Category Archives: poetry

Fight The Jeweler

I was merely ore

Dug from a valley of oil and stimuli

Ore of a “privileged” metal

Though somehow in weak demand

My value falling before my eyes

Sifted and sieved by judgement

Small pieces of me mixing with pieces of others

The dust of me colliding with circumstance

 

We all begin as ore

Before long we are little bits of it all

The trials of the foundry await us

 

You will never be poured pure

Kelvin be damned

 

Rather, bond with everything around you

Everyone

Sift your life with theirs and become aware

Your base ore is only the start

 

YET!

 

This brilliant journey is squandered by

The wicked jewelers and dealers

Metals here; diamonds there

You leave your worth in their hands?

 

You are more than the ore you began to be

Clamor out of rigorous categorization

Fight the jeweler, fight the jeweler

Let your true composition shine

We are all little bits of each other

 

You are more than the ore you began to be

Fight the jeweler, fight the jeweler, fight the jeweler

I AM the road

I AM the Road

Ancient and worn

With different colored masks they come

I AM the road of Davids star

The road built by Pharaoh

The road of the Armenians

 

They come to me weary and without a voice

Confused and abandoned by the world

The road of the kulaks

Or the Yezidis

Paved by the failures of man

Painted with marred souls of the forgotten

 

My lure is one of power

One of dominance

I AM the road

Inescapable by man

To fools i am most appealing

You’ve read about me in text

How I led to gulag

To the ovens, to the firing squads

Where i expire skulls pile like mountains

 

From the streets and the campuses

They approach me again

Desperation burning like fire in their eyes

Blinding them, changing them, numbing them

As history again becomes a stranger

Their first steps come with rage and protest

Read more

Lycan

Do you run?

Do you run through the night?

Not in groups with spandex but

Under the stain of the sour moonlight

Where the trees become monsters metaphorically

I run from the serpent

Despite my speed

he is always underfoot

His black skin dull under the streetlight

 

Are you a Lycan like me?

This dark world looks better through nocturnal eyes

Where the goblins and ghouls have no place to hide

Rather than the chirp and sing

Do you prefer the wooded song of thorax on wing?

 

In a frightening world

It helps to be a monster

Still, you must smile and hide your fangs

Trim your claws and speak softly

Wait calmly for the brazen moon to rise

Are you a monster like me?

You better be

 

UnknownScan aus: Wolfgang Schild – Die Geschichte der Gerichtsbarkeit. Vom Gottesurteil bis zum Beginn der modernen Rechtsprechung, Hamburg: Nikol Verlagsgesellschaft 1997 S. 67 ISBN 3-930656-74-4. Lizenz von: Verlag Georg D. W. Callwey 1980

 

 

 

 

the luckiest man on the planet

The cruel chirping of Monday’s alarm ripped through the house. It didn’t wake a soul. That duty was left to the children. They shook Dad from a blissful dream. It was a fantasy. A fantasy about mad passionate love making with a woman far out of his reach. His wife. She slept at arms length but between the dogs, the kids, the jobs, the commitments she was every bit as unattainable as something hanging on a teen’s wall. Of course the man was a primate at heart and this angel was like water in his hands which only served to swell his desire.

 

Beyond the dream he was faced with reality. His job. His profession.

 

Why do we spend 60 hours a week at our job and less than 20 with our family? Why don’t I make more money? Why can’t I help my mother, my father? What is my wife thinking? Who is whispering in her ear about the life she deserves?

 

As he folds the silk tie into a Windsor knot these questions dance through his mind. Not for long though. A curly haired brunette on new legs arrives at his bedroom door in all her nude glory. It’s his two year old daughter. He hurries her back to her room and against her tiny will and gets her dressed for the day.

 

Both of his girls will spend much of their day with other people. Another blow to the man’s reality. They cannot afford to have mom stay at home. That’s the world today. He ships them off everyday as though they are more a burden than a blessing. some days they are with Nana and others they attend a local daycare. He hated pushing them out the door each morning and this morning neither girl wanted to go.

 

As he hustled his youngest down the steps his phone began to sing. It was a factory ringtone that he hadn’t had the time or desire to change. pulling it off the night stand he saw two missed calls. One from his boss and one from his brother. Two men who worried him more than those little girls ever could.

 

Frank just couldn’t pull it together. That was the man’s brother. It was loan here, heartbreak there and the guy was always on the bad end of his own decisions. Two DUIs had made him nearly impossible to hire at a decent wage and the abandonment of his student loan obligations hurt his credit. It was another layer of stress and worry in life’s lasagna of responsibility.

 

He worked his way down the steps admiring the pictures along the stairwell. Big moments framed up as motivation. Life requires intense motivation if you plan on doing it well. The babies, the dogs, his grandmother, they all smiled at him on his way into the twisted and one sided exchange of time for money.

 

Frank smiled because he didn’t want to scream. Then he thought to himself

 

‘How did we get tricked into this? Pulled off the family farm and stuck into a cubicle miles from those most important to us. From primal beasts to neutered, voiceless little ants attempting to shoulder burdens 10x our size. Burdens that have nothing to do with our own personal lives. In fact, like robots, we are programmed to disregard our personal lives at work.’

 

At the foot of the steps there was small oak cabinet that held photo albums and crafts made by the girls. It was one of many baubles Frank had purchased with his hard earned money. On top of the oak cabinet was a collection of dolphins. They varied in size and composition ceramic, steel, wooden, silver, and mother of pearl. She loved dolphins.

 

Rounding the corner to the kitchen he was leveled by the sight. The air was stolen from his lungs by the same kleptomaniacle beauty that stole his heart, his mind and his soul.

 

The morning sunlight was gold strewn across the kitchen. Cut into thin filaments that fell along the counter tops, the rich Birchwood kitchen table and reflected off the stainless steel oven. The angel who stood among the light worried the sun. For her hair, even tousled by sleep, was more brilliant than its heavenly work.

 

His power source, his inspiration stood before him with slanted sleepy lids that failed to contain her luminous cobalt blue eyes. His wife. His portion in life. Her warm cheeks set higher as she smiled but the radiance of her eyes would not be denied. She wore a grey tee shirt that fell just far enough to cover her pink underwear.The hair was kept out of her face by a blue bandana that was rolled and tied around her blonde hair.

 

In that moment he fell into her lips and watched the world change around him. He felt her wind under his wings. He realized that the burden was simply a snapshot, a slice of existence in comparison to the life he had built with a goddess. She gave him two blushing cherubs and decided to become one of this earth, with him, the luckiest man on the planet.

Johann Eleazar Schenau Gestörte Familienidylle

A Man and His Hands

A MAN AND HIS HANDS

A man should feel comfortable with an axe in his hands
Whether it rest on his shoulder or slice through the air
With the earth in his hands a man should feel at home
A man should feel confident and produce with his hands
And if that man be so blessed
He should feel just the same with a child in his hands
That tiny life will soften his words and his heart
If a dark hearted man should threaten that life
A man must be prepared to hurt with his hands

He should clap with his hands, he should greet with his hands
A man should never beg for life with his hands
Cupping his mouth he should wail and sing with his hands
For celebration is a rare yet necessary part of his life

And never shall a man feel more like a man
Then the day he takes a woman in his hands
Whether kissing her close or sharing a dance
Or traversing life’s ever narrowing road
A man should be honored with “thy portion” in his hands

Though a man’s path be often crooked and lightless
Riddled with temptation and failure
He carries faith, family and country in his hands

 

“Hands sketches c1600” by Anonymous – Universitätsbibliothek Salzburg, Handzeichnung H 407 (2), via http://www.ubs.sbg.ac.at/sosa/graphiken/handzeichnungen.htm. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons – http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hands_sketches_c1600.jpg#/media/File:Hands_sketches_c1600.jpg

filaments

It’s only when you have it all that you realize

Our love, our lives, our happiness, our wealth

Rest upon circumstance as thin as filament

Woven a bit but still so fine

It’s why we strive constantly

It’s why we share our magnetic charge with success

The cold night moon is all that lights our path

Beyond the trees what dangers lie?

We can only console loss

And live each day as though the filaments are ready to give

 

Hessian Slaughter and Trivial Holiday Woes

There has been one chapter of history that I simply cant get out of my head as this season winds down. Listening to people languish about family, returns, and life in America in general I can’t help but draw a comparison.

I think of George Washington and the Continental Army crossing the icy waters of the Delaware to surprise and slay the Hessians in what was no doubt a battle ruled by hand to hand combat. A vicious battle just one day after Christmas.

Its the 28th and I have to imagine while we are busy talking about our in laws there still men cleaning German blood off their blades knowing there were much worse battles to come. I can’t get this off my mind so I thought I would bring it to you folks this morning. Below is the sonnet written by David Shulman  in 1936 by David Shulman

 

A hard, howling, tossing water scene.
Strong tide was washing hero clean.
“How cold!” Weather stings as in anger.
O Silent night shows war ace danger!

The cold waters swashing on in rage.
Redcoats warn slow his hint engage.
When star general’s action wish’d “Go!”
He saw his ragged continentals row.

Ah, he stands – sailor crew went going.
And so this general watches rowing.
He hastens – winter again grows cold.
A wet crew gain Hessian stronghold.

George can’t lose war with’s hands in;
He’s astern – so go alight, crew, and win

A Run Through Tired Woods

Cool air kills another humid Virginia summer

My running shoes find new life

Though I run occasionally

through the sweltering heat

There is nothing to compare to a forest

Ablaze

 

She calls me from the harsh asphalt my feet pound to reach her soft her paths

Paths littered with her fiery tears

She is burdened and her leaves fall

In preparation for sleep

 

‘Another lonely cold winter,’ she explains

‘Bikers lose their helmets and runners their shoes’

 

Everyday is another closer

Each bringing indiscernible change

A change of shade

Or a shade of change?

 

She is exhausted

providing so much since spring

I gave my apologies for

A generation so narcotized

I explained to her

‘They believe that in their intoxication

They are peeking into heaven’s windows

The truth is they are trapped in some purgatorial existence

Neither granted access to the most high

Nor lent ability to appreciate a single basal leaf

in the throes of autumn’

 

I went on

 

‘and don’t concern yourself with months or years

For there has been but one to age so beautifully as you

My dearest Michelle

The wife he carved out for me

 

As I bid her farewell

Another golden tear fell

But I left her with this assurance

 

‘Though your company may dwindle

In the months to come and

Your bare limbs will no longer

Hold their brilliance

It will be my feet

That pound these paths

Whether through your fiery distress

When we may share our burdens of the future

Or amongst the terrible winds of winter

When through puffs of breath I will watch you sleep

A Run Through Tired Woods

Cool air kills another humid Virginia summer

My running shoes find new life

Though I run occasionally

through the sweltering heat

There is nothing to compare to a forest

Ablaze

 

She calls me from the harsh asphalt my feet pound to reach her soft her paths

Paths littered with her fiery tears

 

She is burdened and her leaves fall

In preparation for sleep

‘Another lonely cold winter,’ she explains

‘Bikers lose their helmets and runners their shoes’

 

Everyday is another closer

Each bringing indiscernible change

A change of shade

Or a shade of change?

She is exhausted

providing so much since spring

 

I gave my apologies for

A generation so narcotized

I explained to her

‘They believe that in their intoxication

They are peeking into heaven’s windows

The truth is they are trapped in some purgatorial existence

Neither granted access to the most high

Nor lent ability to appreciate a single basal leaf

in the throes of autumn’

 

I went on

‘and don’t concern yourself with months or years

For there has been but one to age so beautifully as you

My dearest Michelle

The wife he carved out for me

As I bid her farewell

Another golden tear fell

But I left her with this assurance

 

‘Though your company may dwindle

In the months to come and

Your bare limbs will no longer

Hold their brilliance

It will be my feet

That pound these paths

Whether through your fiery distress

When we may share our burdens of the future

Or amongst the terrible winds of winter

When through puffs of breath I will watch you sleep

 

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