For the Love of God

This one is from the vault.

For the Love of God (2/12/97)

For the love of God
Man has
named animals
built arks
made pacts
honored covenants
thrown stones
braved lions
fought wars
written books.

For the love of God
A woman
Wept at the feet of her crucified child.

Rebuilding

This was from a moment in time when life was a lot more complicated.


Rebuilding

In him she found
the best in her.
Eyes like mirrors
reflecting perfection
she knew did not exist.
Hands sculpted
Venus from her flesh
Muses from her soul.
But cold November winds
cut to the bone,
exposing every imperfection
calling attention to every nerve.
And before sunrise
he will have found
the worst she has to offer.
Anger and resentment
contained in hot tears
restricted by her pride.
Turning her back,
resigned to loving without love,
she shuts the door
and begins
rebuilding her walls.

Without Fear

According to what little I can find on the net, the Nove Otto poetic form is a poetry form created by Scott J. Alcorn. It is a nine-lined poem with eight syllables per line (isosyllabic). The rhyme scheme is as follows: aacbbcddc.

Here's my attempt to use this style. Hope you enjoy.

Without Fear

Twisting twirling whirling feet
No music they'd decline to meet
My girls, they dance.
Around and round in frenzied rapture.
No word or picture can truly capture
The way that they entrance.
My babies, my joys, my one true thing
Your freedom, it begs my heart to sing
and believe in taking chances.

Hot today

This piece is in response to a "wordle" exercise from a great site called Read Write Poem. An old (He's not old. Our friendship is) and talented author/singer/composer/poet/wanderer friend of mine, Dave Jarecki turned me on to this site and you should definitely check Readwritepoem.org out.


Anywho (that's right, I said it. I said "Anywho".) try it on for size.

Hot Today

The closet door stands open
bathed in the light of the morning sun.
It's going to be hot today.

In your bed,
I am,
for a few moments,
bleary eyed
hung over
cotton mouthed.
Now that
the smell of beer and booze are nothing more than stale exhalations,
Now that
it's quiet and I can no longer taste your sweat on my tongue,
I wait for acuity to return.

I like to pretend
I am not one of the flaming lost.
That my disposition is not so sanguine
and my thoughts don't tend to loiter
in unsavory bars
and back alleys
where the real action seems to be.

I like to pretend
it's not so far from pretty
inside my pretty little head.
That it's not all simple mastication
verbal defecation
mental masturbation
a fucking Calligulan affair.
Stuck with words and ideas and
unrelenting
unrelentING
UNRELENTING
thoughts!

I like to pretend
that hearts are stout
and Faith doesn't slump
against the dank and moldy walls.
That my unions are
Communion
and it's not my God who's dead.
Perhaps I'll stage a seance
to find out how this all ends.

The closet door stands open
bathed in the light of the morning sun.
It's going to be hot today.