I like the sentiment, Herema.
will you walk your silver feet
across the rutted ancient street
where chinese herbs are dead or dying
gliding past the lonely lane
the sound above the surfing train
of cobblers building shoes for giants
at least bring a silent mirth
to a science thats giving birth
to a new race of holy androids
hell reward you with singing
and rebuke your lord with stinging
insults and loss of rank and privelege
he will shod your silver feet
and fasten on a leather leash
turn you loose in the place he pillaged
there to mourn the freedom lost
be so careful not to accost
the toys that he gave all your world to
so there went the future
zipping like a bird
across the arc of sky
as alone you stand
in last week's stone rubble
so there went in a haze
the wholly new world
in which you would renew
a self pristine pops
with the errant bubble
losing the faith
in every way we can
inviting the wraith
to the parties we plan
war of the worlds
no martian need apply
feed swine with pearls
why did we have to die
that last one is heavy food
deep thinking motivational mood
reveals an understanding deep
asks a mighty question of eternity's sleep
why did we have to die
truth tells absolutely no lie
we have to die so we can live
swine desires no truth to give
buckets in the well diving deep
splattering ones reflection
like a jillion frightened sheep
conjuring introspection
the wind and a sausage on the blinding sea
sausage on the sea
bobbing and heaving with every spray
until a fishy ate it all
there was no more sausage on the stormy sea
no more sausage bear with me
until a fishy ate it all
the sailor who lost it cried and cried
and went to bed hungrily
i want my sausage
i want my sausage
but its lost to me
eaten by a fishy of the sea
silence of diamond
fog over icelocked sea
tears on a mountain
hidden rage roams free
rage that burns
without a reason
unquenchable
intensity
Hidden rage
and rage that burns
and rage that turns
stone fists to rubble
twisting
turning
sense of
yearning
[jump in Ed .... it's your poem ....]
i pout for angst
among the bubbles
reroute for pangs
and morning stubble
i walk the waltz
how can you
let me stroll alone
we could swing
two three four
If I could write I'd write a poem
The perfect poem to Wilfred Owen
And in the poem I'd tell him why
I don't believe he had to die.
Or any man in any war
Now or then or anymore.
the damned wars nations fight
blinded by flags and eternal spite
glorifying slaughter
congealing blood like dying water
(see the priveleged play
while the masses chant in god we slay)
spider
woven van gogh tapestry
colored gold by morning sun
artist at the ready
to put sunflowers on the moon
Too many have searched for gold,
treasure maps of ancient told,
to think that effort been wasted on,
something so malleable of old do fond,
when surely the real gold lies,
upon the daylight blue sky.
