A Fine Thing

It's a fine thing to become a worse poet and be given a new soul. Some have chosen to pass over acclaim for better things.

Weeds and Thorn

Take your staff in your hands tightly,

And on my word, strike it rightly.

On my word, and don't stray an inch,

Or we'll take this rope and with a cinch,

Arrest your freedom and all your hope,

We'll steal it, like thieves, with this rope.

On three, 1, 2- Now you've done it,

What'd I say? I warned you. Now get

You're hands behind you and your head turned low,

You sneered our help? We'll make your back glow,

With our lash's poisonous kiss,

Whispering in your ears a dreadful hiss.

3 days in this pit, now how do you feel?

Tell you what- listen, we'll cut you a deal.

Our orders are a burden we've carried by our backs,

Down to you, and we'd like to unload our packs.

So listen and obey, and I promise, we swear

We'll loosen our grip, give you some air.

Don't you know, we have masters too?

Something above us, we're not different than you.

A curse lingers on us all thick in our lungs,

We're all in a fight, ever since we were young,

To get to the top? For some, to do our job

To do what we feel. We must do our job.

So, enough child! Strap this yoke on and plow.

Heels in the earth, food by the sweat of your brow.

That's the way, good child. Fate carries the willing,

Drags the reluctant feet. That will fetch a nice shilling,

Good work. Persist and you soon may fasten your own

Fine yolks to others working the fields that you've sown.

Balance in your skull what I'm telling you,

We're all cursed, we have masters too.

Beacons of Science

Take up your pen, brother

And with your quill sting!

Don't mind the slow and rhythmic

Breath of the great Beast,

who's heart you've pierced

With the venomous ink

Dripped from your feathered fang!

You and I, brother, are a family

Of this great light, can't you see it?

You can't see it? It's the bright,

Shining truth we carry to

The pagans; darkened masses.

We are the trustees, stewards of

The gods: Mathematics and sensuality!

You and I, discovered in like fashion,

This great power! Like demigods of old,

We are made half-holy by this knowledge,

Precious to man. With lances

Of truths and breastplates of our

Self-righteousness, we impale!

Skewer the demagogues who sought gain.

We grasped this power like coal-miners,

Carved from dark earth, sooty

By our efforts. And like men,

Hold it in glory of our strength,

Take up your pen brother!

And wield that quill still!

Don't mind the quieter breath.

Like Achilles, in my rage

I rail against the falsehoods of men!

By my anger brought lowly

And writhing in the dust like

The ones I've slain, my soul quivers.

Sunk to the undergloom- one last truth:

Woe to the one whence judgement comes!

Unfinished

Sweet roses and all that wheat

In the baker's pantry all white with flour

Could make you snow blind

We got lost between the trees past that

far, distant hedge,

just beyond the edge,

of our home's garden.

The roses are sweeter here,

And our belly's less full.

It's the cost of adventure you said.

And so is the cold earth for our bed,

mossy and wet- an explorer's bed.

I can't get a piece of that delicious

Fruit on the savory berry bushes grabbing

The ground and our socks with their prickly fingers.

I've tried twice now and the pain still lingers

on my bleeding, stuck fingers.

I miss the orange butter sauces

Of our home's modest larders,

Couldn't we go visit the baker now?

Watch him tie the dough into bows,

then toss it into the brick oven which glows

Red and coal-blackened orange?

Courage, courage little child

Remember your heart's more wild

Than the biggest beast that's loping here

Your face braver than their fiercest sneer.

Still I wish, bigger brother

We could go home to mother

And father and delightfully imagine

In safety: the dragon and its dark, dark cavern.

Orange butter sauce dipped in Ice-creamy

Snow melts which have the effect of

going snow blind in all the white light.

I haven't got a piece of it, that delicious

fruit. The savory berry bushes grabbing

the ground and our socks with their prickly fingers.

Thorns in the Cushion

Embarrassingly, I never know whether to fight something or let it lie. The question to accept rebuke (most especially a personal indictment) or strive beyond it is a difficult one. To look at one's capacity and decide whether to attempt expansion or to sagely avoid destruction is in no-wise a mathematic determination. I think it has mostly to do with pride or alternately "cajones."

Is it possible, by belief, to step over deficiencies? American Idol suggests otherwise. But perhaps they have reached a sublimer artistry than the crude masses can comprehend. Perhaps all that really matters is your confidence. If you are lucky, your expression lends itself to more, or just smarter, people.

But it's more complicated than that. I think. Dog gone you Thackeray. Dog gone you.