.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

Kurt Queller uses narrative criticism to analyze Mark 3:1-6, the healing miracle story in the gospel of Mark.  Queller’s narrative criticism includes “echoes of the Exodus liberation narrative” , echoes of Deuteronomy’s covenant language and Sabbatical provisions , intratextual echoes in Mark , and independent echoes in the other synoptic gospels.  Queller uses these echoes to fill in the gaps he finds in the story of Jesus healing the man with the withered hand on the Sabbath.
In the beginning of his criticism, Queller lists the gaps in Mark 3:1-6’s narrative that he seeks to fill: the meaning of the withered hand, Jesus’ reason for healing on the Sabbath, His reason for considering the withered hand life-threatening, why it is a choice between good and evil, et cetera.  He begins filling these gaps by referencing intertextual echoes of Mark 3:1-6 in Exodus.  Jesus’ command to the man with the withered hand in Mark 3:5, “Stretch out your hand,” is echoed in Exodus 14:16 where God commands Moses, “stretch out your hand.” When the man with the withered hand stretches out his hand, his hand is restored. Likewise, when Moses stretches out his hand, the Reed Sea parts, resulting in the restoration of the Israelites’ freedom.
Queller’s reference to this echo in Exodus, paired with other echoes he mentions in Deuteronomy, helped me begin to understand Jesus’ insistence on healing the withered hand. Queller was able to use the echoes to fill in the gaps I previously could not fill. In Deuteronomy 15, God’s covenant requires liberal lending and debt forgiveness to the poor on the Sabbath year. God reminds the Israelites that He delivered them from Egypt in verse 15, and He claims that this is the reason for His liberal Sabbatical law. Thus, this Deuteronomic prescription for Sabbath observance is a continuation of the Exodus liberation narrative. Queller mentions these echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to draw a larger narrative framework for understanding Mark’s controversial healing story.
In my initial reading, I recognized that a withered hand is not necessarily a matter of life and death. Like Queller, this was a gap that I initially set out to fill. However, I was unable to fill this gap in a way that completely satisfied my confusion on the matter. Queller’s larger narrative framework for this passage led me to a better understanding of why Jesus considered the withered hand worthy to heal on the Sabbath.
According to Queller’s filling of the gaps, the withered hand is an affliction that can be compared to the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt. The withered hand also embodies the economic predicament of the poor, who remain enslaved to their debt to the rich.  Such enslavement could be a death sentence, which is why the Sabbath requires the liberation of slaves and debt forgiveness of the poor. It seems plausible to me that a withered hand could cause a man to be enslaved and/or perpetually poor. This line of reasoning, provided by Queller’s larger narrative framework, allowed me to truly see how the Sabbath could require Jesus’ healing of the withered hand.
Another gap Queller and I similarly set out to fill is the question of what constitutes as doing good and what constitutes as doing evil on the Sabbath. This gap also arises from Mark 3:4, in which Jesus asks, “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to ****?” (Mark 3:4 NIV). In his analysis of this particular part of this particular verse, Queller points out a small important detail that I originally missed. Mark 3:4 does not set the frame for a passive, inner choice between good and evil.  The literal wording says, “to do good or to do evil.” The choice between good and evil on the Sabbath thereby requires action.
While recognizing that required action is problematic for the restful nature of the Sabbath, Queller supports his assertion by referencing Deuteronomy 30. Deuteronomy 30’s prescription for obedience of the Sabbath repeats the active command, “do it.”  Queller illustrates the parallelism between Mark and Deuteronomy by placing Deuteronomy 30:14 and Mark 3:4-5 in a figure side-by-side.  Deuteronomy 30:14 says, “The word is very near to you, in your mouth, and in your heart, and in your hands, to do it.” With this commandment as the framework, Mark 3:4-5 spells out the Pharisees’ failure to do good; It says, “But they were silent . . . grieved at their hardness of heart, he said to the man: ‘Stretch out your hand.’ And he stretched it out.”
From this, Queller concludes, “The ‘word’ to be done is already ‘in [their] mouth’ – but they refuse to say anything in response; it is ‘in [their] heart’ – but their heart is hardened against it. It is ‘in [their] hands, to do it’ – but as Jesus turns again to address the man, our attention is directed back to an inert hand, that, in its current withered state, seems unlikely to do anything.”  From this I am now able to conclude that which constitutes as doing “good” on the Sabbath is acting on the word. The word is completely accessible to us, and we must use our mouths, hearts, and hands to act upon it.
This gap of good and evil action that Queller helps fill also provides further evidence for the necessity of Jesus’ healing of the withered hand. Since the hands are required to carry out good action in obedience of the covenant, the withered hand is an affliction that can breach said covenant. Queller asserts that the withered hand symbolizes “the tangible embodiment of [the Pharisees] unwillingness, despite the ‘nearness’ of the word, to do it.”  Jesus, by necessity, must heal this affliction to show the Pharisees how to act according to the law of the Sabbath; “The stretching out of the hand then becomes a ‘witness against’ those who have chosen to forgo or even prohibit action because of exclusively sacral concerns.”  Without the preceding narrative frame of Deuteronomy, such significance of the withered hand for the Sabbath covenant was impossible for me to comprehend.
Though Queller is certainly helpful in providing evidence that enables understanding of the withered hand’s significance, there are parts of his criticism that I find contradictory and unhelpful. This occurs when he references echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to provide a framework for understanding the Pharisees’ silence in Mark 3:4 and hardness of hearts in Mark 3:5. He first relates the Pharisees’ hardened heart in response to Jesus’ plea in Mark to the Pharaoh’s hardened heart in response to Moses’ numerous pleas in Exodus. In my concordance work, I also made this connection. However, Queller and I differ in the conclusions we draw from this observation.
Queller draws from Deuteronomy to provide framework in conjunction with Exodus for understanding Mark’s interpretation of the Sabbatical law. He references Deuteronomy 29:19, which warns against thinking one can receive the blessings of the covenant while breaching it in the inner wanderings of the heart. This passive infidelity of the covenant brings God’s curse to the innocent as well as the guilty. Queller uses this context to explain why his literal translation says Jesus “co-aggrieved”  with the Pharisees because of their silence and hard hearts. The Pharisees’ passive, inner breach of the covenant invoked God’s curse on them, as well as the innocent Jesus, according to Queller.  
When I analyzed Jesus’ reaction to the hard hearts of the Pharisees in comparison to God’s reaction to that of the Pharaoh, I realized that the same Greek word was used to describe Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath. However, the consequences of Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath do not relate as clearly as Queller would lead one to believe. As a result of the Pharaoh’s hard heart, God’s wrath leads to the Pharaoh’s ultimate demise. Jesus’ resulting anger from the Pharisees’ hard hearts, on the other hand, catalyzes his decision to heal the withered hand. This action ultimately leads to Jesus’ destruction alone. Jesus, the innocent character, does not fall to the mutual destruction of the Pharisees, per Queller’s argument. I see no destruction of the Pharisees at all. Instead, Jesus restores God’s blessing of the guilty by becoming the recipient of God’s wrath in their place.
This conclusion, though differing from Queller, is consistent with his interpretation of the withered hand. Queller writes, “The withered hand embodies covenant curses invoked against those refusing to ‘open [their] hands’ in liberal lending, instead killing the poor by freezing credit in view of an impending sabbatical debt amnesty” . If the withered hand embodies God’s curse against the Pharisees, then Jesus revokes this curse when he cures the withered hand. Furthermore, the larger narrative framework of Mark’s gospel echoes this conclusion. Jesus’ crucifixion ultimately pays the debt of sinners and liberates them from God’s wrath.
Kurt Queller’s narrative criticism uses intertextuality, a narrative tool that “evokes resonances of the earlier text beyond those explicitly cited”  and “requires the reader to recover unstated or suppressed correspondences between the two texts.”  Such intertextual echoes he references from Deuteronomy and Exodus provide a larger background for interpreting Mark’s healing controversy. This granted me the ability to fill many gaps in the narrative that I was unable to fill prior to reading Queller’s criticism. In a footnote, he explains that his “metalepsis” uses such intertextual echoes for analysis, and, “In narrative, the resultant new figuration operates at what Robert M. Fowler calls the ‘discourse level.’ Metaleptic signification is thus transacted between an implied narrator and an implied audience – as it were, behind the backs of the narrative’s ‘story-level’ participants.”
The intertextual and metaleptic tools that Queller uses for his narrative criticism have proven to be very insightful and helpful for my understanding Mark 3:1-6 in an entirely new way. Even as I disagree with Queller on certain parts of his argument, these points of disagreement pushed me to deepen my own individual reading of the text. In comparing my argument to Queller’s, I realized just how far my initial interpretation was able to go. This narrative criticism answered a lot of my questions and filled many gaps. However, most of my conclusions about the implications and ultimate consequences of the text remain unshaken.  
Bibliography
Queller, Kurt. “Stretch Out Your Hand!” Echo and Metalepsis in Mark’s Sabbath Healing Controversy. Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 4 (2010): 737-58.

Twists, rips, knots, love-filled locks.
Hair that embodies personality;
Wild, untamed, unkempt, yet beautiful.

Hair that embodies nature;
Disobedient, ever changing, free.

I will never regret these tree root locks.
They have taught me patience,
They have taught me to love even that which is not beautiful to everyone.
They have taught me that we are like the earth, we grow, and we die, and we blossom.
I never intended my snake locks to be for fashion, I wanted nature to teach me what it will.
And if no other lesson ever stays with me this one will:

*Nature can never be tamed.

With the wind under my wings I soar
I see the west Canadian shore
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
Nuu-chan-nulth – A caring and nurturing people are thee
Small families among the mountains, rivers, and sea
Vancouver Island’s west coast is where you reside
Awaiting your canoes on evenings incoming tide

Your men are fishing in the ocean’s secret places
Worry and hope etched in their weathered faces
Each man knowing the days hunting success must provide
For many wives, children, and elders the spoils they must divide

Your rhythm and harmony with the ocean is strong
Whale hunts and oceans spirits intertwined through your song
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
I hear the east call, and open my wings to take flight
The distant drum’s heartbeat calls from the suns rising light
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
Coast Salish – You know how the sea dances and quivers
As you watch the expanse from your inlets, and rivers
Vigilance is needed in case a Storm approaches
To mount a defence if an enemy encroaches.

Your wise headmen lead with such divine humility
Your family life embodies true equality
Your features are defined by a broad face and flat brow
Your girls with plucked brows, braided hair prepare for their vow

You seasonally harvest your rivers resources
Spawning Eulachon and sturgeon complete their courses
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
As I leave your forests of tall cedars and aged fir
The drumming beckons me up the wild Fraser River
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war


Okanagan – You survive in the Valley and slopes
In a legend of a coyote you set your hopes
He educated you how to live off the hard land
Your very own lives you bestowed in his paw like hand

Your offspring, your joy, your future you know must be taught
So at an early age, to the elders they were brought
Your youths are handpicked and taught the roll they shall assume
If a warrior shall fall another shall resume

Your seasonal harvest of forest meadows and marsh
Will insure you survival when the winters are harsh
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
With the updrafts I glide over the dry desert plains
I hear the drum call from a land where it hardly rains
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
Secwépemc – your men come out through the eastern sunrise’s door
Your women’s entrance faces the stream to ease her chore
In seasonal cozy houses built into the ground
In a secret place your spoils and possessions are found

Your request for spawning salmon grows louder each day
The messenger crickets announce salmons on their way
You hunt with arrows and spears you crafted from strong stone
Needles and jewelry you made from animal bone

You patiently, wait in the winter’s silent brisk eve  
For the deer’s stealthy approach from the snow covered trees  
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
The drum it beckons from the land of river crossroads
The land where men come to bring and trade their canoes loads
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war


Dakelh – You are the people who learned how to barter
You are known as the people who travel on water
With gathered roots you weave fish weirs in the evening air
And you set your high hopes in the chanted salmon prayer

Your children learn from the oral traditions you tell
Chinlac massacres, caves where dwarves shooting arrows dwell
Your widows carry ashes of the husband they held dear
Their Mourning and sadness that will last over a year

The respect for the land for everything you have gain
Though much, and bountiful your harvest some shall remain
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoess, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
A plume of smoke and drum beat come from the distant Northwest
Echoing from the place where the Skeena River rests
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war

Gitxsan –Your Home is surrounded by snow tipped glaciers
Forests of spruce, hemlock, cedars, and subalpine firs
Your chieftain name and duties you hold for a short time
Other Wilp members are only ‘children’ in their prime

Like the rivers your families closely intertwine
Each account told is a lesson that is sublime
Each Wilp has your story told by a tall totem pole
Your History affects and moves you deep in your soul

Deer, Moose, and small mammal in the wild woodlands you stalk
You pursue the Mountain goat through rugged peaks of rock
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
The drums incessantly pounds as I take to the sky
Urgently calling from remote islands of Haida Gwaii
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war

Haida - You live in the pacific northern islands
Your fam’lies Belong to the eagle or raven clans
You watch the tide rise and fall over the rocks and sand
Great mighty sculptures you have created with your hand

With strong healthy cedar trees you made your long dwellings
The entrance way totem your history is telling
Your warrior canoes glide through the rolling waves
Through victories and battles you have prisoner slaves


The sound of the drum beat is mixed in saltwater spray
To Vancouver Island’s west shore I must fine my way
The drum it echo, echo, echo’s, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
As I leave your vast, and memorable territory
In the soft twilight air I watch the sunset’s glory
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war

Kwakwakawakw- So proud you are of your mother tongue
Born in this beautiful land your ancestors came from
Noblemen, Aristocrats, commoners and your slaves
Your narrative exists among your forefathers graves

Your canoes bow is carved into animal features
The whale, otter, salmon and other sea creatures
You hunt with such heroic assurance all year round
In the shapes of well carved masks their likeness will abound

Your long homes are protected by the oceans embrace
First nations, my people, you are a amazing race
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
I leave your land of legends in a misty gray veil
And on the horizons comes change’s white sail
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
The Europeans came into your isolated lands
Dividing your people into tribes, reserves, and bands
Before their arrival you lived mighty, strong, and free
Now your children fight to reclaim their identity

The drum will echo, echo, echo through time’s core
It will whisper a rhythm of time, change, and war
The drum will echo, echo, echo through your core
It will whisper a rhythm of time, change, and war

The distant source of light
Brings out the shadow of you-
A Reflection of you
Following you everywhere
A replica of your inner self
Brought out by the light
Which embodies the soul

The river forks at big stone eddy
rending currents meandering course,  
its silence speaks not with forked tongue
as kismet's swirling eddies abide
     as if time immemorial;
     a river naturally cleaved
in two separate distinct directions
befallen destiny  without a choice


Spinning round and round in big stone eddy,
time just drifting by in the throes
of doubt — high water rising
beyond the bounds of earth
taking drowning souls up to the sky


Choking on a mouthful of unanswered questions,
suffocating on the parting words left unsaid;
distilling life into poetry hew from being —
trickling out like the spilled out sky —
taken down to the empty riverbed
leave lay' til it's all washed away,
in the music of the pourin' down rain


Freedom embodies metaphysical incarnations
riding the prevailing currents it can't control
Gravity-gathered  down to the shoreline,
manifest reclamation after the deluge,
from somewhere far above the high-water mark


Swallowed by all the darkness woe betides,
thinking you carry such a weight to hold...
It seems all got a handful of sand to toss
up into the wind to seed the clouds
The totality of eclipsing silence grows
that rent the stillness of a dream
of peace on an eroding shoreline


In an Eddy of Expectations & Disappointment
dark waters will ebb and flow,
imponderable as drowning hope,
leaving it all out there to dry after the rain

       believing in your heart —
        the best is yet to come


  Jesse Stillwater ... November 2018

The symbolism of this Christmas classic
has a second, hidden meaning for the ages.
For this song has an ulterior motive,
contained in verses that seem outrageous.

Christ is the truest fulfillment of Love,
in the primary doctrine of Christianity;
therefore, He is the focus of each refrain,
being the sin offering on Crucifixion’s tree.

The pair of turtle doves represents books,
volumes of both the Old and New Testaments.
The Bible embodies the Spirit of God calling…
for the World to turn to Christ and repent.

The three french hens stand for the trinity
of metaphysical concepts: Faith, Hope and Love.
Despite questionable claims, Love requires action-
and that some of us need a gentle, spiritual shove.

Four calling birds correspond to the Good News,
found in accounts of Matthew, Mark, Luke & John.
Together they present a harmonious view of Christ
and the divine message of the Gospel’s Song.

The five golden rings echo the Jewish Torah,
one of the first accounts of God’s spiritual laws.
Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy
remind of Redemption’s need to offset human flaws.

Six geese a-laying demonstrate the creativity of God,
regarding His work in the archetype days of creation.
For we are to lift up our eyes and see Him, through
inspiration that fuels our desires and imaginations.

The swans a-swimming represent the seven-fold gifts
from the Holy Spirit: Prophesy, Serving, Exhortation,
Teaching, Contribution, Leadership, and God’s Mercy…
holy promises that complement the substance of Salvation.

The eight maids a-milking reflect the Beatitudes,
a message given by Christ at the Sermon on the Mount.
He taught Heavenly concepts, in which we are blessed,
via inspired platitudes for us- to joyfully recount.

Nine ladies dancing recall the Fruits of the Spirit:
Love, Joy, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Self-Control,
Faithfulness, Peace, and Gentleness - sacred constructs
for soothing the pains, experienced by our weary souls.

The lords a-leaping personify Jehovah’s Ten Commandments:
instructions for worshiping only Him, keeping the Sabbath,
and various prohibitions against idolatry, blasphemy, ******,
theft, dishonesty, and adultery, which lead us off His path.

The eleven pipers piping constitute the faithful Disciples,
who walked the Earth with Christ, observing Him firsthand.
They were the original, Christian acolytes who were taught-
how to live victoriously under the pressure of Life’s demands.

The drummers drumming symbolize the twelve points of belief,
outlined in the religious doctrine, called the Apostles' Creed.
Now with greater insight, lift your voice and sing this song,
using your faith in God, that you willingly and lovingly concede.
.
.
.

Author Notes:

This my poetic interpretation of the familiar Christmas song. From 1558ad until 1829ad, Roman Catholics in England were not permitted to openly practice their faith. An unknown author, during that era, wrote this carol as a Catechism song for young Catholics. It has two levels of meaning: the surface meaning plus a hidden meaning, originally known only by members of their church. Each element in the carol has a code word, implying a religious tenet, which children could easily remember.

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.amazon.com/Reaching-Towards-His-Unbounded-Glory/dp/1419650513/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid;=1387452157&sr;=8-1&keywords;=reaching+towards+his+unbounded+glory

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.

Donald Trump's presidency
Is one of the greatest achievements in art I have ever experienced
And Trump is a true artist
He takes words from the page
Like corruption, disenfranchisement, xenophobia
And brings them to life
Highlighting fear and paranoia so clearly
Contrasting the blacks and whites
Emphasizing anger
While reminding us we're mere infants
In the digital age
And warning us of our seniority
And capitalism's

We all like to think life has meaning
Until we hit an animal with our car
Then that's just the way things are
And I'm staring at an absurdist painting
Of a child driving a car
Through a herd of sheep
As I watch a heist film
Where the robbers turn their guns over
To the mentally unstable guy in the group

Trump is a national artist
Placing riots on the map
And drawing infernos on the Internet
His art forces an opinion
Everybody has something to say about him
And it's all true
Even the pages he ripped from his own cabinet
Tried to villainize him in their script
But he was already an anti-hero
The humor is that the mud slung onto him
Is dirt kicked up from his own tires
I guess if you surround yourself with hateful people
You're surrounding yourself with people who probably hate you

Trump's art is deeply conflicting
He reminds me of the people who want me to live in shame
Yet he embodies the individuality that separates me from that shame
His insecurities remind me of myself
High school is the White House in the eyes of a kid
And I had secrets I wanted to share
But felt I couldn't
I learned things
That changed my entire perspective
And didn't think people would understand
Afraid of being assaulted for my indiscretions
I hid behind a boisterous personality
And a nonchalant attitude
Trump's art evokes sympathy and hatred that feels so strong
When he holds a mirror defining our worst qualities
To a man viscerally opposed to his own reflection
The confliction of emotions
Is the hallmark of great art

We are all artists
The lines we write or the strokes we brush
Are in our actions
And Trump's canvas displays
A life filled with accomplishment
Inspiring me to live my own life
But I still wake up in cold sweats
From the American dream
That anybody can be president

Not only am I drowning
but so many are going down
along with me--
our hopes, our dreams, our ideals
are being swept out to sea
the man who claims victory
is more than just a man
he embodies evil and greed
like no other in this land--
he cares nothing for AMERICA
unless it brings profit his way
and he will stop at nothing
to rule forever and a day...

So don't bother to save me
as I am falling beneath the sea,
I cannot tread water
for he is determined to drown me
and so many others
who only want what's best
for our beloved U.S.A.
and oh my god
this test
is far too much
and I kneel down and pray
and ask the gods above
to watch over the entire globe
for beware, I see it coming
this man in charge
has not much of a frontal lobe
and we are doomed
not just as a united country
but as a human kind
for we've elected an official
who has literally lost his mind...

One life by flames a Hero made

This just became a lot harder by its very nature I must cloak one identity shine all the light I can on the
Other harder because I was just reminded people find my writing hard to understand brothers at church
Out home can you be more simple use smaller words I could be stupid I’m a high school dropout I don’t
Know any big words well I did use imbecile in the seventh grade that was cool and got a reaction this
Started to be a tribute to a person who was rare although you can surely see glimpses of your dad
Brother or other male members of your family as I said to write you must follow truth strictly no
Deviation but before I could pay and honor the visible one another comes into view from the past with
This twist then he was the dark kight now he is a knight in shining armor the dark knight have him on
The Cross bar of a bicycle both of you have swimming trunks on you pass some tuffs with extra powerful
BB guns while your body shields him he lets off a litany of sailor inspired words directed at them they
Don’t return insults they open fire I have welts and his mother picks three B Bees out of my back did he
Feel any pain he was too busy laughing that was just one time not enough room here to give you the run
Down let’s just say as the only identifier he was a short racer came in first braver than the others but I
saw him in a class picture there is the strange part it touched my heart and then speaking to him on the
Phone my feelings were correct he is a great wonderful person then the stranger yet he so embodies by
Appearance and voice of the one I choose to honor here Stevie Rucker was about eleven that summer I
Met him his mother went to my wife’s church he was bright kind and melted people with his soft and
loving nature quite a contrast to his father a six foot four hard nose FFA inspector we were out at a
Restaurant in the city a foursome in the next room with a booth were using foul language I don’t know
The dim lighting could have been a factor but when this giant shadow fell on them and asks them to stop I
Don’t think they even talked loud after that. But this sweet little boy harbored a dream one day he was
Going to be a fire fighter then as dreams go it was shattered bad eye sight disqualified it was a dream
Worth fighting for so he took action a risky costly eye operation was the answer victory he moved to
Patoka California by now a wife and two toddlers a boy and a girl three boy five they lived in the foot
Hills of the Sierra Nevada mountain range ever where you were in great growth forest of course the
Red Woods get all the glory but take a stroll red clay earth and some of the most gorgeous nature you
Will ever find although the Great Smoky Mountains will give it a run for the money in a later story I will
Tell about them and the gnome mobile and the huge boar black bear that I thought I was going to have
To run to the car pull out my thirty thirty Winchester and start working the lever action to save seventy
Five tourists I put in Jeopardy by getting him out of a deep gully. Well life was good for Steve and his
Family he was living his dream our paths would intersect we stopped at Paso to break the trip in half to
Southern C and Disney land were heard about the fire in Dego it was bad enough that the whole LA
Basin was fogged in for two days the Santa Anna winds finally pushed it out to sea and up the coast I hit
It on the other side of San Louis Obisable in a gorge it was banked in and because of youthful lucky strikes and
Later sleep apnea I couldn’t breathe in the car until I hit the air conditioner well by the time we got
Home to check in at the hotel it was clear home is what Anaheim means in German then there was that
USA Today News paper again I looked and a face was staring at me older and thicker heavey set but I knew the face and then at
The bottom of the picture emotional train wreck a child so giving now as a man had given his life for
Strangers five to six hundred miles south from his home he died trying to save their homes he joined
Many others but these were fresh in my mind the folks who died in the fire storm in Oakland from the
Conflagration that took lives and homes and four lane highways on both sides couldn’t slow it down and
You have as much chance as out running a bullet as you do a fire as twenty five Idaho smoke jumpers
Found out they were racing out of a gorge scrambling to get over the top this natural configuration had
Become a chimney of living flame thirteen died instantly those others rolled over and away on flat
Ground at the top was spared. What could I do I wrapped myself in the only protection I could find he
Died a hero that kept the pain at bay how many times I invoked that statement it worked so well until at
The community center in Patoka where they honored Steve’s sacrifice it was televised Governor Arnold
Schwarzenegger and other state dignitaries his fire house buddies and other fireman from everywhere
Was there and then they panned down to his mother and father his father wasn’t so large anymore and
It was the last time I could use my shield as I looked and watched Pat weeping Uncontrollably over her
Lost son I thought you would like to know of this wonderful person I will close with a thank you in the
Language of the Lakota Sioux as his service had part of it in the native language of his tribe Pilamaya means thank you
Steve you are an inspiration we bow to greatness beyond our understanding

Well my mind is a cage enclosed with fragments of my soul
drifting away into the infinite amount of nothingness
that flows through my bloodstream and
embodies my mind and soul.

Her freedom had yet to be discovered.

I’m sorry if this sounds creepy
I just want to say thank you.
You have changed me in ways that few can or will.
You embody everything I wanted in a person but knew that was far too much.
You are a perfect purple pink sunset, suddenly
the stars seem a little closer, you give me reason to chase the sun,
the energy to take last step after last step.
I will never forget the moment, a timeless room past midnight you
talking with this hypnotic mix of innocence blended with this ackcute knowledge of
mountains of ****,
of the horrors of hospitals with this immortal love of life.
The only way to live a good life is to live a life.
You are a protecter of a life.
You will spin the wheel in the circle of life.
Thank you.

I have met gods among us and heroes yet none as pure as your spirit.
You fight poison without ever taking a step against it,
subelty was never my strong suite.
I don’t want to sing a song that even deaf people have memorized
yet how many different takes on one emotion can we get?
You are brilliant like the way the traffic lights reflects a green into
the green tree in a park at night but only fifty times more stunning.
Your voice, flows yet the direction never certain.
We have  the same gods it’s just you are making heaven
a nicer place.
We could share a seat, driving different directions
but close enough to love.
You dance so stunningly yet make the floor feel even.
I don’t really know what to write but
if you ever want a new boyfriend please let me know.

I’m literally sitting here. Literally. I’m figuratively doing nothing. This time allows me to think. Contemplate; the future of this mess we call adolescence. You look at the clock. Tick tock…kids stepping over my feet, as I literally sit here. Figuratively doing nothing. I’m breathing. Writing. Forming a collection of words in this memo. They don’t fit together, realistically. I would go for a smoke, but I have no cigarettes. I am a sixteen year old, who is too awkward too phone her boyfriend’s home phone, and too awkward just to pop round. I have to see miss in an hour, there’s a kid who’s sad and I have to talk to him.
   Apparently I am confident. I’m not. I just listen to powerful music which makes me feel like I can be a queen. That’s the idea. To feel comfortable you need to not care, and look after yourself. You are queen, you care for your subjects. You rule with fair point. You go out and buy yourself a crown, or shoplift one. I don’t know, just whatever makes you feel like the main *****. Find what you like about yourself and spark it. Make what you like stand out. Find the things you dislike about yourself and show it off. I don’t like my **** but hey, just shake it a bit and it’s like simple twerking. I have thunder thighs which consist of a fair amount of muscle; I have perfected the **** drop. I have become stronger because of what I put myself through. I am the only one who can hear my thoughts. So if at first you’re thinking ‘******* I’m terrified, what if I look like a ****’ fake it.

After acting like this powerful alter ego you can become her. She takes over at times. I can switch between quiet, shy Sophia; into the proud, queen ***** Patricia. Patricia the stripper. I admit this is my alter ego. She wears red lipstick, a leopard coat and thigh highs. She owns a tiara and blows bubbles in her gum. She struts to punk music and breaths arctic monkeys. She dances to jack white, ***** wiggles and all. She sings Kate Nash and the kooks, because she needs to keep her showgirl ship with class and talent as well as outright hot radiation. She has no idea what she is doing, as long as everyone is happy and entertained; she is satisfied with her life. She loves everyone because they all contain a characteristic she adores.

I also have another alter ego who has no name. This is the first time I’m referring to her as her own alter ego. She’s like a ****** of crows. An unkind of ravens. She wears dangerously applied dark makeup. She always wears full black. She’s pretty much a Goth who thrives on shock, horror and Edgar Allen Poe. Her favorite author is Stephan king and she has murderous thoughts. She pouts. She is, oh so pouty; with darkened lips of a cherry flavor. She makes sassy comments which sometimes come out as unintended bitchiness. She scares people, but they call her cool. She’s a bass player, with a strong stance and a black bra and thong set. She smokes like a chimney. She has ash-ened dark lungs like her mind. She’s my biting ***** ego. She hates anything that’s negative in the human spectrum of life. Ironic. She can’t stand hate but embodies it. She smiles at kids playing or people busking. Under the black shell intended to scared, she has the interior of a marshmallow. Fluffy hair, pastel teddy choker, and a love for giggling. She smells or strawberries, cherries and bubble-gum. She is actually really happy; this drives people mad as they can’t label her…neither can I, unless this pinkie paradise is one of her own. Like all my egos…she is happy.

the zombie has opinions about nutrition
but lives off of tasty urban debris

the zombie is standing on the beach
whipped by grey
watching the waves roll in high

the zombie is on the computer again--
where nobody knows he's a zombie

the zombie seems to be listening but is looking at his phone

the zombie is not a joiner, so don't be uncool and ask
though he might join and then drop out, which just proves
joining was pointless in the first place

oh definitely the zombie likes to go down

the zombie bites the hand that feeds him

the zombie does not mind poison if it means saving money

the zombie is against bad things.

the zombie is not a sheep.

the zombie is dying of loneliness but can't ever seem to connect.

the zombie is spreading deserts
and drowning deltas.

the zombie is standing up for what's right, on facebook.

the zombie knows that *** is safer than alcohol
and it makes him safer

the zombie feels guilty sometimes but ultimately
not personally responsible.

the zombie is tired--not enough sleep, not enough brains.

the zombie doesn't need you,
he just wants you,
when he sees you.

ahem: the zombie wants you for your mind.

the zombie is free.

the zombie embodies Csikszentmihalyi's state of "Flow."

the zombie may have made you one of his kind,

you will never know because
zombies don't know they're
zombies.

My brother Zuo Si tells me I am well trained in the technique of writing, so well trained that when I come to put brush to paper I don’t have to punish myself with deep thoughts. See now how my hand flows to and fro and the characters appear.

I write a rhapsody for my Lord.

The philosopher Lu Ji says that whilst poetry traces emotion with delicacy, rhapsody embodies objects with light. My rhapsody is a bright star between Ts’an and Ch’en. On this bitter day I am describing the pine and cypress trees on the high peaks, where the first snows of winter cling hesitantly to their branches in the still air. I reflect on the emerald glow of their foliage in spring, their heavy fragrance in summer, the song of their branches in the autumn winds, their stillness in the desolation of winter.

I have a distant court in this vast palace. This suits my temperament and my literary disposition. I have the joy of my garden and the views of the Tai mountains.  I am a curiosity here. If I hold any of the arts of love I have little idea what they are. I do not spend my days plucking the dark hairs from my arms or deliberating over my wardrobe. It is understood that I am often unwell.

I aspire to arrange all things properly: to calm myself to write, to let my imagination sail on the open seas. My brother tells me I was chosen because of my stillness, observant gaze and gentle voice. If I am beautiful it is only because I absorb into myself the grace of the natural world I see about me. It is this self that dreams in my imagination. When I am with my Lord he touches my petalled mouth, inhales the distinct perfume of my nervousness, places his hand against my cheek and bids me speak.

I shift the thick blind to gaze at my garden. It waits for spring as I do. Winter only draws to itself past memories or desires for the future. It is too cold and damp to rest, to hibernate like the snake. It is easy to dream for a while, and being trained in the art of literature I can, with concentration, place myself anywhere.

Now, I am walking below the tall trunks of the cypress groves high on Linzi ridge. Looking down on the green river I absorb the aura of these great trees.

Now, I am kneeling at my desk, my feet wrapped in furs against the cold: I pour tea to warm the cup I hold in my writing hand.

Now, I ponder on the recluse Chi Songzi wandering amongst the highest pines to attain the Way. I follow his careful movements on the rocky path, his intense attention given to every live thing. I feel the different qualities of the breeze that lifts from the dark valley below.  My bare feet gather to themselves a miniature garden; soil, seeds, insects and grubs cling to my toes. Treading pine needles release a heady odure; above me the rock thrush chatter in the swaying branches.

The cold returns to my fingers and this vision retreats. This room is soon dark as the afternoon progresses. My maid has, during my oblivious state, left rice and vegetables. My rhapsody holds to its unfinished state with equanimity. I must of course fashion into its closing lines statements to please my Lord. The cypress tree trunks are steadfast like a man of wisdom or some such nonsense. This must wait for my attention on another day.

I am not like my brother who writes so slowly that his Rhapsody of the Capitals took up (it is said) ten years of his attention. My thoughts are agile and come to the page fully-formed. If I am calm (and well) a rhapsody may be finished in within my monthly cycle.  Much of this time is taken in dreaming, returning to images of my childhood, recalling conversations, remembering the thoughts and expressions of others. I read too the tales of travellers and poets. In summer my garden becomes a map of this world onto which I place and arrange my thoughts. As I tend my plants I tend these thoughts.

I now cover with a cloth the characters written in these past chilled hours and attend for a while to the business of palace life. An interview with my Lord’s second wife’s cousin – there has been a bereavement in her court and so a request to discuss a memorial ode. A scribe from the imperial archives demands I view a recent sequence of poems before it takes its place in Emperor Wu’s personal collection. I need to discuss the household accounts with my cook.

On my walnut chest a letter from Zuo Si: to read, to answer. His second gujin is wrapped in my bedclothes against the damp air. At night its delicate shape lies next to me. My left hand will caress its many silk strings, its long lacquered body, the smooth ivory of its pegs. Even in these winter months he is travelling, searching out those scholars and artists who have retreated from the official world of court and patronage to obscurity in remote places. After many years of work on the history of city life he is now writing poetry of seclusion and the wilderness. Famed through the Northern Kingdom his poetry and songs open every door, his work so often copied it is said to effect the price of paper.

My maid has already lit the butter lamp in my inner chamber, the protocol due to my position. I remove the clothes of the day, bathe briefly and dress in my court gown and rich furs. It is my duty to wait. By my side is the scroll of my Rhapsody on Thoughts of Separation. A recent favourite of my Lord’s, we have read this together in the stillness of the Tiger hours. The poem speaks with the voice of a young concubine newly separated from her home and family. She tells of her loneliness, her tears of anxiety, her ten thousand unremitting cares. Such words appear to stir my Lord . . .

Sands traverse oceans to envelop me
within the coercion of a dream of Egypt
as I search the turquoise of the medallion in my hands
to match the gray-blue of his eyes.

Too long have I willed for him
to sail the Atlantic,
stride through the door,
and sweep me from haunting this view of London.
But for now I am left
to my own image and a pane,
so I muster the meat of my palm
within this sleeve of lace
to brush it across the glass for a clearer look,
yet my efforts have revealed
no more than engorged eyelids reflected…
manacles of me.

Behest of self,
maniacal I am slated
to perform involuntary tedium,
hopeful to unlock deeper meaning
within each hieroglyph,
once so purposefully etched in a semblance of bronze.

I long to surrender
to the warmth of the taste of iron
caught in his sights over a tomb blanketed in gold.

I will come for you, Daughter of Heaven and Earth.

Spontaneous peristalsis of phrase
connects with the drop
gurgling through the candid quiet
and I wonder
if the image that now reflects would indulge him,
or if he might ****** the lock of dark hair
that he cropped from my neck with the skill of an assassin
when our paths first crossed in Cairo.

Time has softened the image I hold of him;
his eyes are satin,
burning like a flag still waving
as his army advances over our forbidden dig.

There is something
sensation-like in downfall…
copious saline embodies the fractal curve.

I found no scrolls of the Book of the Dead.

Here in my olive skin I rot like a peach
that’s been left in a satchel
forgotten to dust of the ages
disturbed by picks and axes
that strike with the determination of discovery.
A peach, never to be savored;
never to nourish or to pleasure,
or be trampled by insects
and carried off in pieces
to the hollow of the ant queen.

My eyelids are hard to turn like wet pages
forced to envision a river that is not the Nile
where I am held within the binds of propriety,
corsetted, bustled, and locked out of Egypt
dammed from the salvation
of even an intermittent Dutchman’s finger
by dunes and shores and footfalls
to find words that stream in liquid resonance
where firm succumbs to self and
I can feel passion writhing through my intangibles.

Thusly, clouds form over a city that blackens and distorts
the way a river's reflection of my face
would ripple from the plunging body of a dove,
belly-up, encased in wings,
and two thousand miles from him.

Arousal is a moccasin seethed in spasms
of peristalsis and musculature
toward the beckoning pulse of breast.

Any hope for contact collapses into flesh,
venom sheathes each corpuscle,
and a woken neck flails in judgment
before the truth in his eyes
under the shadow of the Great Pyramid
where Ramses II lies supine
across the Turin Papyrus.

I imagine the other side of me
and where she might reflect when
all that there is in such a study
contributes to my wanting
to wreak my bellied freedom
beneath crevices that sink as crevices do
in downward angled layers
to withstand the ages.

Dark hair gleams in contrast,
more for strip of scalp
than the trickle of red down my back.

Breached like sugar that candid—
starburst wings of Monarchs dripping ancient like sunsets
over magenta and milky mauve in the reeds—
my ankles revealed and inverted to the sky they glean, yet...

his arrival is delayed
when the pistol ***** three times.
The still of my breast compounds
with the steady union of the dark, and
somewhere denial flows with the sands.

So cycles change, like a fable for Eternal.

“Daughter of Heaven and Earth,” written by Dionne Charlet, appears in print in Cairo by Gaslight, the second anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books.  Books in the series include New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528).  Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie. Look for the upcoming anthology Paris by Gaslight, which will feature a poem of the same title by Dionne.

It was always a dream of mine
to capture the tincture that embodies
your sound; the voice that
wakes me from myself.

Words empower, words enslave; your
words gave succinctness to the
days. Periphrastic for show and
glamor, otherwise, it was always one to another.

"I" is for me, as you see fit.
"Love" is for us, as we dream it.
"You" is a sound that reverberates
off caged testimonies.

Sweet to me for sure; good to
you you claim. Please
pour forth that music. Love,
the chords of my harp-heart.

Your muse: a frumpy feminist who doesn't even like you or your poetry; a clipped-face mean-hair nag of a PC hag, a harridan of the nanny-state who inspires boring identity politics-driven free verse. Your muse smells nasty and has bad teeth. She voted for Hillary and loves Maya Angelou. Your muse barely tolerates your tepid unpoetic soul but she smiles a fake smile and lies to your face. Yours coerced you into publishing that e-book no one ever downloads. Your muse is unamusing, unmusical and moos like a cow. Mine mews and purrs like a sleek feline friend while sinuously scribing heroic rhymed couplets in the air with her tail. Yours grunts superficial Haiku through her snout then heads for her feed-trough in the mire. Your muse is a  dumpy data-driven bureaucrat who recites in a monotone to 3 medicated listeners at the yearly event. Your muse hired a social media specialist to market her product that no one wanted. My muse has no Facebook page because she want no Facebook page..

My muse is ergonomically sustainable in exquisite ******* epiphany. My muse laughs eternal rivers of lyrical light over the fact that your muse made you recite that silly stuff at the poetry slam. My muse loves me almost as deeply as I love her. Her ethereal body embodies all philosophy. One tiny point of light refracted from a single facet of her diadem will vaporize your merely mediocre muse. My muse is beloved of all true poets, for she stepped forth from the riven crown of the lyrical Father himself to bathe in the wellsprings of holy inspiration. You are utterly unworthy to even fantasize about kissing my muse's beatific, shining and holy ***. You wouldn't recognize MY MUSE if she knocked your post-modern skull with an Alexandrine sonnet. My muse gazes upon you for a millisecond and you writhe like an academic insect pinned to a collection board. My muse sneezes on you— and you get published in Atlantic and people yawn. Your muse makes entire English Departments nod off and then wake up and leave work early. My muse gets me high, drives me home AND pays my bail. In cash. My muse is an orthodox blood-washed Christian saint, elect of God and alive forevermore, shining wisdom personified, mother and sister and daughter of lyrical love. Yours is a lying crypto-Marxist troll who had to pay an ogre to artificially inseminate her and even then she could only conceive misshapen dull-witted free-verse freaks who whine about micro-aggression while they limp to the nearest safe space where they curl up in fetal position and scrawl confessional existential incoherent dullness.

My muse rocks. I love her more ever since she kicked your muse's unpoetic ***. I choose my muse so you lose.

What can I confess? I love her and that will never change.
I've tried. Nothing works. There is no way to push it out.
It will not be defeated. It is an unbeatable love. An immovable force.
It will not be controlled, it cannot be told where to go.
It simply is, and will never cease to be.

Rest cannot be obtained by mere sleep.
Refuge is a distant memory.
Your steps become nothing more than the distance between you and her.
Everything is her. Nothing is not about her.
Laughter is only a reminder of the type of innocent happiness you feel
When she's standing next to you.
Smiling faces are always a prelude to the glowing memory of hers.
No thought is had that isn't in some way connected to her.

The sun seems dim in comparison to the fire this love embodies.
It is otherworldly. It is unfathomable.
It is that brightness which cannot be perceived with the eyes or
Conceived in the body, but merely felt with the soul.
You see it more clearly through the amplification of tears,
Behind the cracks of the heart.

You work. You play. You sleep. You eat.
And nothing fulfills. Nothing satisfies the soul.

Your future is behind you.
And she stands there, grinning, waiting on you to remember her, reminding  you to forget.

But I will not give up on her. It is not in me to let go of this love.

Our destiny is written in the stars. Our happy ending imprinted in my heart.

I want the kind of love
That's quiet

Quiet like tea and a blanket in the morning

I want a love that's soft
That's honest and deep and true
That's always there

Love that's not for show
Or for power
But love simply because love is felt

I want a love that accepts and encourages
I want a love that embodies peace

If corporate Dems tell me about how 'We all do better when we all do better'...
Or about how 'It's not about class, it's about coming out for Dems'...
Or about how, 'No one identifies with the working class' or 'nobody wants to identify with the working poor'...
I say to you, WE ARE THE WORKING POOR.
Look at the stains on their clothes, listen to their words, look at the rugged callous of their hands, who amongst us can last a job loss, or wage cut, or a car blow out?
None of us, cept the 1%.
We are the precariat class, the proletarian class.
I say to you, the working poor and homeless are the 'emarginati', the literal marginal ones, the ones at the edges of society.
But who, honestly, isn't at the edge???
The Democratic gubernatorial candidate turned carpet-bagging Congressional goon, Bank of America executive turned-state-CFO Alex Sink embodies the centrist-right neoliberal dogma of 'business-rules', who cares about immigrants besides those who 'clean our hotels and do our landscaping'.
Brand-imaging, quaffed corporate Dems are why the two-party system in broken.
Both parties are sell-outs to capital, and they think we don't know.
We know, and we remember.
Neoliberal capitalism of 'Washington Consensus' imposed on the rest of humanity will fall.
I just hope we wise up as a republic in the mean time.

LOVE
resonates
perpetuates
proliferates
aura embodies
reign cloud shines

I'll offer you my hand
A humbling breeze
Earthquakes shake the land
expand beneath the sand
waves rolling, sunshine

raw pure and unclear
dissolving fear
pouring light
fruiting delight
tears of nectar
sweet perfection
ormus affection

candlelight reflection sprouting seeds of our intention
laughter infection- spreading heading towards my heart
tickles as it parts ----- fleeting dogma counterparts

I believe in the moment. what it shows to me
mama earth writing poems to me, streams trees thrones to me
barefeet crush dry leaves, as fear flees these trees
teach so lovingly----- so humbling

Love Vibrations
love lifts altruist
light guides
inspired minds
so shine

restruct time
align oscillating vibes
fractal benign
loveshine
/

Inhale deeply, and a two, three, four.
Exhale, let it fill your soul once more.
The ultimate drug of choice, immersed.
Intoxication takes over, unquenched thirst.

Ceasing to end, and an endless beat.
The kind of tune to make you tap your feet.
It's the swing in your step, the song in your heart.
It's the soulful rhythm in a world torn apart.

Embodies everything in one swift ephemeral plea.
A beautiful song carried out in perfect harmony.
It runs through our veins, innate and entwined.
Music is a language for all of mankind.

In my life I have come to find that opportunity always wears a mask
A hidden door or path that we could walk and find adventure
   or through the chance to perform a heroic task
Opportunity is not the girl who gives in too easy
Opportunity plays harder to get than that girl you have chased after for so long
In the footrace of life we are in constant motion
Looking for opportunities to ask Opportunity for an opportunity
Love, success, failure or risk
Broken hearts are just doors left cracked open
Illuminated by the light within showing the inside to possibility
Opportunity takes a broken heart, an open door, a creaky floor
And can send that person who will seal the cracks
An angel that can pass a wand or use some weird dust
   to heal the scars other may have left when they ripped open your chest
On the way out, they didn’t bother slamming to door
They left it open for the world to see you crying on the floor
As their steps fade away and the creaks stop in silence
Opportunity has a chance to whisper peace to your soul
In the emptiness and solitude of a dim and dusty heart
Opportunity often sends a person to clean the mess and turn you into the very best
Puzzles are great for the challenge each piece embodies
Once in the sum you lose sight of that one that drove you to the edge of sanity
So take the chances that Opportunity gives you
When they come a piece at a time, put it in your pocket and hold on
Like a lovers sacred locket, the pictures emulate what we define as fate
Eternity is made one moment at a time

The morning star defied the godly beam of divinity:
     The star feeding the vines of evil embracing bodies,
Saying “no” since the grand affliction, to the trinity,
      It is Morningstar; the devil - Courage he embodies.
        
Nameless angels envied the free one of the chain,
      Light and of light they were, yet the opposite beats -
Beats in their hearts - jealousy and wrath remain,
      In the servants with no will in their celestial meats.

An upholstery of fragile sins to test the son was.
      He stood for the fire, and O! Flames hurled upon,
Banished and loner, the voice of every lost cause,
      In the streets, skins and days that cease to go on.

How shall we and he defend not the selves created,
     With a consciousness ideal and stark, by the almighty?
The almighty himself, who selfishness in us dictated,  
     We, makers of evil, goodness and charming Aphrodite?

He fell, greeting the stars, wavering a throne above,
    And shedding a ****** tear for a sin in the creation.
A sin with no faulty one committing - the sin of love,
    Self love, the “sin” Morningstar fought for its liberation.

for all I know, she is a woman.
her beauty might leave you speechless
she is special, not the only one of her species,
and yet, she is uniqueness.

the wind whistles through her hair,
as she walks in elegance,
but it’s nothing like arrogance.

she embodies love and protection,
her heart is strong and golden.
and she is a lover of perfection.

she still remembers
the chances she didn’t take.
the wounds, the heart aches
and the days without breaks.

she has fallen many times,
but sure knows how to arise.
her strength has never let her down
and she still carries her crown.

for all I know,
she is a queen without king.
she always knew how to fight
and how to spread out her wings.

she protects her infants
even from a distance.
her love is persistent,
she is brave and resistent.

for all I know,
her heart is in the right place,
it carries compassion and grace.
and she will always make sure,
that I am safe.

for all I know, she must be a mother.
and gracefully I smiled,
when I realised,
that I am her child.

- gio