All writing

When God finally tires of creation
will we receive a message in the sky?
Apocalyptic sign, a short citation,
or maybe it will be a "buh buh, bye"?

The Horsemen reappear, like once an hour,
and Gabriel, did he misplace his horn?
God must be entertained, up in his tower,
our misery is like a kind of porn.

Answers abound, in prophecies and studies.
There's even been a calendar or two,
and plenty of opinions, my buddies,
well, some at least, claim they know what to do.

Noble beginnings, and ignoble ends.
Perhaps it will just be a show of hands.

My mirror tires of reflection:
why can't I be like the TV?
Use the remote, make your selection.
There are so many yous to see.

The you before there was an after,
or back when after was a thought.
Back when to love "remember laughter"
meant that you haven't -- yet -- been bought.

The you not wrecked by indecision,
nor rattled by a simple choice.
With better, clearer, purer vision
and steadier, much stronger voice.

They may be closer -- oh, so near! --
the mirror says, than they appear.

Come, winter snow queen, decorate my window
with delicately crystalline designs.
Invite me to your kingdom, where the winds blow.
I'll trace and search your messages for signs
of castles in the ice and frozen roses,
and fairy tales where hearts thaw out at last,
and rosy colored cheeks, and reddish noses,
a dire wolf to help complete the cast.

Imprison me in frigid, freezing shackles,
the chimney labors, bellowing with smoke.
Come join me by the fire as it crackles,
and sets the room aglow with pine and oak.

Check my restraints, till nothing is amiss.
And then, I dare you, give me just one kiss.

a single rose, but songs aplenty
the keyboard wants to know them all
no, there can never be too many
the rose a window to your soul
bright, crimson petals brought by spring
they want to open up, and sing

Author notes: image from classicfm.com

I'm sure you've heard this said: it takes a village.
Which begs the nascent question: to do what?
Too often it's to justify the pillage.
Best go secure the stuff that's in your hut.

No, no, I'm not a misanthrope, nor really
a Darwinist -- just hate to be a pawn.
Too easy for the rulers, willy nilly,
to help -- though not the village, but their own.

And so despite the best of all intentions,
I find "to each according to their need"
to be among those, worst of Man's inventions,
a road to hell as slick as any creed.

"If only we could all just get along."
Much harder than a slogan, or a song.

if you were a tree
what kind of tree would you be
a symmetry

Author notes: image from istock.com

night approaches, shadows lengthen
but it only serves to strengthen
their dedication and resolve
and doubts evaporate, dissolve
since they know well, it bleeds, it leads
get ready for their evil deeds

Author notes: image from betterphotography.com

Unruly subjects argue with their verbs
and tenses seek debate and disagree.
The sentences run on, but what disturbs
the most is that the verses aren't free.

Drawn letters do not spring from sculpted fonts.
No punctuations barge into the middle
of incoherent rambling that wants
to masquerade as an enlightened riddle.

Vermillion does not describe the sky
and nights are neither dark nor warm or stormy.
The narrative, there merely to get by,
is begging please devour me, adore me.

In college you might gather a C+
In short, the work described is not for us.

How often would you need a stable genius?
Unless you're breeding horses, not at all,
though if you ask the stallions they'll whinny as
a way to make a point of protocol.

But nonetheless, there's one that is available.
More equal than the others on the farm.
He's steadfast, resolute and unassailable.
And even if he's not, then what's the harm?

Of all the weird and wacky ideologies,
the cult of personality stands out.
In endless whataboutisms, no apologies --
it cannot entertain a shred of doubt.

Prepare then to accept -- it is a stable,
and get used to manure, that's if you're able.

For God, there is no stone too hard to lift --
omnipotence, it brings its own rewards --
but He can make one, it's his special gift.
A paradox worth putting into words.

They fascinate us so, those paradoxes,
and taunt us from the corners of our minds,
won't fit into no neatly packaged boxes.
A paradox perplexes and reminds

that there's a limit to our understanding,
a point where reasoning and logic fails,
and rigid rules require subtle bending.
Yet all the while our logic, fights, assails,

demanding that there be a resolution.
But just in case, we ask for absolution.

Cut into granite, holding bow and arrow
"Look at my works, ye mighty, and despair."
Whatever else you'd say about this pharaoh,
you must admit the fellow had a pair.

They stare at us through history, the giants --
can't make them like we used to, we all say --
Their lips still curled in the marquee defiance
of those you are expected to obey.

And were they wrong? Do we have works to rival?
No shortage, in our age, of living gods.
We shout and trumpet, herald their arrival,
in videos squeezed in between the ads.

The Old Ones took it with them in their wisdom.
The new ones? Must work harder to appease them.

Leap off the canvas, will you? Come to me.
Embrace me as you would a jealous lover.
Protest, claim that you're innocent, and free,
that there is nothing, nothing to discover,

and I'll believe you, old fool that I am.
I long for but a moment in your glory,
and persevere, all consequence be damned,
to be more than a footnote in this story.

Your heartless stare, slight curling of the lip,
so captured in your drawing room, idyllic.
A grail I dare not touch, no, dare not sip.
Defeated, conquered. Tempera and acrylic.

If only I could draw you as my own.
The paint is drying, and I'm all alone.