The Beggar

There once roamed a beggar
With a stark, unsettling gaze

Jutting from bloodshot eyes;
The veins resembled a maze.

His words poignant and potent,
Yet the vain were never amazed.

Though he was eager, his voice was meager.

His courage corroded from attrition and malnutrition.

For years he pleaded with the gaudy passersby

Each one despised him,
And fled before he could even ask them why.

With desperate agony
He tugged on their garments,

Their constant reply:
“Unhand me you varmint!”

Others wouldn’t even lend a word,
Only the breeze from their stride.

Trying to be seen was no different
Than trying to hide.

He stumbled through the crowds day after day.

Wasting away.

Constantly reaching for an embrace,
But he seemed to have the physical hand

Of an invisible man.

Day after day he wasted

Entreating for sustenance.
His corporeal substance emaciated.

A bum.

Glum.

Scum.

Shunned by a society gone numb.

Even though he never asked for a cent,
Or morsel, or crumb.

No, the only nourishment he ever sought

Was a ration of affinity.

A genuine bond
For a fraction of infinity.

Even a heartfelt conversation
Would fill his gaunt flesh.

Instead he was given a gauntlet to endure,
And die a myth like the legend of Loch Ness.

For years he shed tear after tear,
Till he no longer could.

But his heart still broke;
Torn, collapsing from tear after tear

Till he no longer stood.

Simmering in resignation,
He withered into a slumped lump,

A begrimed bump.

Bowing to the crowds passing in a blur.

He was an infectious disease without a cure.

He fused into the graffiti on the wall.

Till one day he disappeared, knowing it made no difference at all.

Still taunted and haunted by memories of sight and sound,

Now he wanes and decays in a cave…

Where I write this now.

To My Long Lost Love,

Where have you been,
My long lost love?

Has anyone seen
My long lost love?

I long to know your state,
My long lost love.

And to find your estate,
My long lost love.

We were once united,
Bound in love
Ecstatic, excited.
A life now unheard of
I awake aghast, affrighted.

Awaiting a letter from you
Blown in by the breeze.
Far between and few
Are the days of pleasant ease.

My long lost love
I sorely miss our affinity.
And I sorely miss you,
My long lost love,

Creativity.

Picasso Picaresque

Welcome to the picaresque, pick a risk then pick a rest. Make sure it is picturesque. Flick the pest, the child who’ll grow to live off trysts and slit her wrist. The usual for the unusual, victims of the few who shall use you all. View a child atop the hugest wall. We used to bawl for him to come to a stall, now we call for him to make a move and fall. Stay there, son. A weird son, aware some. Beware scum, he’s fearsome. So veer from the glossed frost on the dross. See the tears run from the pail tossed. Speak of your fears none while we await the pale horse. Run your frail course, walk the trail lost and hail costs. Still, it’s to no avail, boss.

Loss.

This is … a verbal Picasso, an herbal antipasto, a historian’s emporium showcasing ancient fossils in a Costco. The VIP is reserved for the lost souls… who know they’re lost souls. There’s a red carpet with a tar pit leading to the flying car market. Prospects get a starter kit if they can test drive and park it on target. Watch out for the Barkets, zombified studs and starlets who’ve lost wits—walk into Target, get a guitar pick to shave their armpits and use a hair to floss with. Mark it; don’t forget or ignore this flawless gauntlet—you could call it an ornate orchid—designed to sting like hornets and upset and offset from the onset. This is … a director on set, an astronaut prepared and all set—just hasn’t launched yet. A gambler who never lost bets or brought debts. A fish who’s caught nets, a hostage who spoke threats, a treasure in a closed chest on a tall crest above a forest.

No rest.

A small test against the zest of this poet’s. I’ll pass the test then pass the test to the next. At a desk impress, confess or jest your best. Dress the mess in less and less duress. Address the text, your stress prevents success. Press, don’t guess—think steps ahead like chess.

Yes.

I used to ride through cities on Shadowfax, now I ride through on shadows’ backs. With a daunting scepter, haunting specters with shallow laughs that strike like a jagged axe. A gaze that stuns, and burns like a graze from the sun. Yeah, a scowl from beneath a cowl, as I growl, howl and prowl on a brazen run. On a mission to save the sons, and save the daughters—the sacred ones. I am the likes of Vader’s son. Sent by the Ancient One (not Doctor Strange’s one), I came tamed, unchained, trained with a light saber and a laser gun. Steel teeth, quasar gums and a razor tongue. Peering where the Savior hung. Praising with a raging lung. Fist raised with a flaming thumb. Dangling from an aging rung. There is nothing another man can save me from.

You got something to add? …

Save me sum.

The 400

Four hundred words.

An army equipped for battle.

An arsenal fit for war.

But alas,

That is not what the power of words is for.

Confusion and mayhem are the devil’s doing,

The same are the Lord’s eschewing.

Yet, for what cause are we using?

As words broil above the bent brow,

An acrid substance is sent down

And spewed from the mouth to destroy.
To destroy.

To destroy.
If words could sprout wings

Would a dove soar from your garden,

Or would a dragon roar from your dark den?

Words could set free, if you hearken;

But would you condemn men, or give pardon?

And if you doubt the depth of this which I write,

Recall the tale of Edmond Dantès’ plight.

If you knew words could mold hearts like clay…

What would you say?

Your words can frame a day;

To deplore

Or to enjoy.
To enjoy.
So rare, yet so common.

No other creature on Earth wields words,

While we waste so many so often.

We become hardened,

While our mental fortitude is softened

To the likes of cotton.

Feeding from the bottom,

Surfeiting on forbidden fruit gone rotten.

In a radioactive wasteland

Where toxins blossom.

We harvest poison petals to season food that tastes bland.

With withering, quivering, hand

We feed our neighbor.

We don’t sense the flavor,

But still savor.

A cyclical process,

Implementing the secret of conquest:

To desensitize.

Because, all the while, we do not realize

We are blindfolded.
Blindfolded.

Blindfolded.
A spring spouting tainted waters

Sits amidst our town.

We gather around

And guzzle pounds

Till we nearly drown.

You can hear the sound

Of the concoction roiling

In the aching bellies

As people lay sprawled and toiling.

Survive today,

You may.

And thrive nevermore.
Thrive nevermore.

Nevermore.
Begin again,

My friend.

Examine your quiver,

Is your bow for a hero

Or for a killer?

I beseech you,

Enter the palace

And drink of the chalice.

Learn to live in a world

Of goodness and balance.

And forget not,

A word spoken

Set the worlds in motion.

Do you still doubt the power of words?

Whence come your society’s norms?

Or know you not how created things gained their forms? …

If you persist to deny,

If you refuse to be swayed

About the power of words

You will yet believe,

When you’ve felt its blade.
When you’ve felt its blade.

Its blade.

Ghetto Butterfly

A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
Above the dried bloodstains;
Its wings bat away toxic breaths
Perverse and untamed.

A butterfly flutters through the streetz—
Great beauty of little worth.
Through tears gas, dodging bullets
With wings like the Fellbeasts of Middle-earth.

A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
No smile, no glance, no words to speak.
It wipes away a child’s fresh tear
As it passes by its cheek.

Caution

Before you get caught up in the rapture of romance,
Remember that the origin of every devastating heartbreak is beautiful.

The tragedy of naivety.
The calamity of familiarity.

This warning I submit to you,
Gatsby.

The Passionate Pen

The Passionate Pen
Pulsates with luminescence.
Its source transcendent,
Pages radiate, injected with ink incandescent.

The sun squints when the strokes soak.
The sheets must be sheathed in a quote’s cloak.

‘Tis no quill
Taken from a bird’s nestle.
‘Twas a thrill
To concoct the ink, with a firm pestle.

Lava for determination,
Stardust for high hopes,
Starlight for inspiration,
Glacier water for rejuvenation,
A drop of the Savior’s blood for salvation
And a speck of His sweat’s salt for eternal preservation.

Finally, I siphon a raging scream of emotion
Into the cartridge to keep the mixture in motion.
Swirling like undercurrents of the ocean.
Merlin has never known so potent a potion.

An elixir of passion.
I mix it with passion.

The pen glows
And throbs with a tempo.
It plants seeds,
Watch the stems grow.

The false poets—watching at bay—
Flock, & they say,
“Long live the Passionate Pen!”
As, once again, the Passionate Pen
Conquers the day.

Project x

My bones are diamond shafts.
Each eye a sapphire gem.
My blood is liquid rubies.
Dare I divulge my name?

My members, a master’s crafts;
No bacteria, germs or phlegm.
I live free of formal duties.
Shall I flaunt for fame?

No epiglottis or voice boxes,
My heart’s a rocketing comet.
No esophagus needed to imbibe,
I just absorb—like the perfect heist.

Hunted by shamans like foxes,
Fronted by the pickpocketing prophet,
Who’ve seen what I now struggle to describe:

A human creature reborn in Christ.

He & Her (Part 3)

Abandoned.
Engulfed in the empty black of deep space.

Drifting.
Slowly drifting.

Breaking.
Swiftly breaking.
Perpetually. Due to the last seen face…

… He saw a black hole in her eyes.

Her name was…
Resistant.

She was opposed, obstinately feeling…
He was shattered to the core, each shard constantly peeling.

His heart was snatched from his chest, thrown to jackals,
How could it come to this? He was wholly baffled.

The love that would never end became the lie that would never end.

The love that would always be became the love that never was.

The everlasting pain marinating his entire being, till the steam of anguish seared the inner of his eyes. Causing them to pour forth sorrow; salty, bitter sorrow for him to eat.

He ate nothing else but the sorrow which he brewed.
He despaired of life, until…

He saw the face of death.

(To be continued…)

He & Her (Part 2)

Their love continued.

Shining gloriously–not like the sunlight beaming through a stained-glass masterpiece, but–as though the sun itself were enveloped in stained-glass.

They were inseparable.

Their hands interweaved like the strands of the most symmetrically crafted royal garment. Golden, the strands. For when their hands meshed it was as though they fused into one effulgent organism of affection. Generating waves of love.

Their hearts were intertwined.

They danced on the rising horizon. They slumbered on the sunset. They kissed the stars, between each other’s lips. They held the summer’s warmth, within their embrace.

He saw the sunshine in her smile.

He saw starlight in her eyes.

Until…

A new acquaintance entered their lives. A villain of indifference. His name was…

Distance.

The summer’s warmth he once knew soon became the chill of early autumn. The hand he held became a key, hidden in a repository of antiquity. Her voice, once a spectrum of color, became like the dullest gray.

He saw dark night in her eyes.

His world collapsed.

… Falling and never crashing, in the infinite emptiness of cold space.

Then, like a dauntless archer, she relentlessly struck him to the heart. And the impact resounded unbounded in his realm of existence…

Never ending…

The sound of one word…

“… Anymore.”

(To be continued…)