Shrouded in mystery, confined to my head —
Sometimes I think I’d be better off dead.
In here the inhabitants haven’t enough room —
They quibble and quarrel and spread so much gloom.

Do any of them have more of the native right—
To occupy my mind, let alone my sight?
There are those, the chosen ones, who grow here more strong,
Their rightful cause at great length fighting the wrong.

And every thoughtless idea the others bare,
They are my enemies but they are every where.
Thus worn and weakened and filled with ill content,
Why must I submit me to this internal government?

Impoverished and deprived of all my command,
Their thoughts double as mine lose their stand.
What they are is not real - not flesh and blood,
They’re a disgrace to everything and burnt like the wood.

If I died would not these heathens go up in flame?
They are priests of all religions, are they not all the same?
Of whatsoever descent from their godhead be,
Just mud and stone or other worthless pedigree.

In my defense my thoughts are always bold,
As if they were written of the purest gold.
But these Rabbis are my worst of enemies,
They are not honest men and they are not at all wise.

For if it 'twas their duty and like the learned think,
They’d espouse my own thoughts of which they eat and they drink.
From hence began this plot of my demise as if I were cursed,
Their bad intensifies in me – am I representing their worst?

Raised on my extremes with these extremes woefully denied,
An oath silently affirmed yet mournfully defied.
Words not weighed or windowed by their sheer multitude,
Inwardly swallowed in rhyme, be they rusty and sometimes crude.
To some - truth has to be dashed with the salt within their own eyes,
Their own tears to confuse the foolishness and twist them into lies.
Do any loving words have an equaling folly to befall?
Or do you believe in nothing – yes - nothing at all?
The poets’ rites are here - to - for rarely embraced,
When what is needed is a muse, who could add flavor to the taste.
Such savoring delights I offer, to a soul in need of ritual food,
Served up hot all at once – then sinfully shared in the ****.
But by force one cannot offer these to even the gods,
For only one in a million is worthy, all the rest are just at odds.
No fraud I offer you in this, my musing trade,
But writers are harder to conquer than they are to persuade.
They are busy scribes mingling within life’s refuse,
Raking around in the garbage looking for new verbiage to defuse.
Do you hear me – do my words sit on your lips?
Touch them now – gently - and let me take you away on a thousand trips.
My words on your lips – can they truly take you away?
Shhhh – my darling, close your eyes and taste them, and their gentile foreplay.
Oh this author swears it not but only you can know
How far these words can reach or where for art they may go.
If I fail you and for want I lose my common sense,
What love will come from this or be the consequence?
My words are like raging fevers boiling my own blood,
Be careful my muse, these words often float into a flood.
For love is like water always seeking the path of least resistance,
Quiet yet powerful and oft bubbling over in persistence.
Breathe my muse; take it all in as we flow into the decent
Working up the foam as we threaten to shoot the vent.
Who among are as witty as we are wise?
I watch as my words leave those lips and shine from within your eyes.
Those eyes like reflecting pools, one by two, my holly preference,
I think God must have given us two eyes so as to cross the reference.
Kiss me my muse; please kiss me until this fatal fury has gone,
Hold on tight as I write and drag you from your rightful throne.
These words raised in power amongst our fellowship.
Words, precious words, now on our hungry lips.
May we let them ooze – oh - please let them go,
Listen do you taste them now? Only you my muse -
Only you can ever know.

In a time where one and one was utterly confined
When nature itself was prompted and no law was defined.
In these non pious times before the religious craft did begin,
Long before current life filled the world we’re in.
Before earthly man was born or multiplied his kind,
In earths far away there were people already of mind.
Then when Semjasa traveled with Heaven's own heart,
Bringing his vigorous warmth to this earth to impart.
Partaking of life here he bore Adam by his own command,
Thus scattering his maker's image throughout the land.
Seth, born of such royal blood, the crown he did wear
A soul grateful to his father Adam’s care.
And so to the rest, many mothers bore
To King David, and the many sons and daughters before.
But since like slaves from his bed they did ascend,
Only the truest succession could their seed attend.
But of all this numerous progeny was none as fit to rule
So beautiful, so brave, as this star child, Jmmanuel.
Inspired by some other diviner’s gust,
His father Joseph got him without any lust.
Through his conscious destiny made he the weighed,
By other worldly fortitude - the imperials he swayed.
Earlier on the mount he won great renown,
Healing the sick while dispersing the crown.
With soft spoken peace the thoughts of war he could remove,
As it seemed as if he were only born to love.
Whatever he did, was done with so much ease,
In him alone, 'twas his nature to please.
His emotions shared in his eyes with grace,
As if paradise itself was opened in his face.
With secret joy, indulgent people viewed
This youthful image in his ancient knowledge renewed.
To all that wished - nothing he denied,
In doing so he made the whole world his bride.
What faults he had for who from faults are free?
His father could not or he would not see.
Perhaps only the warmest excesses which the profits forbore,
Were construed by a youth purged - boiling over.
And Mary called him by a specious name,
She named him Jmmanuel - not the name of his fame.
Thus praised, and loved, the noble youth remained,
While Augustus, undisturbed, in Rome reigned.
From Rome his life could never be sincerely blest,
Nature punishes the bad, and approves only the best.
The Jews, a headstrong, moody, a murmuring race
As ever tried the extent and patience of grace.
God's pampered saints whom, debauched with ease,
No King could ever govern nor could any God please.

I close my eyes and in the darkness
I see you, my enchanting ecstasy, walking
Down a cobblestone street in silhouette.
Carefully placed footsteps echoing the
The pavement - without the slightest of regret.
Through the faint gas lit corridor
Vintage smells and a whispering wind
Accompany my meandering thoughts.
No matter where I go -
No matter when I go –
Footsteps going forward
Revealing the past.

In a cumbersome transom blended
With a tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap
Of a horse drawn carriage –
Therein a song is revealed.
Where else but in silent music do dreams
Blend reality with one’s emotions?
Aye - there in my mind’s eye -
Tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap.

Do I have any life but this? Tap -
If not - let me lead it from here. Ta -
No death there be ‘lest - Tap -
Dispelled from there. Tap -
Nor any ties to earths to come. Ta -
Nor any action in any effort of new. Tap -
Except in the blessed extent - Ta -
Of this other realm of loving you. - Tap -

And in my mind’s eye –
The music,
Tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap -
Of cobblestone and hoof –
Ta-tap
Returns me to ....

These flakes that fall - ever so effortlessly,
They bathe my mind with their peace and liberty - tranquility.
They have no rule and yet no precedence found
No law circumscribed - falling flawlessly upon the ground.
They cover the wildest desires of the woods and caves,
Turning these savages into bitterly cold slaves.
Snowflakes times billions, to and fro they blow,
Making fresh and clean of all they forego.
Hidden within the silence - a gentle song they bring.
Listen, listen can you not hear them sing?
They recover every note and they give their best,
Laughter, loving, so cold yet only the warmest expressed.
Beckoning me to play along so they can be obeyed,
I place one keyboard on the handrail I made,
Turn it on and listen intently to what they create.
Yearning to learn from my new classmate,
Random bolts at first with no formal design,
But somehow begging for me to join.
With another keyboard I listen and strain,
Allowing the snowflakes to quietly reign.
I close my eyes and touch the keys with their wise delight,
Saw searing sounds, honest and right.
In contemplation I feel their deepest of scars,
As they cover the memory of all the civil wars.
They moderate the worst of men, now disqualified,
Inclined in the balance taking them to the better side.
With calmness my fingers manage it well,
And my hands find no occasion to rebel.
Listen, listen can you hear the love as it leans,
Be careful Devil, the flakes will erase all your means.
Softly covering all those ill desires,
The good old cause revived, this their plot requires.
Darkness turns to a powdery white erasing all of everything,
Raising up the common-wealth, covering the evil kings.

My nature, once pleaded for one of these darling ones!
The amazing hope only found in the fair women down here.
A strength found only in the wilderness having the ability
To drink bourbon until dawn being absolutely naughty
And then the next morning to show you how to properly
Use a fork and knife while signing thank you cards.
To be raised up to all the heights any man could bear:
Has my God ordained my fate to be southern reborn?
Perhaps he has indeed given this soul another turn.
Gullied without a patriot's name, have I lost my sense?
Yet to be treated as if I were by law a prince.
Am I so brave or just this Belle’s tool?
I never saw a patriot yet that wasn’t a fool.
Here comes she now with religion and the laws
Should I be Absalom or should I be David's cause?
But I am the instructor, or have I lost my place?
She has taken me over with so much grace.
Good heavens, how fast must a patriot pant!
She stole me away by saying “A saint I ain’t.”
Pulling off my shoes as she pulls me down from my throne
I cross my eyes as I moan and I groan.
A kingly battle within the sweetest of torments,
Was their ever a prerequisite or my consent?
The look in her eyes – flames, fire and fury – nothing to lose.
Inferring this infernal night is ours to depose;
Oh God it’s true she’s petitioned me to approve her by choice,
But are not my hands still powered by my voice?
So my pious subjects, for my safety please pray.
I do think this Belle has taken all my will away.

In times to come, will you believe me or believe my verse
When they come to place the words “Poet” on my tomb?
But if I write of the hidden beauty found in those eyes,
Or try to solidly account for all of your graces
Heaven itself would stop and say, "This poet lies,
Such heavenly features never left our heavenly places."
So should my letters become yellowed with age,
Or be ravaged by old women of less truth than tongue,
Sentencing my words to remain inside this poet's cage,
A simple wrinkle of some ancient love song.
Through your children that live in that futuristic time,
You will live twice, in them and in this rhyme.