Mother, O' mother
what have you done?
Turned your youngest daughter
into a son!

Conceived in the dark
of a closet room
forever cursed with
the mark of doom.

Child unwanted,
mother's remorse
dejected father
steers a new course.

She-male baby
unloved as a lass
bitter and sharp
as underfoot glass.

Child always told
she was father's lament,
lies from the mother
resentfully spent.

Cascades... flowing
tears trickling down
All the while going
down, down the gown.

Cascades... drowning
waters swishing together
And completely surrounding
My girl, named Heather.

Cascades... crying
her eyes moistening
From a sadness so trying
that I just can't help running.

Cascades are what they are,
Flowing like fingers across the guitar.

The seedling sprouts, it bursts through ground,
silently growing, never making a sound.
First is the stem, then comes the leaves,
now watch a seedling, growing amongst trees.
In its lush green meadow, a trickling stream,
its roots swarm to the water, its elixir, its dream.
Small animals calling its branches their home,
as it hears insects wings drone.
Still standing silent, never making a sound,
content in its world, content in the ground.
It listens to songbirds singing away,

Lying on the battlefield, stunned by a near death blow
He was woken by fetid breath, cold as the new fallen snow
He felt the sharpness of the teeth, pain exquisite, so bright
He was slipping from this world, when a bolt came through the night

Blue flame surrounded him, and he heard the hammer fall
The "god of thunder" had heard... a true, great warrior call
The vision of that horror, a thing that was of the night
Was limned, struck down and blasted, from his very sight

Opinions form before words
they swarm every syllable
subjected to recourse the
hollow hoarse, what else
of course.

Reasons fall victim to treason
upon any plinth that shatters,
the faithful rally not now
don't dilly dally.

The brave never behave
fame etched here on the
grave, remembered in verse
departed yet still belong.

I digress at your behest
my time in passing I won't
invest, subjected but none
the less beyond the intersection
of interaction may well detest.

Deprivation

Deprivation
Is the sperm,
For poetic emotional creation,
Without which there can be
No procreation.

Two are needed,
One a sperm
Another
An ovum
And
In creativity your are
The natural sperm
And
Mind, is your ovum

brush the rain
that draws
the light
in beads

the steam
on the glass

radiator growling
and the television
fills the emptiness
and chases
darkness into corners
and under beds

I wait forever
for tommorrow
and falter in ruins
I have cast

and I think of
the cedarline
cold rains
that fell

and where you
are in memory
and in my heart
where you dwell

The undressed oaks of winter
Stretch their fingers to the sky,
Contemplating autumn's end,
And sharing silent wintry cries.

Brown leaves have faded to the ground
And back again to dust,
Breaking underneath my feet,
Veiled beneath the frosty crust.

They stand helpless in the bitter cold,
Some bent from ancient storms,
Keeping watch in winter's twilight,
These majestic, dormant forms.

,

but you started it
yes of course I did my friend
I always do.

,

                                  REFERENCES:
 Inspired by the Norse Myth: Sif's Golden Hair: How Loki Wrought mischief in Asgard. (compilation: The children of Odin Padraic Colum 1920) Source: Sacred Texts Archives @ sacred-text.com  Many different compilations to choose from, great resource for inspiration. Kat