Come Rejoice, For each of you are Special to Christ.

Come Rejoice, sit and when you are Ready Dance.

Come Rejoice, for you mean so much to God and I.

Come Rejoice, for the Good Lord really Loves you.

Come Rejoice, for someday We shall meet there.

Come Rejoice, for soon Christ shall return here again.

Come enjoy , for Our King shall return for Us too.

Come enjoy, for this is nothing compare to Our future.

Come enjoy, for Jesus loves you so much my Friend.

Simple things for simple people;
they live a simple life,
marry a simple wife and

have simple children and
leave a simple history for
the world, upon their death.

They stumble on a beautiful
today and trip on a wonderful
tomorrow; and prosper always.

They live out their lives
in peace and die quietly
without suffering and at ease.

They are like the rising
and setting of the sun
that comes and goes quietly.

They are the envy of
everyone that knows struggle,
war or pain: this I know.

I walk upon the flames of my regrets
Rip up the roots of consciousness
from the darkened depths

Someday when and where the river
kisses the sea
When all the stars choose to fall
And there is no longer a gift from the sun
Then I will let leaf

I'm not a seasoned poet
As standards go
I have neither the will nor wit
To assemble words that exhale
Sensuous truths of beauty
I have been tossed in poetry's net
To serve and protect its fate
I'm not sharp enough
To detect Moon's climb
For I'm not Archibald MacLeish
I'm no master metaphorician
To equate yellow fog to a cat
For I'm not T.S. Eliot
I'm just here to release the waves
That load my pen to barrage
Their organic ammunition
I cannot delve into the dark show
As smooth as Edgar Allen Poe
I'm not one to sing of love, of wine
For I'm no Rumi nor Khayyam
I can't settle music's dust
For I'm not Robert Frost
I can only write what I'm taught
By the shadow rulers of Art
If Yeats is awake
And Shakespeare watching
If Whitman, Dickinson, Keats
And the rest of the sublime ones
Happen to be espying
They would regard me
As an underling
And that would be a win
For I shall never reach
Their poetic spin.

Ravens shrill and doves coo
Round the taverns of rolling day
                     Where
Gnostics listen to darkling whistles
And every *** enjoys its bray.