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The Garden Gate

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Looking through the gateway silently thinking
the flowers that bloom curling tenderly
small stacks of smoke billow gingerly,
the houses sitting quietly, side by side, shrinking.
Down the broken trails, wishing and sinking
slowly, completing full quick strides grudgingly,
Children laughing the whole yard ever so lovingly,
fragrances filter the soft light hauntingly.

Suddenly the street darkens, twists, and turns,
flowers once fragrant seem to limp, to wilt,
and as the sun sets, the fires seem to burn
where lay the dark demonic house on stilts--
a house quiet, leaning as the soul yearns:
It is said this is the house that Poe built.

The Life of Joy

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What say my love in wintry land to dwell
For sake of fears unwanted yet not seen.
Of stories of life left, yet now to tell
Till daylight casts shadows upon your dream.
I lived. I loved. I wanted not to be
The life of joy, togetherness but lost
Can serve to brighten wisdom left to me
When love and life is left amongst the frost.
Nowhere from here to get while life abounds
In pleasure, pain and wonder we will seek
When love is left for want of hallowed grounds
I feel His love and so, it makes me weak.
For if He must be so narrow of view
Then death is swift for one in love with you.


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The children came to me with eager eyes...
"Please tell of this thing called truth," they said.
I felt my heart, a goblet filled with dread,
Not wishing to appear this old or wise.
"I know it not," I said to my surprise.
"For Truth is pure, and not of humans bred;
Nor like the tales of love in books you read.
It sometimes enters clad in a disguise."
And I recalled our love, this fragile thing,
This piece of sky that slips behind the cloud
Where we are birds who fly on agile wing
But still we fall to wondering aloud...
So far from earthly reason risen above
I catch no sight of truth, but only love.

Self-Help for Heroes

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Since I am made to serve, I must have hope,
must have it to bestir, bestow, be still,
learn how to have it to my hand like soap,
insert it in my laundry lists at will,

improve and brighten with it, fortify
what otherwise is dull or doesn't shine,
make faith a staple, my commodity,
distill its sense and essence it like pine.

Although to take the unexpected, fleet
rewards of grace and make them that less free,
would render them more cloying, but less sweet.
I'd take, who have, what others can't from me.

Perhaps then, for the aspect I deserve
and for my hope, I must be made to serve.

On Cass' Wound

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"Illness as Metaphor exhortation."
--Susan Sontag, AIDS & Its Metaphors.

I see a suppurating, pussy cache.
No: It's the tender, black of nostril--moose--
Wherefrom blood-laced, vernal snot, dun as ash,
Slickly hints toward O'Keefe's "Pink" in the Luce.
Oh: It's a crimson, fertile crescent-vat,
Where, with mud-fury and foam, the Tigris
Did burst with a plasmatical spa-Lat!,
Undamming the besutured edifice.
Or: It's a remoulade-and-mayonaise-filled
Eclair, (A 'gurgitating, salted slug);
Head cheese, dewedged, and tuns of goat-sludge tilled--
A gorge with porridge that cut a rut and sug.

So: Doubtless, shown, a Tracy or Ari
Ought chide: "What's with this racy gore? Scary!"

"The Shakespeare Sonnet Lover's Ring"

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(A little humor in defense of the Bard)

Verily, did I take the time
to look within the Sunday news,
ignoring the colorless lack of rhyme
or reason that they choose

to utilize throughout the thing;
but worst of all they advertise
"The Shakespeare Sonnet Lover's Ring"
a piece to blight most tasteful eyes.

This gaudy, tacky masterpiece
inspired, it says, by Romeo
and Juliet? Forfend, surcease!
No sonnet that, most people know...

but simple folk like shiny things --
I'm sure they'll sell a million rings.

I await my appearance on stage

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Behind the curtain I await my chance
Silence of the audience in my head
After this girl it is my turn to dance
I wish I could be at home in my bed
Anxiety runs all through my blood
In, through the curtains I glance at the light
The rest of the crowd comes in like a flood
Through the hole in the wall it burns my sight
I soon, am on stage and I am singing
Confidence fills me as I do my job
In this very scene there are bells ringing
At the end of the scene I start to sob
The show is now over, it had been fun
I'd look back and realize the job I'd done

Love's Holocaust

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Her eyes, so glow, just as burning trees do,
When fire has set- and has so set the sun.
Passion, she holds, an unspeakable true,
That o'er my heart- her magik can run.

Running, no turns, though found back here again
Knowing I'm losing- my love knows the dead.
A box, it's fate, all four walls are my friend,
Keeping truth trapped- nicely trapped in my head.

Has devil breasts - I've been in her fury.
Have I no rest - wrest'ling pasts long buried.
My eyes, sewn shut, yesterday is no more.
My soul, I've sold, so no hope can I score.

Our passion burns like a candle -
                 I lost
A stranger's wind kills flame -
                       love's holocaust

Smokey the Drug Dog

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I will never forget the day he came
Panic and chaos filled the halls and rooms
Everyone thought the idea was so lame
Soon many students would face their dooms

The drug dog searched here and smelled all around
He sniffed and he snuffed through all of the cars
The policeman searched and followed the hound
We sat and waited for him to search ours

He came to the car and at the door he clawed
The paint was scratched by that nasty old dog
The police looked in and gave a quick nod
My mind went blurry, I fell in a fog

The school kicked me out, now I can't play ball
All because the dog found my Tylenol.

She Who Would Be Mine

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The beautiful enchantress whom I seek
Does render even bright Athena pale.
As orbs peer out from 'neath a sequined veil,
Her glance dissolves my aptitude to speak.
A tryst or rendezvous appears quite bleak.
'Tis to the written word I must avail.
If 'tis my fate to thrive and not to fail,
I must convince my love I am not meek.
Her mien and disposition shall I praise.
Her soul and mind as well I shall extol,
That she believe I am a worthy mate,
And we as one begin the courtship phase.
No longer need I coax, entreat, cajole.
Eros, it seems, manipulates my fate.

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