A Baker’s Dozen…With Not A Dry Eye In The House.


       A Baker's Dozen...With Not A Dry Eye In The House.


              Dull this drop of bitter wine -- 
                   liquified from stone. 
                 Clarify its taste for me, 
                     hitherto unknown. 


                  Sinking veils of sadness 
                  freeze the barren earth. 
                   Frosting out potential 
                   blighting out rebirth. 

                   Empty winds of harvest 
                   skirt the shining waste. 
              Searching now for fresher soil, 
                 in cold relentless haste.


                    I cannot look up -- 
                cannot even lift my eyes -- 
                        to the sun, 
                     or the night sky. 

                  Instead, I look away -- 
                       tears flow -- 
                streaming down in rivulets, 
                    dark salty things -- 
                 mixed with blood and fear. 

                         They fall, 
                      and I follow -- 

                       looking down. 

                  Bereft of friendship -- 
                       companions -- 

                      and bright eyes. 
                  Another piece of meat is burning -- 
                   a service to the God. 

                      It is blessed -- 
                 most honored in its agony, 

               Honored most of all by service 
                    -- and being served. 


                Madness is a State of Grace. 
                      Honored by God, 
                     and Feared by Man. 

                    Those who seek it -- 
                     choose willingly, 
                  to live in THEIR World, 

                       Not THE World. 

                      They go there -- 
                        with vigor, 
                       and in chains. 

                    Their haunted faces, 
               at once alight with pleasure, 
                      and with pain -- 

            They seek the gentle side of madness, 
                 a quiet room for solitude. 

                     Where souls go -- 
            having been burglarized by passion, 
                          raped -- 
                      held captive -- 
                        and ignored. 

                     Too long, they cry -- 
                         Too long! 

                    Compassionate reply. 

                       No life . . . 
                        to speak of, 
                   No joy to pass around. 

             No vain attempts to counter Fate, 
                No sorrow when they've gone.


I have risen from my slumber 
and pull forth my ragged waves 
I shed the silt experience 
of fitful sleeping days.           

My time has come for churning 
I crave the salty spray 
and wiping blood from off my brow 
I turn to wet the day. 


Points of pleasure mixed with pain -- 
these are the gentlest kind. 
Melancholy grief again -- 
a precious cruel find. 

 Metronomic thoughts unwind 
in metered rhythmic rhyme. 
Twisted echoes of the mind 
caress a pantomime. 

Gentler features contraband 
Bind a martyred soul. 
 Terror grips a tempered hand 
as gales begin to blow. 

 Hurricane my troubled friend, 
 ally in despair. 
Peaceful do you seem to me 
when I at times compare. 


Anagram -- Cryptogram 
Search the soldier's maze. 
Find the right solution 
clear away the haze. 
Fire the gun without a shot 
Push the pellet through the slot 
Ask for brighter days. 

Alice had her darker side 
A part which she could not abide. 
Was it through the looking glass 
Hiding in the unkept grass? 
Could she approach the bride? 

Seek the door not often tried. 
Find the answer still not met. 
Do you know the answer yet? 
Would you, could you make the bet. 
Would you know I lied? 


Unimagination dries the soul 
and trims away the spirit 
leaving skeletal remains 
of those who do not fear it. 

Often when I sit to write 
a guilt will overtake me. 
Why can I not enjoy the light, 
why so morbid lately? 

I toy with wondering awhile 
then toss the guilt aside. 
For if I wrote of gentler things 
 A child could see I lied. 


I'd like to find a peaceful mind 
and think its thoughts awhile -- 

then leave it to its own device! 


Welcome world insanity 
Welcome bloody days 
Hatred now conditioned 
Chauvinism praised. 

Welcome independence 
Detachment now in vogue 
Songs of modern prophets 
trampled in the road. 


After the roses came the war, 
then the heart that mourned the gore. 
Trouble was after all that pain, 
we came full circle to start again! 


Poets tend to talk too much, 
would-be poets more. 
Seems they've just forgotten 
what their ears are for.