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A Cold Heartbeatless January Dawn

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A cold heartbeatless January dawn;
Carbon monoxide scentless fills the air;
Scattered offsprings traipse about the lawn
Not knowing who what why how when or where.

Your bier, an old blue Chevrolet sedan;
A warm Black Labeled jar holds your ablution;
Sentiments - the world that you began;
You breathe and then you leave - oh the solution.

Your misguided foresight I allude;
Unprecedented exits will allow,
But for misguided hindsight of your brood
Who stay behind - or mayhap to follow.

I see the ease in which you went away,
I know the trials of those who chose to stay.

Punk Show at the Doublewide

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A Figure dark about to f**k the stage,
Deep throats the mic in phallic oral lust.
The dark inside his red guitar enraged,
His frenzied beat a pulsing wavelike thrust.
The climbing scream vibrates the Rockers rise.
His climax wanes, he swaggers for the drink.
Distorted screech, his metal partner writhes.
He drops the glass, his body falls, and sinks.
He then expells the pent up pain of time,
Of nager and climatic primal needs,
Human pain spelled out in vomit grime.
With death behind his face, a man who bleeds.
His unmet wants are washed in pools of dreams,
His needs, his angst released in static screams.

Sonnet 3

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She's shod in pedestal with hair of gold.
I tell you, man, the right words don't exist.
Her beauty would remain, I think, untold
if I had fifty poets to assist.
Engaging both in body and in mind,
ethereally beautiful is she.
Clichéd, I know. I'm seldom quite so kind,
but beauty is a cynic's enemy
which forces me to this hypothesis:
that no one girl one can justly wield such charm.
I see distinctly how a girl like this
could make a guy shoot Reagan in the arm.
Well not exactly that, but in that vein. . .
for love and beauty both are logic's bane.

Todd Moeller, In Memoriam

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We scanned your story by a flaring light
that burned the very page we raced to read;
We rushed from word to word as they'd ignite
consumed forever, at a blinding speed.

Fumbling along, we strained to comprehend
your meaning, and enjoy your story's pleasure;
The time it took to learn you were our friend
left little time to savor or to measure.

But how we longed, and long to linger still
upon each disappearing syllable;
The page was short, and soon the fire was out.

We sift our fragile memories in the dark,
recall with grief and gratitude the spark
that showed us what your story was about.

A Life's Drama

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When I can sit and tell my story through
All its problems which accrue interest in,
I will have done my part to say what's true
And sought to rid myself of vilest sin.
But what can be the victor's laurels
When joy be not present to stay there with?
All vain with no declarations oral
Makes one return to oldest way so swift.
Yet grave be not all there is to conquer,
As farce demands a proper audience
So with our bodies we must not concur,
That we may not be so stony and tense.
Until penitence takes the stage's breath
And we arise from fearful, horrid Death.

Bewick's Wren

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The weather is coming up spring again;
the sun is crawling higher in the sky.
Your old black gelding--Daniel--carves a fen
with his splintering hooves and kneels to lie
on the soft ooze. I hear a Bewick's Wren
in the juniper: her swee swee is high,
a bit shrill, her last thin trill's uneven;
there is a clear white stripe above her eye.

The turf turns muddy where I walk up past
the back side of the barn; fresh and new green
leaves form on the trees as I watch. I've seen
all this before. But this year's not like last;
there's something to these signs--the horse, the wren--
that pulls me back down to the earth again.

Vers Promiscuus (a blank verse sonnet)

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From womb to tomb I wonder as I go
what cadence shall I call to lead my way?
Yet why take pains to scribe a rhythmic beat
on peeling walls of time graffitoed with
prosaic strophes that don't celebrate
that Apollonian craft called poetry,
but hoarsely stutter without melody?
Just tongue-tied angst and self-indulgent lines
that "Howl" a simplified philosophy
wherein the world's reduced to size of thoughts
that lie in puberty's loose pimpled grasp,
are flogged with rhythmless vacuity!
The point of such Prosetry? Onan says,
"Just shuffle the deck; solitaire's the game".

Three Doors Down

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Around the last corner and three doors down,
A tiny shop waited weary and cold.
With nowhere to go he toured the void town
And saw the store with eyes growing so old.
Through these unsafe eyes, past the open pane,
They held an aged man, forgotten yet made.
With fire shadows reflecting the lane
The little old man sat watching it fade.
Each passing minute, he waits an hour.
The silent light swallowing the mad moon,
Growing higher and over the tower;
A giant crown sent to replace the gloom.
Lonely little old man, quiet shop twin;
She wore a red dress and walked 'way with him.

My Fantasy

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Without you by my side I can not cope.
I fear to be alone all on my own.
But I know that I always have my hope.
My love surmounts all things as it has shown.
Tears of joy flow down from your pretty face.
Your life is now fulfilled with comfort love.
My life, my heart are yours to be embraced.
How we're meant to be like two angel doves!
Your love's a light in the midst of darkness.
You are my full moon in the lurid sky.
True love brings forth our hope of happiness.
Keeping this secret makes me want to cry.
Searching for a bright start for you and me,
I know I live for you my fantasy.

Composed April 12, 2001

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When flesh has withered to the bone, and bone
decayed to dust, and dust blown into soil.
When waves have worn and conquered shore and stone
and wind and rain have cleansed us of our toil.
When city streets, left empty to decay
have gone to ruin, sunk beneath the Earth,
a distant man will try to make a way
of living. He will toil too, and work.
And he will name his seas, outline his shores,
erect new towering cities, pave new streets,
and his studies he'll encounter lore
and poets. There in lines as such he'll read
a timeless story filled with love and fear
and he will know that one time we were here


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