This is Me (poem)


How should I bare thee my soul.
Should I tell it through poetry
or art, dark lines etched into white paper.
Leaving the frozen image behind.
How shall I show you myself,
Shall I take a picture of what I like best
Show you designs adorning my nest.
Or shall I simply present myself and say
I am here. What you see,
This is me.




Riding the rapids of the Road (Poem)

Pulses of electric light,
Like clusters of fireflies,
Wrapping around the city,
As vines around the base of a tree,

While at first they live with and grow along,
Their hosted master oak,
In time the ivy overgrows and pulls down,
Even this most masterful of trees,

And so too in time do our roads,
Overtake even our cities,
These anthills and clusters of human abode,
When in time they are little more than wayposts,

When our living quarters of the great masses,
Are bypassed and circled,
When we judge communities by the time and distance between,
All there equating to loose change in your pocket.

I have swam and I have rafted down this white water rapids,
Where nights are black and streams thick with debris,
Pray may the waters of life take me upon their turtled back,

May the gods of the road meet me,
Pass me and doff their hats



Little Showers (Poem)

Little trickles of tiny rivers,
All droplets falling like a gods thundering laughter,
Frozen diamonds glinting in the dull sun,
These are the first mornings of true Spring.


When little mirrors shine the brilliance,
Of the seasons subtlety all around,
Spring is not a warm time,
Spring is not a dry time,


She is that slight rosy cheeked maiden,
Embarrassed for wearing a too thin slip,
That keeps none of the cold in,
Promising all with her cheap modesty.


And yet her green nature is not meant to excite,
All she does is frolic and play,
The lambs learning and knowing,
That the small sunbeams reflected


In the rains eyes, show the first blossoms,
Of this years Rainbow crop.



Return to the New Menin Gate (Poem)

When all those young poor troops,
Plodded slowly forth from the rail, 
Final voyage of steamer and train,
Shepher’d them; no more would they run,

To complete this side of the Hun,
But ne’er more this bank of the river,
Would those airmen and goldmen,
Show until new ages quieter,

Their Humu’re’s bright and shined,
Whereto lie our boys bright and proud,
Lost before the outbreak, pandemic,
From ahigh, the cold prideful spite,

That only empires cling to,
A pain founded by ground nation’s
Bones, while all those poor folk,
Lie Lunate to Hamate,

And only cold stone and Gate,
Can warn their eternal horror;
Yet for less then a score more,
Like a storm it broke on the shores,

While all the pheasants, they fled


Excavations in Pre-Rami (Poem)

On the edge of the world,
Overlooking all our waters drain away into the abyss,
The tri-am-varate with their hands clasped together,
Motioning for Creation to continue and from nothing to order,
Chaos and Eros and Gaia,
There with us mothers, fathers and parents all,

All I can do is stand and watch and wait,
The Babylon’s cry summoning me from the Void,
To a force as primal,
To a force with nothing,

Creation always made from the cold swirling forces of Abyss,
Love always made from the abyss the part of the soul that never was,
She calls to me,
She creates me,
Recreates me,
Mother to me is she as I am made anew,

And no force on Earth, On Heavens, On the Forests,
Can contain for love is yet to be,
Always bleeding into reality,
Pumping the lovers heart,
With a new, ever-creating blood,

Baphomet’s prayer,
Chaos’s blessing
And so I cry to the Moon,

I love Youuuuuuu,
And taken, spaken on the lips of a thousand wolves it murmurs,
A hidden hum to life



Mirrorchild (Poem)


My mirrorchild
My darker half
inexplicably linked in love
for our sun,
Our lord.
Bathed in his light
I grow brighter
I grow stronger every day

My mirrorchild,
My darker half
watching from the shadows
cursing that he be mine

Sometimes mirrors can be magic,
A doorway
A portal to another world mayhaps
I touch its cold smooth surface and

My darker half the light
And I the shadow?
Diminuished, dwindling, dying
She has my flame, she has my love
Who knew,
I was the mirrorchild all along




Wolf Calls (Poem)


The blood burns and the moon calls,
Can you feel it deep within you,
Can you hear the call?

Wolves and dogs we all are,
Fur in the cloaks of humans,
Little waggly tailed pups,
Sheep for the true hounds.

Every often one runs wild and calls the pack,
Instinct leads to us,
We howoool back and join and run and savage,
Dogs wild and bloody are we.

But I look upon you, Down,
For I stand not for the glory of the kill,
The juice and cloy stir not my heart,
I live for the hunt the stalk,
I look upon your petty packs and watch,
As you tear your lives and worlds asunder,
In the denial of your canine hearts,
As you rip the life and soul from your cubs,
With messages of sex and drugs and alcohol,
When puppies have the teeth for nothing but mother’s milk,
Bitches all become vixens no more.