Thou art dried up and dead as a waterless root Of some vegetation which is not hardy with The tumultuous times of trivialities that travail Even the most arduous and diligent cedar– Yea, even that of Lebanon upon which falls The dew of Heaven each morning unto mid- Day, when thereupon shines forth the sun,…

the copyright is necessary at the end of every poem as a statement of being and being copyrighted by the poet who spilled ink, blood, sweat, tears into the poem now read. if there is no copyright, then there is a chance that the poem will be free and loose, which is not proper or…

writewritewritewrite write !and do it right–but not only right but also right now so that younevergetachance to take a breath because all you are ever doing is appeasing an ever-incessant mind that demands that you completely extricateevery thought thought thought thought that you thought was going to be just a passerby in your mind–or your…

write write write write write and do it right but not only right but also right now so that you never get a chance to take a breath because all you are ever doing is appeasing an ever incessant mind that demands that you completely extricate every thought thought thought thought that you thought was…

It was murder by suicide–the unpardonable Sin. None could be redeemed who so disdained Life. To commit the act–even to think of it–was Condemned by all men, who knew that life was a Fight, an evolutionary struggle everyone had to Win on his own merits, lest he be left to the side- Line. Each one…

Poems are for pansies, of which I am one. Wearing the colors of white and violet, I stretch out with pen toward the sun To draw a face upon the faceless one, Who stands high above with a quiet Faceless face of the Inferno by which All light commences to dawn upon The upturned faces…

To write or not to write…or is it to right or not to right wrongs… at least, as I perceive them to be in this world rife with reasons to bear resentments like sentiments of one’s own semblance of resemblance, looking back in the mirror, a reflection of insurrection, as we look upon ourselves with…

There is a measure of leisure in my insanity, which overcomes me in a moment of outrageous raging rage because of my immature stage and stages, wherein I lack the capacity to clearly see what it is I am becoming as my mind loses itself to the blood pulsating through the veins of my brain,…

Lazy Sunday afternoon, call me to rest In the beloved arms of your Blessedness, Where war and peace reside as One With neither side seeing if they won, And only sweet memories of forgotten lore Are remembered deep within the soul, Wherein Life itself is truly had by all Who seek not the e’er-persistent call…

I do not know how to write a poem or anything else like it. I must be written by the poem or the verse or the prose, which I am trying to write and unwrite, till I become one with the poem or prose, and it undoes everything I have done, else I will be…