Doomsday, May 21, 2011

Doomsday, May 21, 2011

The time has come to say our last goodbyes
As quakes and floods and waves destroy the ball.
And God takes aim at bad and wicked lives
And lifts the true converts from final fall.

No one can tell what may be left behind.
What forms of life may roam the new expanse?
Your guess or hunch is just as good as mine
When gone are boys and girls and sweet romance.

I hope I fly to live on some fresh turf
Instead of die as mulch for some old sphere.
But since I can't control the winds or surf,
I plan to raise a glass and stay right here.

I can't complain about my time on Earth.
I chose the script and played the part each day.
If you can judge my heart or draw my worth,
Feel free to write the book and draw the pay.

So Lord just let the end bring down the house
With shock and awe on us who fill the stage.
Give us an act that's gentle as a mouse
But builds as lion's roam and roar and rage.

And, if you find you must delay the show,
Make sure we all can get a last rain check.
The Apocalypse can generate big dough
When those who stir it up revive the wreck.

 The Missing Piece

You can't force the last jigsaw piece of your perfect world into mine
Unless you want to distort the puzzle and tear its fragile image.
Leave the missing piece incomplete, a jagged reminder of distressed times.

My inferior humanity serves as a playground for your insults and tattle tales
As you swing and slide and make merry on the go around of each spin.
Then, you laugh aloud when the flesh from my knee drips ruddy upon the ground.

Your best offense is to defense my every motion of hopeful recovery.
My vast, unpardonable past resides on the soured apex of your tortuous tongue
Where it easily intrudes into every crevice of present fortune.

Playing foolish or being the buffoon requires the same witless mind.
Walking onto the stages of incongruity and conflict, I fall victim to all ruses,
Thus, evoking howls of delight from those ravenous for such foible diversion.

Yet, without the flaw of that left incomplete, perceived completion would be impossible:
The better never bested; the unattainable never attained; the unimaginable never imagined.
In truth, the paradox of perfection is that the only perfect state is imperfection.

Leave the puzzle of my life unfinished and in plain sight for others to behold at will.
The blemished product adds fairness to the industry of its making and its presentation.
The missing piece, lost in process, can never be duplicated and added by the less sincere.

The Human Touch

The Human Touch Your place in my heart is not always better than the touch of your hand. Emotions do not embrace and caress the flesh that enfolds worlds of desire. Yet, we settle for soft ripples of remembrance and distant communication Because even innocent contact implores a response and realizes the romance. The touch rushes the blood of love through the skin as it escapes the pores And makes apparent the heart's feeble weakness for courage of expression. Like quicksilver, tactile electricity demands an immediate response And its ruddy expression paints instant recognition of the nervous solicitude. In quick manner, the heart stops to await helplessly a return of warm consideration As, meanwhile, the flesh courteously presses its rash convergence for signs of limitation. Anticipation steers the mystery of pawing intentions and inevitable reaction As fingertips strive to measure degrees of inner thoughts and emotions. Soon the novelty turns to a mechanical grip or a spiritual enclosure. The curious hand begins to calm the impatient, longing heart And to create an indelible memory as it feeds the relentless brain The simple delicacy of the intimate human touch.

Innocence

Innocence Innocence is its own reward. Given at conception from the grace of the highest love, Fiercely protected from those who might spoil its virtues, And set free to explore a snug island of earthly delights. Pirates of purity raid the fragile sanctuary Attempting to distort every vestige of chaste life. And only the most stable fend off the evil marauders For long tomorrows of pristine perfection. Time eventually weakens even the most innocent As it sweeps away the clean remains of juvenile behaviors And carelessly tosses them away without ceremony Into boxes neatly stored in the closets of the adult mind. Longing and regret eventually occupy the seasoned stage To play their somber roles in tales of lost simplicity And stories of bygone, careless times: Simple, outdated vignettes soon shrouded by drawing curtains. Innocence is the unrealized reward given freely to all. Too quickly undervalued and tarnished By covetous hands of greedy, loveless animals Or by the innocent pawns moved by the rights of natural passage.

Poetry of the Day

Just a Foolish Dream If I saw you laughing and running into my arms, No moment of my life could match my treasure. Words and deeds and promises would evaporate In the loving embrace of such a deliverance. Cold, rusty chains of resistance Would break clean from old tethers As we would share a new, silent prayer For a human bond of strongest devotion. Free from the pride of self interest, Free from the ghosts of never-changing history, Free from the awkward masks of changing standards, We would delight in the new spirit of mutual respect. Such an image often opens in my dreams, A feature in the imaginary theater where fantasies play. The vivid face, the delightful laugh, the dashing sprint to my heart All so abruptly interrupted by the broken reel of conscious reality.

Wonder Why

Wonder Why Your wonder trips wires of emotion in your mind That ignite charges of inexplicable awe And shower you in jagged slices of cutting doubt That cripple reason for the brief time being. Had you presence of mind, Searing lust for adventure, Simple stimuli for motivation, Unquenchable curious nature. Instead, dilemma bleeds yellow streams of uncertainty That seep into all order and precise calculation Until systems shut down by the incredulous agony Leave a shell of unforgiving, lonely paradox. Had you proper admiration, Overwhelming sensation, Adequate meditation, Rational skills of query. You wonder about the lost opportunity. You wonder about the fork in the road. You wonder about the twisted turn of fate. You wonder about the cruel circumstance. The smile The kiss The deal The luck Money Passion Pretense Moment Life God Soul Death

How Well You Know Me

How Well You Know Me You don't know me: You know the things I do. You know the words I say. You know the movements I make. You know the responses I offer. And you know the appearances I display. You don't know me: You know the things I can't do. The know the words I can't say. The know the movements I can't make. The know the responses I can't offer. And you know the appearances I can't display. You don't know me: You know the things you want me to do. You know the words you want me to say. You know the movements you want me to make. You know the responses you want me to offer. And you know the appearances you want me to display. You don't know me: You imagine the things you never want me to do. You imagine the words you never want me to say. You imagine the movements you never want me to make. You imagine the responses you never want me to offer. And you imagine the appearances you never want me to display. But, you should know me: I do some things, Can't do some things, Do some things you want, And imagine some things to do you never want me to imagine to do. I say some words, Can't say some words, Say some words you want, And imagine some words to say you never want me to imagine to say. I make some movements, Can't make some movements, Make some movements you want, And imagine to make some movements you never want me to imagine to make. I offer some responses, Can't offer some responses, Offer some response you want, And imagine to offer some responses you never want me to imagine to offer. I display some appearances, Can't display some appearances, Display some appearances you want, And imagine to display some appearances you never want me to imagine to display.

The Lost Sinner

Witness the hopeless sinner A mistake in the making of a soul Destined to defile the innocent With cruelty and hate His hollow eyes perceive all Without compassion or grace As his voice angrily swears out Base deficiencies of his heart Without conscience or shame He roams without boundaries To torment the good And to violate all sense of order Deceit and anger are the tools He manipulates to afflict Deep gashes of pain On unsuspecting victims Masked with false kindness He dupes his friends Then assails them with allegations Of indecency and misconduct Manipulator, cheater, monster, and abuser- These are his wicked names Bound to intimidate others For his own ill-gotten gains Witness the hopeless sinner Damned to an eternity Of repeated offense after offense Just to dismally survive

Fading Love

Fading love grows vicious tentacles That grab and suction onto Rigid conditions from a sea of rich choices To glut its voracious appetite for overbearance. The beast, camouflaged in its natural domain, Silently stretches its long, meddlesome arms Into the tightest crevices of trust and confidentiality To uncover new requisites of personal admiration. When threatened, love immediately jets aback Retreating rapidly to safety Amid a cloud of inky deceit Safe to ponder new strategies for its risky carelessness. With no skeletal frame to contain its form, Fading love hides from time to time In slits inaccessible to those with backbone Who dare to release its captured demands of prey. Highly intelligent, the creature learns To play against those who do not conform With the changes resulting from rules Formulated in its independent behavior. Crushed in the beak of faded love While being held in the poisonous embrace of its eight arms, A struggling, once-held attribute becomes a meal That fails to escape to freedom.

The Hungry World

Some Koreans munch on theie local dogs, The more suffering, the better the meat, Smashing cats in sacks against brick walls To liquefy in blenders and sell as drinks. While Hindus in India eat no sacred cows, If it motherly moos, keep it off their plates. Gods Shiva and Krishna have bovine ties, So cows are divine: 'dus never touch a steak. Islam belief is very strict that pork's a harmful dish. See, some people think "you become just what you eat." An unclean pig makes morals low and spirits fall away And cause one to grow a snout and cloven, dirty feet. Japanese love to sink their teeth in sashimi oh so pink. They dip raw, thin slices in sherry sweet sauces made of soy, And make horse meat a big part of izakaya essential cuisine. The lucky may get some basashi, fat nag's neck is a special joy. Limeys eat their breakfast treat of dried pig's blood and fat. This peppery thrill is often called blood pudding as its name. Mixed in a black sausage with some oatmeal, barley, and bread, Homer in the great Odyssey gave reference to its fame. Yanomami of South America think cannibalism is quite OK. To add strength for an enemy's defeat nothing do they waste; They reabsorb their closest clan in their cremated remains. The tribe serves dinner eating their ashes with banana paste. In the States a kid will eat 1,500 PB sandwiches before graduation, And a typical American appetite swallows 28 pigs before it dies, Along with 51 pounds of chocolate for the sweet tooth every year. So those other folk might look at us with curious, unbelieving eyes.

The Shadow of Indifference

You let me down

Flat, leveled, busted

By the rushing roadway

Bleeding

Going down slow

You let me down

Embarrassed, humiliated, belittled

In my huge mistake

Alone

Hugging my shaky knees

You let me down

Branded, labeled, stigmatized

On the walk of life

Indicted

Dodging long pointing fingers

You let me down

Gagged, shackled, tethered

To a hanging tree

Suspended

Death dancing jerkingly

You let me down

Empty, gaunt, starved

From the raging famine

Skeletal

Lying in debris

You let me down

Unnoticed, unappreciated, unloved

Within a careless family

Ignored

Wishing to be free

You let me down

Dismembered, discarded, swept

Between cracks of conformity

Buried

Knowing you are just like me

What is Your Pleasure?

What is happy? Temporary at best It’s over-rated Whether you find it Or do it Or just run into it What is happy? Lasts a while It’s temporary Whether you wear it Or drive it Or live in it What is happy? Satisfies a little It’s relative Whether you feel it Or revel in it Or lust for it What is happy? Changes with time It’s dependent Whether you have it now Or expect it soon Or breathe it in What is happy? Lives in point of view It’s priceless Whether you sugar it Or swallow it Or are consumed by it What is happy? Ages every day It’s fickle Whether you play it Or hold it tightly Or wish it back What is happy? Unrestrained by design It’s elusive Whether you box it Or tie it up Or shut it in your room What is happy? Spiritual forever It’s hopeful Whether you read it Or ponder it Or wait patiently on its deliverance.

Everything Breaks

Everything Breaks

Some small and fragile works

Fall victim to strong hands

That violate their rest.

They snap!

And fall in worthless pieces

As they shatter to the ground.

Other common and cheap things

Die quickly from design

That insures they will not last.

They crumble.

And rest in cans of trash

As they await the refuse man.

The strongly formed creations

Pass slowly in good use

That constant strain demands.

They expire.

And lie in honored rest,

As they rust or fade away.

Great wonders of natural design

Cease not before the eyes

That constantly stare in awe.

They disappear.

And satisfy a God

As He changes all born in time.

Your Image of Me

Your Image of Me

I know your image of me is what you hoped I’d be.

I never meant to hurt a heart that put such hope in me.

I confess the wrong of living days you are not in mind,

And admit such times will come when I am still unkind.

My worst faults are deep, cold veins of the blackest coal.

To extract them now would carve open wounds into my soul.

So I walk my walk with haunting ghosts of old memories.

I conjure them to understand the pieces of what used to be.

There is a saint to grant all grace you most dearly deserve,

A perfect soul to seek and praise all things he does observe.

With angelic arms he wraps you in a dream caress

As you lay your head upon his sinless pious chest.

His words are balms that soothe and heal life’s deepest scars.

His hands frame your moon-lit face shining among the stars.

But heavenly powers are means of love I cannot possess.

So, defective as I am in form, I must confess.

I may never reach the marks that you have planned for me.

My imperfect love shows stains for all the world to see.

Only the Lonely Know

A starless night stands bare in an onyx sky A dim streetlamp glows softly in the airy night A neglected toothbrush rests alone on cold white sink A rowboat struggles upon the waves of the open sea A romantic letter severs ties with "I love you" A past now gone remains in a pair of empty shoes

A liver-spotted hand embraces an old photograph
A lover's last goodbye speaks through a ticket torn in half

A bright beam seeps though an insignificant crack
A shaft of sunlight breaks onto a sylvan path

A dark silhouette stands alone on an abandoned beach
A lonesome child sits on a swing and drags his feet

A portrait stares from a dirty window frame
A sheet of music lies silent and never played

A distant siren wails in the summer heat
A homeless beggar wanders a filthy urban street

A hollow stem grows through a broken walk
A black cat begins a silent midnight stalk.

A glass pane frowns broken teeth in an abandoned home
Trembling knees support a weary head left to weep alone

A lonely fir tree desperately grasping steep craggy ground
A mourning dove on a telephone wire coos lamenting sounds

An unstable lover remains beside a mute telephone
An evicted family packs up the remnants of their home

Loneliness stalks the darkened lives of every soul and heart
Waiting for all reluctant victims to play their empty parts

Alone in a Crowd

I'm alone in the midst of a crowd Waiting for you to deliver me From the heart of the swarming mass To set sail in your calm blue sea. I feel the gentle swell of warm new waves That form from your sweet caress And smell the sunshine within your hair That falls lightly upon my chest. Feel moist sweat roll in tiny beads As fiery blood heats our hearts to flame We swim in the tides of our love Until you longingly call my name. But my mind then returns from the dream And my eyes once more scan the large throng. I search for the smooth lovely face I just kissed in my dreams for so long. I'm so alone in the midst of a crowd. With no hope you'll deliver me. All the while I had hoped for a love I was trapped in my cold reality.

Sometimes, You Just Try Too Hard

Sometimes you just try too hard... You push so hard on the wish That you let up on the do. You concentrate on the will And it overcomes the way. Your efforts are minus attainment. Your appetites can't coax a crumb. Your passions spark no romance. And your cravings die in longing. Nothing works its magic. Nothing ignites a spark. Everything ends in disaster. Everything is not good enough. So you push the panic button As you pull the red alarm. Then, you kick the door wide open And you run with all your might. Until, at last...

You drop the ball...Lying alone in the street, As you take the fall...Your end you do meet. Though you've tried it all... Your failure is sweet You still hit the wall... As you accept the defeat.