On the Passing of an Artist

a sketch on paper
seems so fragile,
so ephemeral,
and yet,
the art can go on
into forever,
but the artist...
now there's a gossamer thread for you;
the strong hand and
brilliant eye
grow weak and dim,
life's brief flame
dances madly in the winds of time,
until,
inevitably,
the wind blows *just* so,
and the flame is just...
gone

the who will always pass,
while the what may yet remain;
we mourn the artist's passing,
while treasuring the art,
and holding fast to the hope
that there is a place
beyond the winds of time
where all the flames that once were
will yet dance again

For Darwyn Cooke, 1962-2016

On the Things I Have Lost

My heart I lost to a bonnie lass,
Red hair and fair of face

My liver I lost to an old shot glass,
Weekends at Johnny's Place

My mind I lost in the halls of math,
Numbers filling my head

My soul I lost to the devil's wrath,
Damned before I lie dead

The Moment of Judgment

"you have sinned!"
the emerald-clad Wrath of God looms above me,
his pale finger,
a lightning bolt of judgment frozen in this moment,
hovers a heartbeat away from from my own heart's last beat;
his cold eyes,
pure white fire blazing from a bone-colored face,
hold no pity,
no mercy,
no compassion,
and in those eyes i see
that no reasonable argument,
no heartfelt remorse,
no desperate pleading
would stay this divine executioner's hand,
and so, with closed eyes and bowed head,
i await my final earthly punishment,
my last experience in this life
before my new birth
as eternally living food
for the poison-fanged, burning worms of perdition's dung pits.
my heart beats,
the bolt strikes my head,
and I begin to scream
forever

Awakening on Ysmault

red, red blood...
in my eyes,
and in my hair,
and in my ears,
and in my nose,
and in my mouth,
and in my lungs,
and in my stomach;
deep in a sea of blood,
i writhe
and thrash,
convulsing,
contorting,
while both around me
and within me
an overwhelming pounding,
a migraine of my entire body,
a booming thump, thump-thump,
thump, thump-thump,
my soul contracts to a single point,
a red hot spark
that ignites my blood,
burns my blood,
frees my blood
gives new life--
my true life--
to my blood;
i break the surface of this scarlet sea,
i breathe in the stale, heavy air of this strange world
and scream as i exhale the fiery blood;
i roar to the heavens,
i growl at the stars,
at everything that is,
i rage

BASIC haiku

first line, see el ess.
next, print whatever you want.
last line, back to two

English or Math?

writing this haiku
an exercise in counting
feels more like math class

Why Kurt Godel Couldn't Write Love Poems

"Why certainly" you say,
but how do you know it's so?
You seem to think that proof
Will guarantee what you know.
But even in a realm
As clear cut as the numbers,
Shades of uncertainty
Awaken from their slumbers.
If some of math's own truths
Float upon a proofless sea,
Then what slight hope have you
To prove your love's truth to me?

happy birthday

my duties i might wish to shirk,
but here i sit, stuck at work
no chance to laugh, no time for mirth
to celebrate my day of birth
the clock seems dead, the minutes stick,
i think i might be feeling "sick"
i wonder if i could get away
to celebrate this happy day

Night Thoughts

Two cats on an old gray gate,
Purring softly while the hour's late;
Gazing down, the old, old Moon,
Listening to the cold wind's tune,
Wonders if those on Sleep's sweet slope
Still believe in the myth of Hope.

And there was evening and morning, another day-- until there just aren't anymore. 

a haiku

body's chemistry
demons devouring my soul
damn serotonin

The Limerick of the Cowardly Golem

There once was a golem of wet clay,
who was skilled in all forms of melee.
But things weren't quite right,
when he got in a fight,
he would collapse and just roll away.

(Note: while Gumby is, arguably, a clay golem, this poem is not about him. He is brave, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for him. I'm thinking of something more like a D&D golem, only, you know, more cowardly.)

words

words are magic
they are the dancing, empty air that can
teach,
encourage,
reveal,
communicate,
persuade,
confuse,
mislead,
destroy
words are nothing:
no thing
they exist only in the mind
yet by swirling some air
or making some scribbles on paper
or lighting up some pixels on a computer screen
one mind can cause the words in their mind to move to another mind
words are telepathy

words are power
but they are not all-power
they can stop a shooter (sometimes)
but never a bullet
they can stop a drunk (sometimes)
but never a car
they can stop an angry voice (sometimes)
but never a word already spoken
they are telepathy
not telekinesis
not time travel

the magic of words is enchantment
and the mind most enchanted by any given person's words
is their own mind
our words create our vision of reality
even when the words we use came from others
it is our words that give them power in our minds
our words that repeat their words
until we do not know where the words came from
only that they are there
but the secret of words is not just that the words of others are just words
the secret is that all of the words are just words
even the ones we tell ourselves

poem 6571

diet of wyrms, she said,
i truly had no idea:
'twas bits of creatures dead,
floating in diarrhea

i asked her once, and she mispoke twice,
so i asked her thrice again;
i cried in shock as she took the mice
and fed them to her best friend

sillyness incarnate,
folly wrapped in fleshly joy;
terror may escalate
when miss death herself plays coy

i asked her once, and she mispoke true,
so i asked her to explain;
with a grin she said she thought i knew,
then she flushed me down the drain

cast adrift in this sea
with no stars by which to steer,
lost, there's just only me,
marooned on this raft of fear.

Just Wondering

Counting backwards as the flame gets higher,
You tell yourself that there is no fire.
The heat you feel is just a lie,
You're much too bored to have to die

The cell phone rings, then drops the call,
Figure you miss one, you missed them all
Dinner's burning, can you smell the smoke?
It's just you cooking, and baby that's the joke

Wearily you laugh, tearfully you cry,
Tomorrow always comes, but never answers why

this moment

baby buddha
dressed in blue
how your mommy
must love you
bouncing on her
old brown knee
laughing at
eternity

Pneuma

the wind is my friend,
my lover,
my soul;
it fills me from the inside,
it moves me from without;
in it i
dance,
sing,
laugh,
run,
and,
sometimes,
fly;
the wind is my ocean
upon which i surf,
within which i swim,
it is my calm and my storm,
i know no other song
than its howl and whisper;
i know no other caress
than its breezes and gusts;
it is my spirit and my breath,
it is my life

Trek Prequel Haiku (lame)

no special effects,
gore, nor gratuitous sex,
just kirk, spock, and bones

from midwest farmland
to boldy go where no man
dreams of first command

counting beats per line,
once dead but once more alive,
"logic" makes this five

southern gentleman
gruff manner with healing hands
heart which understands

head, heart, will, these three
as one find their destiny:
lives entwined yet free...

a bit early, but still hopeful

twilight falls
on winter's stage,
tomorrow's dawn:
spring's first blush;
fresh dew falls
on icy page,
the cub, the fawn:
life's new rush

pigpen's lament

they say that i must wash my hands;
why is it no one understands?
i love the feel:
the grit,
the grime.
being dirty,
it is no crime.
my hair's unkempt,
an Einstein mess,
no real contempt,
just won't impress:
wrinkled clothes,
and scuffed up shoes;
keep your pose,
for this i choose.

On Finding an Empty Plastic Bag Where I Really Expected to Find a Soul

What colour the little scream,
that proceeds all day from my heart,
as silent as a tomb and as large as the universe?

astral ball bearings,
greased lightly with faux mirth,
falling through the web of self-lies and forgotten stories.

madness claims each tomorrow,
a dark sun rising over an infinite jest.