tilt my chin to proudly proclaim:
Why yes, actually I am a Witch.
(Sister, so are you.)

©KSS 10/2018

They'll call her ruin.
They'll call her shame.

They'll never call her,
by her name.

Once the deed is done.
Her world it shakes.

As all her secrets.
Are laid out bare.

There is no hiding.
This ruined girl.

They'd call her pretty.
They'd call her smart.
They'd call her art.

Till she fell in love
Then fell apart.

The man he ran.
Like most men do.

Escaping the wreckage.
Of his youth.

The ruined girl,
was left alone.

Becoming a cautionary tale.
Of women's woes.

Whispering through history.
"Be careful with whom you love."

a world in motion and who would,
who could guess the next rhyme
bliss, hope, and horror
tyrants falling, resisting, raising
fresh terror in sheep's clothing
these are mental wars, fake news tsunamis
feasting in our blood in our sweat in our tension
the invaders possess our minds, our souls
these are reality games, the most dangerous
who cares about facts or consensual reality
humiliation, helplessness, loneliness
manipulated in the transition between nothingness to utopia
an acid destroying the human form and social body
they can feel again after a long apathy the call to heroic action
let's not be afraid, the tyrant is inside and we kind of know it
I look at the face of nothingness, of dread
no power no reason no words
dread is alive too