Enough to Wake the DeadIt used to be we'd sleep on warmer nights,Inside the doubled cemetery door,But, lately, we've slept under indoor lights;The dead, they aren't so quiet anymore. They used to be such kind and gentle folk,But, now, they rarely stay within the grave;In fact, the last time I was there, I wokeTo clamors of a mausoleum rave. In recent days, there's every ghoul and ghast,In raucous storm that only vies to spread;Siddartha, Christ, and every Hindu caste,They haven't even manners to stay dead! It's such a shame, so terrible a chore;The dead, they aren't so quiet anymore.
ReposeIn troubled times, I hold her near,I hold her tightly while we wakeTo hush my darling, hush my dear.When we are plagued by mortal fear,I feel in full her every ache;In troubled times, I hold her near.When wrought with stresses, strain, and sheer,I bear these burdens for her sake,To hush my darling, hush my dear.Disaster may, at times, appear,But in the storm, throughout the quake,In troubled times, I hold her near.Her speech, at times, is hard to hear,And worlds at war may undertakeTo hush my darling, hush my dear.But words we lose are not as clearAs simple motions we can make;In troubled times, I hold her ne
Boca-Burger PoetryI trade my works with dimwit friends,All clad in black, as I;We'd love to have depressive angstsThat we could justify.A swirl of stupid metaphorsOf breathing my last breath,With blood and tears as imagery--I wish I wished for death.Pretending to be murdered flesh,But blood and slaughter-free,Yeah, Boca-Burger poetry,That's the stuff for me.And some folks, they're a vengeful typeWho write to craft a curse,To say that they've been hurt and stabbed,To say that they'll do worse.A pile of empty promisesLamenting without halt,Is only really meant to say,"I wish it were your fault."Pretending to be victimized,
Blessed Are the Peacemakers...Do you remember ByzantineWhen Comnenus cried outFor war waged between pietiesTo drive the Muslims out?And when we split Jerusalem,We couldn't keep it fair;'Cuz when Edessa fell to them,We found we couldn't share.Oh, Saladin, we fought you well,Like Greg'ry said to do;So many times the Land switched hands,The papal plans fell through.And I've got gods, and you've got gods,And, boy, does god have more;He built the world; we'll tear it down,We'll swear, we swear, we swore.Do you still know those days in SpainWhen Ferdinand was kingAnd pushed conversos out of sightSo Catholic truth would ring?The papacy did
An Evening DepartureAfter a long, long, silence,Contentment rears its head.A lazy head, an ugly head,In rusted, rusted, red.After a deep, deep, slumber,Contentment blinks its eyes,A pair of spheres in fibrous grey,Two dull, cemented lies.After a low, low, rumble,Contentment spreads its wings,A pair of scaled leather armsThat spans above all things.Breaking an old, old, promise,Contentment wakes in night,Then leaves its nest on northern windsAnd vanishes from sight.
Formal WearThe shower stall swings open, now,And I step out to dry.To dry, to dress, approach the door--And stop a little shy.I seldom careTo comb my hairBut I'll look good for you.I button down this shirt of mine(For me, a trying chore)Then fiddle with a long, striped clothAnd wonder what it's for.I seldom tryTo don a tieBut I'll look good for you.The pants, at least, are nothing new,The socks are common, too.There's polish all about my shoesThe scuffs are small and few.I seldom chooseTo shine my shoesBut I'll look good for you.And as I stand upon your porch,I ring the bell, and then,As you walk out, I real
looking at that mathematically would probably make my head explode.
I wish I understood math, then I could make such pretty pictures
Thanks!