Individualistic

I choose
My rules
Not yours
Your lost ship of fools

I lead
You follow
You're lost
A bitter pill to swallow

A square peg never fits in a round hole
Those pegs are free from any control

I'm an individual
Full of individualism
Not a part of the Big Brother system
Individualism

I'm an individual
Full of individualism
Following the path of Satanism
Individualism

I decide
My path
Not yours
Enjoy the bloodbath

Please tell me the story
if you care to dredge up
the memories

Of course it's up to you
and if you don't want to
that's ok - either way

I don't know why
I have to be the one
who's flexible and deferential
but that seems to be
the way it is

You can chose to
remain reticent and
uncommunicative

Maybe one day you'll feel
the need to unburden
and unload

.
a writer must carve
huge chunks out of time
for himself

a writer must have
the ability to hold onto
an image ...long

also, patience, intelligence
some knowlege
and a starting bit of inspiration

these things,along with
a comfortable place for his chair,
some paper, pens,
and, preferably, a full bottle
of (state your preference),
are the basic necessities

but mostly,
a writer must have
a high tolerance
for lonliness

Ashen dawn
Violet kissed
Bruising early morning mist.

Shiver cold
Icy greys
Crystal crunchy winter days.

Feathered fronds
Floating free
Diamond sculpted filigree.

Glitter snow
Crumbly white
Sparkling dusty trinket light.

Sun shimmered
Spangled trees
Rooted in the glister seas.

Golden bloomed
Amber hues
Set in jade and pastel blues.

Glowing moon
Round and bright
Heralding a frosty night.

liberation

aching carbon corpus
humiliating adventure --
diaphanated alarm

discovering humiliation
to be first step --
on path to liberation.

vcp

I'm off to gather some firewood
where once a copse of hardwoods stood
a place of but stumps and waste tree tops
cleared in the month of acorn drops.

It is a late mid-winter day
with cold winds and sky of gray.
That tree lap near the logging road
will go far in making up a load .

So I park the truck right near
get out the saw and all the gear
but take a pause to look around
at wildlife's former running ground.

Angelic perversion
fall from grace
banished into the wilderness

He wanders a solitary road
a desolate soul,
the abandoned one.

Hades and the bowels of hell,
behind soulless eyes
the stench of death upon his ragged clothes.

Creeping through the urban undergrowth
ashen heart, so brittle and cold,
Godforsaken, rejected.

Immortality his cross to bear
condemned to exist in purgatory,
A deviant fiend.

Vile transgressor
contrition his eternal torture,
redemption his goal.

`

There is always a poem after this one;
the understudy to today's centre stage:

This poem however, is never unimportant,
it is as individual as the poem that follows;
many written poems have unwritten forbears-
each poem is breathed and lived; rarely spoken.

The panorama of this poem is found in one place –
the window of its reader's imagination;
so each poem is the beginning point
of new journeys that we join with the poet.

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You ignored underneath

my pleas of “take me with you,

don’t leave me here alone”

terrorized, I tried to live through.

How could you not hear me,

did you not see me?

I would run to you for shelter

but too often I found blame.

Seems I did not understand

rules to the denial game

Did you care for me so little,

to choose him over your daughter?

In hoary woods I sit alone
hardly breathing, quiet and still
breeze sings a mournful monotone
penetrating bones with sneaky chill

There's little warmth in winter's sun
within this sky of clear deep blue
above a world of gray and dun
where yellow flowers one time grew

Yet this watch I still must stay
and attempt to stay alert
if need be 'till the end of day
while wearing camo coat and shirt