Poem-No Strings Attached

Wordsworth! Thou should'st be living at this hour.
Both you and Milton would run scared
Potential love in this world cowers
behind walls that are not there.

Apathy reigns, Action the cure,
but the syringes have run out
and poor conditions have assured
Death an endless stock of shouts.

Greed against the Holy Dove,
the former is winning the match.
Oh how glorious would be Love
if there were no strings attached.

How delightful simple care
unconditional and pure,
if selfish wishes didn't share
its putrid needle, not secure.

A puppet with its strings severed
remains sprawled on the floor,
but humans, free should more than ever
remain loose to the heart's core.

So should Love, which still remains
a marionette that simply follows.
Its "when and where", its pains and gains
do not reflect the wood so hollow.

Instead they do what string commands
and string obeys lever and gear;
they in turn answer to man
who's loyalty is to Pain and Fear.

Thus, Evil commandeers
this fake, crude Love that rises new,
that screams loudly, crystal clear
"if there's no Me, then there's no You."

Lenin's phrase always echoes
"A lie told often enough becomes truth"
And Lennon said that "with eyes closed"
life is easy as a recluse.

So fake Love that many praise
must be seen with open eyes
and must be burned, demolished, razed
discarded as a truthful lie.

Hope that Hope can push and shove
this door locked by chain and latch
Let us pray that Faith's white glove
can make this monumental catch.

Greed against the Holy Dove,
Let's hope the latter wins this match.
Oh how glorious would be Love
if there were no strings attached.

Poem-Angels

In these walls something talks to me,
whispering untold stories of the North,
urging me to trace the universe and bring it forth,
so that I may fill the page with the hues of my soul.
I feel whole, as these beings speak to me in riddles,
inquiries I decipher easily, and express through words.
They lift me on their wings, transform heart to bird,
and make me a god over my own world.

Poem-Victorious

The dark is beautiful.
It serves as a silky, shadowy screen that the grotesque
beasts; the flaws of our Creator’s moldings
hide behind.
The beauty of the dark is not seen
in what it shows,
but in what it hides.
One must look in the hidden, to find.

The dark is merciful.
It consoles by letting the tears dry
and letting heartbroken sobs escape
without an audience.
It defeats any living soul
at being a shoulder, a grateful shroud,
it heals where none other can
it whispers words of safety, in silence.

The dark is powerful.
As the mind contemplates the somber blanket,
the stygian protector, it creates within it
every entity that can be conceived.
In the codex of imagination that is the mind,
everything and anything can be present and unseen,
and therefore it is. Ignorant,
the mind is blissfully deceived.

But, above all other qualities,
the dark is unrivaled.
Light is no match for the obsidian cape,
as art is no match for its artist.
Dark is its creator,
for it is the void between stars that make them jewels
and the darkness surrounding a candle that gives its flame beauty.
Of these beings we refer to as light and dark, dark is smartest.

The dark is victorious.
Light is born in its innards,
and the dark summons it forward.
Shadow carries light from itself, from within
Some lack understanding, and thus the dark scares them off.
They set a fire heart ablaze, to push their foe back,
And instead of realizing the truth, they cheer and don’t see
that every time the light prevails, it is really the dark that wins.

Poem-If The Walls Had Eyes

 

There’s a barrier put up by reality, a shield.

No matter what blow is dealt to it, it won’t yield.

A façade that hides the truth and puts on an awkward smile,

All the while, behind it, fear grins from a windowsill,

Looking out on a dark and ghoulish field,

And there are walls that comprise most homes.

But not homes of love, instead of a garden with gnomes,

There are bones beneath the earth, and skeletons in closets,

Beneath faucets, under stones, underneath beds.

The causes are unknown, there’s haunting dread.

But there’s hope as well, a beacon in the daunting dark,

In the belly of the beast, in the jaws of the shark.

A book could be written about the mind’s influx of lies,

An epic poem about hidden truth could be devised,

 

 

 

if the walls had eyes.

 

 

 

If the walls had eyes, if the windows were spies,

Slaves to shadow and servants to silence,

What their eyes would voraciously feast upon,

The doubt and fear of violence in the fake song.

The wrongs and rights of a struggling marriage,

The true reason behind a hearse on a carriage,

The betrayal of a wife while her husband’s at work,

The ripping of intestines, trust, and worth,

The feelings and emotions that cause the pen’s black blood

To spill and create worlds to escape into,

The breaking in two of bonds and ties,

The lies that hide behind the cheerful “hi’s.”

All these are revelations that would plague

The blank slates that the mind confines,

But this would happen only when and

 

 

 

if the walls had eyes.

 

 

 

 A child staring up, hopeful God is listening,

Hands tightly glued together, eyes beautifully glistening,

A storm of thoughts brewing in the blocks

The mind’s metropolis is separated into, the shots

Of liquor a shaking hand holds on to tightly,

A drunken father’s lifesaver, the ensuing shouts

That evolve like a cut into a gangrened wound,

Into ear-shattering, throat-ripping, violent bouts,

A Christmas Day, a Thanksgiving dinner,

The saints, the suing, the sued, and the sinners.

The new, the not so new, the nagging, the bragging,

A gambling addicts bad or good luck,

A couple involved in a bad or good fuck,

A man enjoying what he deems a good murder,

Blood spilling, killing, rape, pain, and hurting.

If this was all public, privacy would die

But maybe for the best,

 

 

 

if the walls had eyes.

 

 

 

The barriers would come down, clowns would frown,

The fake smiles erased, and the theater of deception,

Would come crashing down around us.

Love, hate, hope and lust, would all be a STOP sign.

Or maybe they would become a popular song.

Or perhaps these feelings would be viewed as wrong.

They could also turn into a park bench,

So people could sit on them and attempt secrecy.

But then they would turn into the mouths of “friends,”

And would travel from lip to lip, and in the end,

They would be popsicles bathed with everyone’s spit.

They would be public stowaways on boats and planes,

And would travel the world, across mountains and plains.

This world simply would not be the same.

So weighing pros against cons, I leave the ball on your side

Of the court, I leave it up to you to decide.

Dear Reader, would it be better or worse,

 

 

(I restate the verse,)

 

if the walls had eyes?