The Darkened Path

Lately I have been enjoying the fantasy genre, both with reading and gaming. Here's a stab at creating a kind of fantasy vibe...

So in the grace of all that has passed I stand
in snarling mania wondering
how the clouds will form

I don't know this forest or its paths,
It's too dim to see the low branches or the
unevenness of the road

Grant me this one request that when
a sliver of light slices through and falls to eat
a search party will track my travels

For alone and stumbling in foreign land
has been my way and my fate but I know
my isolation is artificial in a thick of being

Poison spiders weave taut webs far ahead
in unmapped land -- forward I forge
unknowing of their surprise

Denizen troll and violent predators awake
behind nearby trees and vines -- I am an
unexpected victim they so randomly kill

Save from special attack and grip your
weapon tight because it's not about
heroism but simple survival

When the moon is high and you just don't
stop moving think of my jungle
and its numerous pitfalls

Because no path is free of traps and
craven foes lurk about
I carry my soul's protection about my neck

Time to Fade

I was dirty and damp
when I finally rode in
I took my sword's hilt
and banged heavily
upon the gates of home

And they did open
the worn and the sick
sang my praises
the leper choir
honored their protector

Another pilgrimage has
been finished
another score have seen
the power and the light
and my weathered face gleams

Success has been hard
my once glowing armor
has tarnished and chipped
bent, its regal crest
hidden by filth and blood

How the bandits
have fallen in pagan charges
and the heretical and insidious
have struck fiercely
in the battle for the soul

I raised my weapon determined
and gritted my teeth
bathed in the gore
showered in the screams
because I was armed by rite

They fell in ferocious torment
the pilgrims offered thanks
but the magnitude of the favor
was beyond their concept
I always fight alone

Alone the protector
Alone the savior
none of my host have taken the blade
from my tired grasp
or wiped the grime from my eyes

My nature predetermined
I shoulder this crest
and accept the object of
my fight -- for this only that
which sums my form knows

That road and its beaten trails
Took my people through turmoil
I watched and checked them
Tirelessly for what can only
be an infinity of exasperation

So now I have dismounted my beast
And my feet have finally touched
The ground of my memory
and I can set my sword down
drop my shield and breathe deep

My chest heaves and I cut
The ties which hold my steel
It rings as it hits the stone
The village gasps collectively
As I fall to the earth

I cannot help anymore
I have fought beyond my reserves
I cannot witness death
At my hands again
My eyes well in relief

I don't have to fight anymore
My realm has tightened to
Only my senses and as this
Warrior passes and the protected panic
I silence the screams for good

Who's up to Bat?

A sinister flash of teeth caused an agreement to happen without cautious glances.
Now, a fortuitous hero wills his rise from rusted ranks and former idolizers.
Now condemn last-minute strokes of genius.
Yes, genius or brilliance in simplicity.
Could lasting actions build tradition or shore up ethical balloons in a corral to prevent
exposure to incongruent elements periodic in definition, organized in the hardened bones of ashen disaster.
Yes, former chiefs can create new obedience in tired fists.
Blasting caps fuel memory armed with apology.
Could forgers pose as the hold in retribution of the convicted?
These queries move in the sky above all.

Everything has forced the hand into solution.
Hold your head by the temples and spasm blindly into the night,

For they are coming for you next.

Nothing

This is a poem about missing someone so much it feels like you have a massive void that nothing can fill, except for maybe hope.

A blank desert stare
Turns bloodshot red
as sharp grain
meets fragile eye

flow salt flow
futility blinks slowly
hands clench white
jaw grinds tightly

there is no pain like vision
past knowledge
is a forgotten tool
to break frozen gears

rusted shell of machine
ancient and abandoned
buried by ghosts
operated by memory

the dried mud cracks
underneath worn soles
dust piles formed
by eroded hands

it is all gone now
thought but a whisper
that which was never known
was erased as it was written

Well at last the clock
is ticking off time
softly then loudly
present yet subtle

moments have melted
fusing splinters and rubble
shadows stretch over ruins
bloodshot eye sees horizon

wait wait wait to see
if only it could grow nearer
a voice in the ear daily
could be a body close tomorrow

Past Deeds

This poem is about being haunted by your past. I think most people have something in there lives that can cause a shiver or grimace when reflected upon. In the case of this poem's subject, it is the rigors of war. However, I think it can apply to about any kind of regret.

Past Deeds

His sword sat on its dusty mantle
Singing whispers to him in the night
How long has it been, friend warrior
Just how long has it been

He has not slept a whole night ever
Always resting with one eye open
Hand slightly clenched in a terminal cramp
Holding the sharp steel of his might

It sings soft murder harshly
I am so thirsty tonight it says
It seems that I never drink anymore
Why must you just lay there, warrior

Too many voices have been ended abruptly
Mad foes struck down continuously
Orders followed no matter how much blood
That is but one reason the warrior lay fitful

In the shadow and dim light
A slight gleam rides along the blade
Calling out pockmarks and scars
Where unfortunate flesh and bone were scored

The quiet breaks again with the weapon’s call
You are not whole without me
Deathvoice taunting him quietly
Angered that the warrior will not grasp it

For regardless of his master’s orders
This soldier will not fight again
Too many screams ride his mind
Too many echoes of shallow graves

Quiet the bastard blade
Toss away the worn and wasted armor
Splinter the shield into dust
Still, the fight is never over

Enter the hero in the desperate night
And allow him to walk the dawn
For when all you know how to do is fight
Peaceful sleep, when had, must be respected

The Omega Man

Some people think they’re so smart, don’t they? Supposedly we have the greatest minds making the biggest decisions to tackle the largest problems. What if being smart isn’t the answer to changing the world?

The Omega Man

Oh so it has come to the Omega Man
Docile in his simplicity
To pilgrim forth to fetal plates
And carve the truth upon them

Read his somber face
For some hint at deep reason
You’ll search an eon
Lost in blissful ignorance

For treasured purpose
Is eternal journey
On a landscape untraversable
By such meager beasts

Savant prophet, oh inscribe for us
The where and the what fors
Ghost hand guided to chip stone
Into elegies of meaning

For these ants busy their hills
Pacing circles in the sand
Wrenching claws into soreness
Coping with the question why

Fool, deliver us the knowledge
That our time is not wasted
Stretching, groping to touch
The face of God.

Are our minute gestures
Strong enough to launch us from
Our material platforms
Into the omnipotent embrace

Creator limbs of cosmic fabric
To wrap around us
And comfort us with pillows
Of miracles and forehead kisses

A simpleton it must be
For our vessel could never be
A troubled or busy mind
Of genius intellect complicated by design

Too many equations create log jam
Significant to render high thoughts
Jig-sawed into corners and cul-de-sacs
Of theoretical answers needing more proof

We could wait here to infinity
Mucking and making it complex
While a simple man’s steps
Walk forward diligently

So such a creature should usher forth
To stride foot before foot
To monolith billboard
To chisel our final truth

Move dear brothers aside
And make room for him
For his actions will take a moment
And remain for all time

All Praise The Moron
All Praise The Idiot Savior
To Know
Is Not To Know At All

THE PRESSING CONCERNS OF THE INSECTS

The purpose of life
Forever sought for
The sacrifice of the old ones
On the altars of their convictions
To their theories
Which exist as gods
Their worship – their search
Their prayers – their documents
Their ritual – their research
All beings
At all times
Seek the meaning
The point
The reason
The answer
To why
And where it is going

We are the living ghosts
The wandering Jews
Whose individual sins
Betrayals
Conspiracies
Force us to meander
Never to put our feet on the ground
Even if we did
They would be as mud
Giving to our weight
But slowing our explorations
In all art
In all approaches
The subconscious foundation
Is the reaching out
By the insane
How pathetic
How tragic
How ironic
That our saviors
Would not rise above us
Wearing crowns
But straightjackets instead

Dubious to all
In the end
All biological function
Is what seems automatic
A part of the anonymous program
That runs it all
What is the construction of
Our struggle
The hauntings
The forced leases
The silent laws
That we follow
The monitors that observe
The omnipotent voyeurs
Document our peril
Our unique despairs
There are no sympathies
There are no judgments
That which creates pain
Is a molecule in the movement
Too basic for ethics
And less than dust to god

So is our breath
As is our lives
Minute to the immortal
And crucial to the insects.