Personal Exploits: Poetry

In my understanding, poets are at their best at the forefront of a revolution; their verses booming over the barricades, undressing kings, toppling empires... In the less turbulent times, a poem is a way of getting fewer words to fill more pages. At least, thats how I look at my own creations.¶

Tenet

He sees my thoughts
— A madman cried
He reads my dreams
And dwells inside

He's always watching
Ever — wake
He combs the soul
With chiding rake

The madness shattered reason's guard
Like venom mixed with subtle art
He had his prison built of bone
For he can never be alone

Kipchak Khanate

As strands of hair fell in place
She raised a darkened, troubled face
The clouds covered crimson sun
We ride to war — cried out the khan

Across horizon riders spread
Divine Temujin was at head
The greatest force the world had seen
Beside the khan, his impious queen.

She cursed her eyes that made her see
As pagans reign and kinsmen flee.

Vexing Verses

There once was a geezer from Prague
Who liked to give youngsters a hug
He'd follow it up with a sensual rub
And leave them to bleed in the tub.

There was a young slave called Le Pingo.
Who set to revolt San Domingo.
In fire and smoke they killed all white folk.
And adopted the Frenchified lingo.

A citizen known as St. Just,
Knew well Robespierre in the past.
And now he moans,
On the mattress of bones,
In hell, liberated — at last.

There once was a man who wore shorts.
He used cardboard boxes as forts.
He trained little flea.
To beg and to plea.
And spent all his life drinking ports.

There was an old jew from the ghetto
Who hid jewel–encrusted stiletto
For under the floor
There was a trap door
A cunning old jew from the ghetto

The Second Song of a Fellowcraft Printmaker.

Once in the thicket of proverbial mire,
Among the reeds of metaphor and semiotic mud
A single verse of clear, clandestine fire
Lay hidden in the pool of verbal blood

It is not given to our adverse gender
To partake in the mystery of birth
To suffer through and finally to render
The flesh from womb, like fire from the hearth

Ours truly is the world of dim reflection,
Of shimmering homunculi in vials
Of coils of reason looped in tired erection
Of leads and slugs in neatly marching files.

A metaphoric birth of the hermetic life
A glimpse of future in a tiny drop
A dab of paint on my pallet knife
A lame attempt at very first press job.

The Four Truths of the Great Serpent

Prepare thy ears, noble sirs,
Who rule the frail with regal force.
Unclothe thy eyes ye humbler folk,
Who weave the thread and raise the stock.
Prepare to devotedly hark
All you who squander in the dark.

For deep within this simple verse,
Lies fire taken from the hearth,
A soothing balm for troubled hearts,
A sturdy shield for solemn guards.

Before the earth was fraught with folk,
Amid the stars Great Serpent woke.
His tail wrapped fourthly 'round the world
The first great truth the Serpent hurled:

If ere on, on time thou be
I shall transport and nurture thee!

The mighty roar has shattered land
And deepening voids all creatures left
Some chose to dwell in cooling seas
Some took to fly on gentle breeze.
But those truest to their form
Chose barren earth to mend and roam.

The mounts still shook from Serpents rhyme
But folk knew naught how track the time
For in those days no light did shun
And day and night were ever one.

Upon a hill a Lion heaved
For Serpents words were left bereaved
The lion shook his golden main
He swore to light celestial flame

He took to climb the tallest mount
And sowed a seed in fertile ground
He sprinkled it with pearls from sea
In fortnight there grew a tree
The largest seen by mortal eye
Its branches pierced the sunless sky.

Atop he placed his heart aflame
Thus Lions life a sun became.

As morning rays have touched the earth
A serpent once again spoke fourth:

Make thee a leaf with transit chart
And in my belly you'll depart.

The booming voice the air filled
Thus second truth has been revealed.

But folk had naught the art to write,
And hid themselves in shame and fright.
Then up rose kind and learned sage
His beard whitened with the age.

For months he strolled across the land
In search of language drawn by hand.
Exhausted he collapsed on shore,
The sage knew well he'd walk no more.

He stretched a tiring waning hand.
And grasped a pile of flowing sand.
Again, the sage's hand moved forth
But found nothing but the earth
A third attempt was met with stones
The fourth produced a pile of bones.

With final breath of fleeting life
He threw the bones in fatal strife
The mourners found bones thus strewn
Each little pile became a rune.

For Sages selfless noble feat,
All elders have a right of seat.

As Sage's ash was laid in tomb
Third time the Serpents voice did boom

Erect a temple for my art
It shall house those who soon depart

But folk were deep in petty strifes
They warred each other, captured wives
They pillaged towns salted crops
And paid no heed to serpents words

A youth rose under waning moon
Alone the bricks he boldly hewn
Alone he carried heavy stone
He worked his hands to bare bone.

The folk were shamed by eager lad
They threw their swords and shared bread
A mighty force was there built
They called themselves the Union Guild

Four years took the Serpents task,
The people worked from dawn to dusk
The stones were dressed with lion's heads
Three arching windows pierced with threads
At last they crowned the topmost block
With largest ever known clock.

As final strokes of hammers fell
The Serpent spoke:

Thou fared well
'Ere comes the time for final Truth!

With that he plunged his mighty tooth
And left behind a narrow trail
Thus was received Eternal Rail

Now anyone of righteous soul
Who minds the time and pays the toll
Can thus have merit to receive
A transit chart on Sacred Leaf
To worship daily at the shrine
That houses Union – Divine.
To enter Serpents Holy Bowels
And thus transgress beyond all grounds.

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A Smirking Poet.