The Gate

The wood fence, my father built, broke at the crossroads,
Here intersected by an iron gate,
With captured cattle, branded with Fate.

There an old man, holding a baby wrapped in rags,
Sneered and pointed at calender's ending day,
"Its the fiscal year my dear, don't worry well take
care of it, no need to fear."

He washed the political ash off his sinister hand,
And marked the fresh born with tribal bands.
"And this one here is mine and ours, to the family they
are born for us to deem how to water and grow."

Then tucking the child behind his silk coat, he smiled
with his victory began to gloat. "We have won without a gun!
At night we signed the papers! Your rel estate is gone!"

And taking his emblem pin, which he wore,
stabbed us through the heart,
Colored blood to wash the floor.

"You should have read the subtext, didn't I
say after your father's dream you would come next?
You cannot blame me!" He smiled morally free,
"It was you who did not see!"

He turned then back to the gate,
And painted it many colors,
The official decree of late.

No Mind

Why lay in bed,
With a sleepy head,
When morning is so
beautiful outside.

What can I find in a
reclining chair, certainly
no meaning or reason to care.
Or staring into some brazen screen,
Dancing with figures obscene.

What distills within an others
heart, may not be what resides
within mine. The beauty we seek
in starry nights, sometimes hides.

The world if full of complicated ideas,
Of semantics, crazy antics, and frantically
fading days. And without being true, to
me, what could be, and that which we love,
Like falling from heaven, all may quietly turn
to dust.

Moments

I feel something's always the same,
Between the seasons of life,
The same old stories of boys and girls,
Running through the dreams at night.

And there's always that difference,
Between what we think, and what
really is. Something strange and
acquiescent of a rainy day.

The sparkles they share, like
children in the park, or birds
floating through the air, It always
feels to short, and somehow still fair.

At night with eyelids closed,
yet still aware,
he can still rest in his lazy-boy chair.

In A Few Rooms

Looking in through windows, I peer into the
standstill life of quiet houses

It is easiest to think while all alone, studying
the lives in each and every home.

All of this worlds sorrows exist within a few
rooms.

The daily struggle of earning our bread, wanting
more than a roof and bed.

But within this place I can see freedom born.
Unlike outside, on our slave paid road.

In our toil, our sorrow, our groans we may
find the cause for us all to grow.

To take this away is to dull the soul. We need
our pain, and rain, so our lives will not
meaninglessly fade away.

I ask only this, that we should be left alone.
that by our own merits succeed, or like animals
to Rome.

The Door(s)wings

I saw a swinging door, open,
today. As if no one had been
home in a while. The streets
were empty, quiet, still.

A solitary vision, of softly
fading melodies, disappearing
to a sequestered soul. Walking,
having done so for many lonely
miles, in awe I now sit here
alone. Where have all the people
gone? Where did they go? Roses
without trimming, too many years
without shearing. No gardener,
no woman or man. Just a midday
sun and a T.V. reflecting in glass

Then, with a cool passing breeze the
door shuts. The students began filing,
for their noon class. I rise as well
for the time has come to pass.

Testament

Sons of overgrown shadows that fail to disappear until dusk comes, and the looooong night.

I once was here

With you, and my friends,
in this beautiful land. And--
with regretful sighs, I wish
to see it a time and again.
But where my path has currently
wandered, my vision now altered
with age, I cannot see as I did
before; something different for
a different day.