Poetry

This morning
I sat down again
I took the deepest breath
I cleared my anxious mind,
And wondered what theme to play,
Which notes might make their way,
What heavens and hells
Would have their say?
I tinkered with the keys
And played an old familiar tune,
Then reached into my book of notes
And summoned up the runes.
I summoned up the stars above
And called forth the rain.
My hands and mind played as one
My hands forgot their pain.
Today I play my best self,
I am the choices I made.

There’s no time for breakfast.
This morning I’ve got to run,
But don’t be the one who’s breathless
When the mandarins are having fun.
In the lift they’re dancing
They made it from the rain
They’re rehearsing their broken lines
To play a better game.
There’s no time for breakfast
This morning I’ve got to run,
Pack my bag with jargon
That pleases everyone.
There is no time to party
Stay out from the rain
Make your work look like everyone’s
Keep it all the same.
I’m going to network,
I’ll make them all believe,
That I’m the one who’s fitting in
And pulling up my sleeves.
So there’s no time for breakfast,
When the mandarins are having fun.
There’s no time for breakfast.
I’m keeping on the run.
No time for breakfast.

Photo by Jupen from Pexels

Tonight I danced with Beelzebub.
He had mushrooms and wine
On his breath.
Tonight he ate my soul
Again.
But this night I took Arjuna’s sword
And claimed this ground as my own,
This ground fought for all beings;
Flies and Beelzebub and all,
Fought with this unanswerable sword,
With truths that can’t be spoke,
And answers that can’t be found.
Tonight I fought with the sword
That removed all doubt
And the ghosts of promises unfounded.
Only know this:
I am here.

Photo by Egor Kamelev from Pexels

The daughter of the morning light
With eyes turned towards a well,
Is waiting for the rain to come.
Her presence
Reminds the birds that they are hungry.
And it’s time to leave
Their nest.
The orange light from the East
Shines upon the grey clouds
Blowing from the West.
This morning she breaks bread
With the pigeon that greets her,
Communing as one for the new day.

Hail to the sunrise.
I offer up this man,
When the battle has been won,
So that you may wake up to
A better world;
My new self.
Esch thought and choice
That is made today
Will be yours.
I, this setting sun, am your gift,
This sword left
Sharpened just before I died
That you may kill again.
Oh, warrior of the morning light,
May you pass through doors
I will never see and find peace
I have never known.
I dedicate this gift of me to you.
Hail to the sunrise.

Dancing red dresses and
Black trousers, sung by the dozen,
Promises of dreams to come
For a life no one leads.
The punch has come,
Filling heads with the brothers gin
But you know, no one can feel it.
So you take another drink,
Another shot at comfortably numb.
The worm at the bottom is still alive,
Feeding on your soul
And feeding you with desire,
That it may live on your screams
As you awake in the coldest sweat.
You’re here, homo not so sapiens,
Better be called homo sperans –
The man who longs.
And tomorrow, or next week, or next month,
You matriculate,
A master in intersecting desire,
Knowing your place,
Your dreams, the man who aspires.