One night long ago,
In my darkest hour,
I felt through my soul,
A unspeakable power.

A whisper to forsake,
All that was right,
Sudmit myself to evil,
Give in to the fight.

It told be being good,
Had nothing to gain,
But bitter dissapointment,
And unbearable pain..

But If I followed the darkness,
The whisper promised me this,
I would feel only victory,
In the wonderful abyss.

My Poetry!

There is no lack in you

And you have discovered
And
Continue to uncover,
Imagery and metaphor
That only you uniquely
Can share with the world

If however you choose
To silence your pen,
Then the world would be at a loss....

There are among us,
Many scientists,
Who have expressed themselves in verse?
Wonderful poetry and fiction...
It is a known territory
And a very open road

Each of us humans
has a pleasure center
somewhere in our brain

It gets tickled
or stimulated
when we see an ad
for something we think
we'd like
and, then it really gets a charge
when we slap down
the payment,
and assume ownership

But, that feeling
can fade
and the pleasure center
craves something more,
another tickling,
and we go on
looking
and living

gypsy read my palm one day --
. . . boy, you in biiiiiig trouble!

I know that --
tell me something I don't know

before other side comes --
you're going through a world of shit

sounds normal
anything else?

that'll be 20 bucks,

is this where the shit starts?

A pile of stones beside a field
of an abandoned , washed out farm
now bramble and brier its only yield.
A near deer snorts out its alarm.

A barn in collapse across the way
the forgotten victim of neglect
that once was full of life and hay
now bats are all it can collect.

Old rusted worn out rakes and plows
good now for naught but scrap
once created pastures for fat cows
discarded like a vague mishap.

The snow is here now
everything is so much brighter
but the cold is fierce

My children are drowning
in plastic
and I can't seem
to stem the tide
while they're hypnotised
by bullshit
I'm dying a little
inside

I'm networking
instead of
parenting

I'm raising automatons

My children are brainwashed
with apathy
made to look 'pretty'
told what to do
what to say
and I'm ashamed
a little bit more
everyday

I'm thinking
when I should be
listening

 
NOVEMBER ’57 – MARCH ’80
 
 


She has a cancer in her brain,

And it’s driving her insane

Slowly, day by day, by day by day, by day by day... she says…
 


She tells me that she’s dying:

She has this cancer in her mind

Which her doctors cannot find…

 

She has no eyes, no tears to weep:

Her cancers run too deep-

She’s so tired, she cannot sleep…
 


She told me she was dying:

She had this cancer in her mind

.
waxing rhapsodic
gilded actor of the quill
writing beautiful lies
just for the thrill