I gave into a subtle beating,
Wrought once by Eros’ tasked -entreating,
The winds confound I lost my heart and…
…she of black-haired, eyes, dark beauty;
warm-rosined cheeks of nature gladdened.
For Pallas' claim, -said we both were saddened.
And me a farmer, she a princess,
I of yoked-labor, while her suitors, -the best.
Doth Father-King did mantic challenge, that challenge being sought in no jest.

Accosted me the low-ly suitor,
He gave of me a challenge -the worst. He sent me to the serpent’s folly.
With dagger and heart, whirlwind passion, sought I did the guiles’ jolly.
Up the cragged wind-swept mountain, past laurel berries, trees of holly,
Into white polished marble temple to the folly of a lair-born beast.
Gave my most but just a farmer, heart of swelling beat untempered.
As he set out, devour meal thus conquered, came she the dark-haired raven beauty, with shrieks and wails doth shocked the serpent, he surprised I plunged my dagger. Serpent dead she held her finger to my lips and then did whisper;

“We of Pallas judgment true did, find our love rise from ash-field –lister.
Tell of this you will to no one, you the boy who captures fair-heart,
To father you shall be a hero, deception we of female -impart,
Cleverness you must now fashion, must fashion your will to a high art,
Something of a nature now you must know,
Like the serpent-challenge dealt your passion a blow,
Apples will not save you once and,
Once as King and you my hus-band,
We the two of Pallas’ favor, love forever shall we savor,
I the half of you shall sing, you the half shall make me King,
We together, rule forever, we of two sides brawn and clever,
No serpent ever come between us, now that we a love -Athena’s!
Go now and this be our se-cret, marry me and never re-gret, all is yours and I your egret!”

Of this I did sit and ponder, on that hill of temple, off at yonder,
Me of fields, dirt-laden squire, she at court make of me a liar,
Is her beauty, hand a console -to the surety and loss of my soul?
Run I did to the city my way, storm gates to the court and did say;

“These, the teeth of folly’s serpent and she will be my wife on this day!”

Aged now and sit here, grumble...

Kingdom of deceit into which I crumble;
Woe to me how didst I tumble?

In rush to love perhaps did stumble?
In later years now here I humble;

...love was not worth all the trouble.

As these forlorn cadences await- unfold
To compose a disbanded vow
Yielding unto harrows of gates untold
Charms death to disdainful plow

Death is plowed to a forgiving halt
While silver moonlight and whiskey dances remain
Glittering gold in this crimson vault-
Feeble souls conjure grace as graceless minds abstain

Counterfeit conceits ravish this open cellar
As the night’s last dance ceases to a disgraceful plea
The dweller’s disdain is akin to my killer
And heaven yields blood to salt the earth for thee

Come away now with your anguishing defeats
Seek not a jagged spike as the heaven’s conspire and wake
Glory and gold may turn us black as deceit
But deception admonishes the dancers in their quake

Spellbound nuances of this reality await at every turn
Mourning and fighting the finality of this grave
Orchestrated knives are rosined like honey, beckoning our blood to burn
At last, a burning reckoning comes to ravage the brave

But refrain, oh killer- host of this crimson vault
Enlist a memoir for our sins
Recalling the pieties of our gracious faults,
Enough to make this blood go thin.

After the milking's done,
Farmer gone to house and bed,
Rag-tag tabbies, half-breed furs,
Assemble by the milking stool
Yowl a bit, then settle down to purrs.
Rosined up, a straw-***** bow
Emits a violinic fiddle's skirl,
And one by one the mousers
Stand on twos to take a matted floor.

Come, let us see you pirouette,
You puissant pouncers.
Lightly spin those furry toes;
Sheath deep those claws to put
Perfection in your prances;
Balance on your tails, and spin;
Exercise or exorcise in cattish dances
The feline feelings you are in.

Dance happily and furiously...
Or sinuously and slow...
Whatever moods mouse-
Murderers can feel or know.
Enjoy the dance, ye half-breed cats.
Never mind the jealous schemes of mice,
Nor terroristic plots of leagues of rats.

The overture sounds a muffled thud,
       And scraping flesh against macadam.
Un-rosined bows screech across nerves,
                     Dividing molecules to atoms.
Each neuron fires off, splicing into three
The soul from the body,
          and something indescribably between.

Catching fire, he ascends -
            "This is what it truly means to be!"
Each piece, each side
Breaking away in-finitely
To somehow become more whole
Through division, and in balance.
                  Like a reunion, of holy trinity,
                       Caught ablaze in fissile symphony.

                   -  -  -

And like a cork popped from Prosecco,
Rewound, and played reversed,
       He careens with a whining pitch
       And
                 f
                    a
                  ­     l
                          l
                            s
   ­                           From orbit,
                                  Back to earth.

Glimpsing God
Only to be clawed back
To the pains and pleasures of Samsara,
        To taste the bitterness of my own blood,
        Transposed
        From the ecstasy of Nirvana.

This is how I came to know the realm,
     In which our feeble bodies lurch.
'Ere I was born as a phoenix
                       from the ashes.
      In the rear cabin of a hearse.

O darling,
fill your wondrous-mind
with the beauty
of my rosined bow,
as I finger the strings
with warmth
& vibrancy
you do know
the feeling,
the kind that floods
& burns your flesh
with that hypnotic
sweet-****** tune.

How wonderful would it be if I could twirl around on my toes like I always craved to do since I was a few thousand days old?
How fantastic would it be if I could paint a masterpiece as big as the solar system and add the details of every star out there, even the shooting ones?
How phenomenal would it be if I could glide beautifully on thick beds of glistening ice while music invades my ears?
How outstanding would it be to take a bite of golden victory as the anthem of my country performs along in the background?
How bizarre would it be to skate my bow on rosined chords and shape ethereal harmonies?
I wake up every morning full of wonder, puzzling, wanting to try everything there is on Earth and to savor gold as I live every illusion there can be.

The old man grabbed his knee with his hand
and held it stable to allow him to stand.
He reached for his blackthorn stick that served as his cane
and stared out in despair at the down pouring rain.
For weeks it’s been like this; his crops now would fail.
That’s life in the North Hills outside of the Pale.
Once he’d been young, handsome and strong;
Now he walked Stooped over and his sons all were gone;
to England and Canada, some  to the States.
He had infrequent letters to keep track of their fates.
Well, the cash from the quarry had not all been spent
And he owned this place clear; he owed no landlord rent.
It’s just him and his second wife, several pigs and a cow,
All the children had left them long before now.
“There’s no future for me here!” one son had enlisted
That boy died on the Somme and his Father still missed him.
He thought, too, of his favorite, his daughter Kathleen,
Who died of the Flu back in nineteen- nineteen
He reached for his fiddle and rosined his bow;
He sat for a bit, played a tune sad and slow.
This old place was his life, in the hills near Strabane
He had so longed to travel when he’d been a young man;
But those days are long gone, over and done
You are only permitted to dream when you’re young.

Still under your casted spell,
years and miles have not broken,
the rosined bow glides heartstrings,
a melody from yesterday plays.

It's funny how painted lips
seen across the room,
stirs a passioned cauldron
I thought emptied.

But those lips once pressed to mine,
branded and injected and scarred,
with witchcraft skill outshining Mab,
a lust that cannot be rend asunder.

The reunion cut short,
I hurry and leave,
lest she see me,
whereupon I shall turn to clay.

Too malleable in her hands,
and too open to suggestion,
my will wants this,
but my mind must overcome.