Death Rattles His Name......can you hear the claim?

The sound of only one voice shakes me.

I listen to hear him speak,

it relaxes my heart and it beats to his resolve.

No aim at the hurt inside of a person does he aim,

yet, he is able to ask the question,

it makes them feel at home.

The interest in such a mind of intellect,

brings out the urge to live you see.

I am dying of disregard.

Of every person that says,

"I don't care"

or worse, "Get over it."

Although it sounds indifferent

it is this very word that describes what is happening.

Mother Nature is taking control, not I.

I was 32 years old the first time,

I barely survived.


Two Silver Dollars For The Ferrymen! The Pull of the Golden Cord, it is the Curse of the RED PURSE

Artistic pastels scream, SUPPLY!

Look into my minds eye,

see that "You" are not "I."

Launch the raft to navigate, not to laugh.

Death lurks at your door,

asking, "Are you a pick-up? or a Horror?"

Draw the line.

The long in time wait still to feel the fill.

The Grave may not be served "On the Rocks."

But, chill it does, the Glacier talks.

"Holding all in cellular tar,"

I blackened myself to match that bar.

Left not flight.

I did not loose sight, I mean,

why fight, when you might just be right?

Spare the tears,

the wet eyes of years,

the lies that you wear,

they make me swear!!

GOD DAMN, just stand.

I am not a Man.

I have been on the lamb!!

Not the rack, rather a track.

Leaving signs of all that you lack.

Get out; Don't shout.

My head, it hurts all about.

Stop your blare, my brain is in there.

Sever yourself from the Sins of When?

You just stood and said, "I didn't know then."

I'll get up and then throw-up,

sicken myself to know it is a set-up,

for who? YOU.

Oh well, it must have been the letter.



An Idea Of Why

Bury your thoughts of discriminatory fear!

Unleash a balance of Imagination.

Lend your Will towards Truth.

Life can then benefit You.

Be Pensive, not Expensive.

Attempt to rid yourself of Blind Rage.

See the Sage amongst the crowd.

Bow not to your loud appeal, of heal.

Discover strength in the Dens of Iniquities.

Create a fascination to Shield the saturation of the perverted

and the learned capability to discern the innocent before their destruction.

Pride yourself with the Stride of a Lyon!

In the Lair of Man;

 Do Not Stare!

Lurking is a Deadly sign.

The missing link is not meant to be screwed.

No rudeness will be found when Honesty is around.

A find of a unique kind is not by specific design.

It takes a novel approach to not scare from behind the running kind.

Be quick, be fast or you shall find that it will be your last.



The Circle Of Death; Or Life!! Do Not Strife.

Explosive years of traveled times,

regard my Mind in riddling rhymes.

Each moment captured in seconds of shock,

waiting for the sight of them, I lock!

No more can I see my duty or my cause.

Only the emptiness and loss.

Missing what is no longer here,

is felt as the absence of life long fear.

Speaking of what cannot be seen,

knowing that I will no longer be,

I pause to accept gracefully,

the lives that made all of this inside of Me.

The growth of some is the death of run.

I caught myself in a senseless sort of dumb: Numb!

I look with blind and blurred vision,

to only know that it is their decision.

Turning from what was thought to be love,

is making sense of childhood; glove.

I am, I will, I'm told I'll always be,

that which can't be much you see.

Damaged goods,

I know it's true, excitement of existence should!

Install inside an upward flow

of resistance to the slow.

As health, as happiness, as worry gains,

I watch to know, I'm not ashamed,

to speak with persons no longer here,

I find that it relieves that fear of near.

Remembrance with photographs, hugs with hands held tight.

Smiles, laughter and chuckling in the after,

I'll never forget, it is important too,

I did not sin, did you?

Embarrassment, red faces and turned down eyes,

I never saw one disguise.

Just turned and walked away with shame,

those people they used to call Dame.

You know, back in the day,

an Epitaph was written in fact,

with ink before, extract.

At least normally it was like that.

We as people are born to what?

Misery? Torture? and told you scorn?

A day, a way, no love to spare?

Only the look of "Get out of there!"

I'm glad that I have lived long enough,

to know that Life gets really rough.

You're told, "Forget your past! Move on!"

Then screamed at, "There is no hope, it's the cycle you're on."

I choke.

Wondering why Adults go both of these ways,

it's my fault each and every day.

I can't be right, nor can I be wrong,

don't be long or sing a song.

Inside I'm mostly scared or feared,

of all of you, you just seem to sear.

It would be nice to belong,

but it is no longer in my throng.  

Accepting Me as myself,

the I in Me says, "Just be stealth."

Nature takes back so naturally,

what can't fit and goes blind to see.

The Fear, the threats, the heavy bets,

that I'll die from all this debt.

It does put weight upon my core,

but I do know Evermore.

These scenes of what are so unkind,

hitting, beating and the torturing signs,

upon my body and my mind,

no more than the psychological horror of sore.

Clear out your need, do not heed,

no longer will you fear the bleed.

Love is known, but, not by Me.

It's not a crime to get off your knees.

To never fall in love with me,

they, the Men just said to heed.

I am fine, move on, for I will too.

Far away from all of you.

An Uncouth Moment Delivers Live News Coverage

Force out of the Mind what is not yours to know

and you will be inside your own personal Falsehood of Hell itself.

Privacy to be exists in Me,

it is not of Thee, to push, to Tell, nor to say delete.

As the lies grow from the well-seeded throw,

that is planted in tidy rows of the Fields of No.

I shout, "STOP, knock yourself out!"

For you are in the garden of the play.

You anger the innocent

enrage the guilty,

absolve God of accountability,

and invite the Devil to dinner each and every nite.

Why be such a fool just to be cool?

Life is only one way,

when you believe it is over,

 it has only just begun.

You just move on through,

 into that field of You.

Clover

Nature cools it's heels upon the growth of yourself,

you revolve back into a state of .... resolve.

Should one become the other

before the struggle or the dominion of,

 the force of evolve,

than,

 as a Man, as a Human, as a Being,

you would stomp out the perpetual purpose of that which you may be become or even love.

Deadly you are today,

determined in the thought that you are correct and not just bought.

You have no idea, no clue, no advancement of, or interest in,

the peaceful state of communication again.

Ready yourself,

for the inevitable bite of inquiry.

For surely,

 someone will  inquire into marks,

 that have scarred this existence.

Poetry As News!! by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti b

Lawrehttp://www.corpse.org/archives/issue_4/critical_urgencies/ferlinCan Poetry Really Change the World?

What is the use of poetry these days? Isn't it a romantic illusion to think that poetry can really change anything? Isn't the poet really powerless in today's dog-eat-cat world of power-players, power-plays, and super-powers? 

Today in the United States, the poet has no real place or status. In Latin America and in some European and Middle Eastern countries, poets are still honored in society, but in North America what other city except San Francisco appoints a poet laureate every year? Even so, what power has he or she in the "real" world? Even in the last century, when traditional values still held Western civilization together, a great poet like Matthew Arnold could lament that a poet is nothing but "a beautiful ineffectual angel beating in the void his luminous wings in vain." (He was thinking of Shelley.) 

Still there are those, including myself, who believe in poets as the antennae of the race, as the conscience of society, or at least as Jack Kerouac said, "the great rememberer redeeming life from darkness." The greatest poets' greatest lines have entered mass consciousness, and they are great precisely because they have continued to resonate in our lives today. 

One thinks of "poems of first instance" (as the poet Mary Oliver called them), those first experiences with poetry, usually encountered at an early age, that somehow affected one's whole life. "In just the way that all first experiences," Oliver says, "Making their way across the still-forming landscapes of the mind, are likely to exist through an entire lifetime as the most important, most emotive, most influential experience of their own kind--in just this way, poems of the first instance are profound." ( Blue Pastures, p.94) 

Walt Whitman was the poet that first turned her on. And then there was William Blake, Edgar Allan Poe, Shelley and Wordsworth, Coleridge and Milton. And there was Keats: 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness..... 

And who's to say that so many lines of Shakespeare do not still resonate in us today, having entered our daily speech, even though we're no longer even aware of their origins? So with passages by Wordsworth or Matthew Arnold or W.B. Yeats or T.S. Eliot or others more recent. 

But to go back to our beginnings, did not Homer and the Greek dramatists articulate the consciousness and the sensibility of the ancient Greeks, even as Ulysses' voyages defined the limits of their world? And did not Dante in Italy, Cervantes in Spain, and Chaucer in England almost simultaneously bring to consciousness a new world emerging from the Dark Ages? And do not the first lines of Dante's Divine Comedy still speak to us in the deepest part of our lives?: 

In the middle of the journey of our life
I came to myself in a dark wood
Where the straight way was lost.... 

And so to 20th century authors like James Joyce whose hero, Stephen Dedalus, on the last page of "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" sets out "to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience" of his race. Thus we arrive at the point at which the poet not only articulates the consciousness of his time but also becomes its conscience, and we come full circle to the poet's prophetic or vatic role, with contemporaries like Allen Ginsberg (who so many have attested changed their consciousness) and Bob Dylan (whose early songs were great surrealist poems) and the Beatles. Who's to say they did not change and enlarge the consciousness of millions of youth, which was then ingested by consumer society to become a part of Middle American culture? 

Thus we realize how the greatest poets not only change the way we see the world but also cause us to question our perception and interpretation of everyday reality. And we realize that the greatest poetry "subverts the dominant paradigm" ultimately challenges the status quo of the world, and transforms it into something new and strange.

Which leads me to the unavoidable conclusion that the poet must perforce be an "enemy of the state." I hasten to add, lest the FBI knock on my door in the morning, that I mean an enemy of the state of our civilization today. Our omnivorous industrial civilization has proved to be bad for earth and man, ecologically and medically speaking. Disastrous, in fact. Couple this with the institution of stringent restrictions on individual freedom to keep our imperialist military-industrial machine functioning, and you have a natural enemy for the poet who is by definition a free spirit, an untamed erotic spirit dedicated to truth and beauty.

What is Poetry?

There are no doubt as many definitions of poetry as there are poems. Perhaps more, since there are more poetry professors and critics than there are poets. Perhaps there's a need in the new century for some new definitions. Or perhaps the golden oldies will hold up better than any. Risking the derision of postmodern eggheads I'll put some of my old ones and some of my new ones to the test of the 21st century: 

 Poetry is news from the frontiers of consciousness.
 Poetry is what we would cry out upon awaking in a dark wood in the middle of the journey of our life.
 A poem is a mirror walking down a street full of visual delight.
 Poetry is the shook foil of the imagination. It should shine out and half blind you.
Poetry is the sun streaming down in the meshes of morning.
Poetry is white nights and mouths of desire.
Poetry is made by dissolving halos in the ocean of sound.
Poetry is the street talk of angels and devils.
Poetry is a sofa full of blind singers who have put aside their canes.
Poetry is the anarchy of the senses making sense.
Poetry is the voice of the fourth person singular.
Poetry is all things born with wings that sing.
A poem should arise to ecstasy, somewhere between speech and song.
Poetry is a voice of dissent against the waste of words and the mad plethora of print.
Poetry is what exists between the lines.
Poetry is made with the syllables of dreams.
Poetry is far, far cries upon a beach at nightfall.
Poetry is a lighthouse moving its megaphone over the sea.
Poetry is a picture of Ma in her Woolworth bra looking out a window into a secret garden.
Poetry is an Arab carrying colored rugs and birdcages through the streets of a great metropolis.
A poem can be made of common household ingredients. It fits on a single page yet it can fill a world and fits in the pocket of a heart.
Poetry is pillow-thought after intercourse.
The poet is a street singer who rescues the alleycats of love.
Poetry is the distillation of articulate animals calling to each other over a great gulf.
Poetry is the dialogue of statues.
Poetry is the sound of summer in the rain and of people laughing behind closed shutters down a narrow street.
Poetry is the incomparable lyric intelligence brought to bear upon fifty-seven varieties of experience.
Poetry is a high house echoing with all the voices that ever said anything crazy or wonderful.
Poetry is a subversive raid upon the forgotten language of the collective unconscious.
Poetry is a real canary in a coal mine, and we know why the caged bird sings.
Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations.
Poetry is the voice within the voice of the turtle.
Poetry is the face behind the face of the race.
Poetry is made of night thoughts. If it can tear itself away from illusion, it will not be disowned before the dawn.
Poetry is made by evaporating the liquid laughter of youth.
Poetry is a book of light at night.
Poetry is the final gestalt of the imagination.
Poetry should be emotion recollected in emotion.
Words are living fossils. The poet should piece the live beast together and make it sing.
A poet is only as great as his ear. Too bad if it is tin.
The poet must be a subversive barbarian at the city gates, constantly questioning reality and reinventing it.
Let the poet be a singing animal turned pimp for an anarchist king.
The poet mixes drinks out of the insane liquors of the imagination and is perpetually surprised that no one staggers.
The poet should be a dark barker before the tents of existence.
Poetry is what can be heard at manholes echoing up Dante's fire escape.
Poetry is what moths hum as they circle the flame.
Poetry is the thrill of a lighted window at night.
The poet must have wide-angle vision, each look a worldglance, and the concrete is most poetic.
Poetry is not all heroin, horses, and Rimbaud. It is also the whisper of elephants and the powerless prayers of airline passengers fastening their seatbelts for the final descent.
Poetry is the real subject of great prose.
Each poem should be a momentary madness, and the unreal is realist.
Like a bowl of roses, a poem should not have to be explained.
A poem is its own Coney Island of the mind, its own circus of the soul, its own Far Rockaway of the heart.
Poetry should still be an insurgent knock on the door of the unknown.

Why Is So Much Modern Poetry Really Prose?

It's not news that a good deal of contemporary poetry is actually a kind of prose masquerading in the typography of poetry. Just check out any anthology of modern American verse since the Second World War, and it will be obvious. It would seem that "the voice that is great within us" (as one collection is called) sounds in us most often today in a prose voice, although in poetic form. This is not to say it is prosaic or has no depth or passion. It is often very well-written, lovely, lively prose--prose that can stand without the crutches of punctuation, whose syntax is so clear it can be written all over the page, in open forms and open fields. 

How did this curious state of affairs come about, and how come no one ever mentions it? Perhaps because there has been a kind of considerate silence between poets and friends, between poets and editors. No one wants to commit the original sin of saying flat-out that someone's poetry is prose in poetic typography. A poet's friends will never tell him, and the poet's editors will seldom say it--the dumbest conspiracy of silence in the history of letters. 

However, it may be simply that, as sociologists have said, America lost its innocence with the Second World War. And with it went a lot of our lyricism, including rhyme and lilting meters. Or perhaps it began much earlier. A hundred years or so ago when all the machines began to hum almost, as it were, in unison, our speech certainly began to be affected by their absolute staccato. City poetry especially began to echo it. Walt Whitman was a holdover, singing the song of himself. And Carl Sandburg a holdover, singing his sagas. And Vachel Lindsay, singing his chants. And Wallace Stevens with his harmonious "fictive music" on the blue guitar. And Langston Hughes, echoing the hot beat of Harlem. And Allen Ginsberg, chanting his mantras, singing William Blake. 

Ezra Pound once decanted his opinion that only in times of decadence does poetry separate itself from music. But his own Cantos can't possibly be sung. And you would have a hard time singing T.S. Eliot's "Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock." Poetry was caught up in the linotype's hot slug and now in the so cold type of the computer. No song among the typists, no song in our concrete architecture, our concrete minimalist music. Like minimal art, modern poetry minimalizes emotion in favor of understated irony and implied intensity. And Joe Public stands back mystified. 

But isn't this the perfect poetry for technocratic man who seemingly has no use for the subjective in his life--the subjective which is constantly under attack in our televised consumer culture? And what of the rest of us who don't love technocracy and would rather nurture the subjective in our consciousness?
Still, there is light on the horizon. The times they are changing, and one would hope for a revival of truly lyric verse, aspiring to poetic highs somewhere between speech and song. And that doesn't mean they're going to rhyme moon with June. There are wild new voices with a keen edge--lyric teen poetry slammers and jazz poets and rhyming rappers at open mikes, especially Third World and indigenous poets, who are breaking out of the cool. They have been returning to the original oral tradition of poetry--the tradition which the poetry revolution of the 50s revived, especially in San Francisco, with the emphasis on poetry as an insurgent oral message. The printing press made the word so silent, but new poets are returning to the roots when poetry was passed down from generation to generation by word of mouth. And the mouth did sing.
The fly in the wine is that a lot of rap and spoken-word poetry today makes it when it is performed aloud, but doesn't make it on the printed page. There are of course some big exceptions. Bob Dylan is a bard whose early songs are really long surrealist poems that make it on the page, without guitar. Allen Ginsberg's late poetry, on the other hand, suffered from the fact that he was a genius performer who could read the phone book and make it sound like a great epic (See his last "Blues") but it fell flat when printed.
Perhaps that doesn't really matter, if the primary aim is to turn the audience on, to get it high, to liberate it, to enlighten it, or inspire it, or revolutionize it. And nevermind printing it or inscribing it in stone.
It is the bird singing that makes us happy.

Publications Available at http://www.citylights.com

http://www.corpse.org/archives/issue_4/critical_urgencies/ferling.htm

Exhaustion Blinds You!!

Fire upon the Worlds view of Religious belief

and you will find no relief.

Only excuses and caveats that justify their rot.

Should you levy an account of this,

beware of the Bee Hives nest.

The reaction to creative thought,

new idea's or imaginative sought,

will bring down upon your head

a hammering of absolute Deadly lead.

In such an attempt to be not unkempt,

rather express just a different view.

This will cost you both life and limb,

no matter what the hymn.

Judgement from the Christian,

will be an Ever-After end.

Should you drop from view,

it will be said, "Oh, you disappeared."

Know these words full well,

for many are dead and buried

with no marker or name,

to show that this is their plot of fame.

Acceptance of such in our History is our shame.

I will carry not this knowledge of such resist that is the persisting point of view.

I will protest the standards or the moralistic reasoning

supporting such behavior.

Ready your Sword!

For the Knight is young,

and the Lady is bored.

Honor will breed the Love we need,

and the call of the Midnight Lore

 shall be heard as we soar through the gentle breeze

of Mother Nature's door.

James Blunt ~ Jerasalem

All persons concerned
Prepare to bring about
Great pleasure or stimulation
I can hardly control myself
Don't know what to say
There's a voice that's calling me
From far away
I am no prophet
No more than you
But the way these things are coming to me
They've got to be true

The people on the street
And the dogs at their feet
Don't know what they're missing
Don't know what they've got in their mind's eye
and I hear

I don't wanna be here
Let's quit this show
Just leave your friends here
They'll never know
I won't fall because we all forgot the line
All scheming elation
All scheming elation

All persons concerned
Prepare to bring about
Great pleasure or stimulation
You can hardly control yourself
You just might die
God's looking down on you
So don't be shy
You had your moments
You've done your best
And all the memorable things you've done
Got to give them a rest

But people on the streets
And the dogs at their feet
They don't even know you
They don't even know your name
And you're here

I don't wanna be here
Let's quit this show
Just leave your friends here
They'll never know
I won't fall because we all forgot the line
All scheming elation
All scheming elation
All scheming elation

Jerusalem
Jerusalem
Jerusalem is here
Goodbye my friend
Take heed the end
Jerusalem is here

In the beginning there was FEAR, Now you are HERE!! RUN........

James Blunt - Jerusalem

The Fright of the hour approaches...the darkness brings encroachment of.....

I wake to know that sleep is fright
the night brings this to me.
To close your eyes, to see the past,
brings out these words you read.

Often more than not, it seems,
reality does blur.
Can you wake from fear to take
or do you sleep my Sir?

Spending life inside the strife
of Adults and their whims of life
is more than most can bare.
I seem to host the onward, forward question of
"When does this nightmare dare?"

Why do they pull you with their fear;
of life back then, the sixties were clear.
Did they think, that if they left you with their parents too,
They'd be found out for sure and tout, it's all because of you?

I do believe this must be fact,
for I was singled out.
My brother, sister, older than I,
 were raised by whom I speak about.

But, with me, it's often said,
"Where did she come from, she acts so dead."
"There is no similarity, between the siblings three."
The two you left for us to raise, speak with forked tongues to say,
" An affair did make her just this way."

Horror grasped my being that day.

Your Father agrees, "Get on your knees, your children need this sight."
Confess to us this child's deeds,
forgive yourself this night.

My Mother ran, with me in hand,
ignored her parents pleas.

Until this day, I wondered...
stayed quiet for my health was touched
sickness plagued my body
throwing up this sickness of the words I heard, the plagued.

I stick with whom declares some truth,
but lies still come blaring through.
A lesson learned of life time pain,
a turn, a glance at what took the chance
to be free and feel the wild romance
of the city lights and men.

No truth will ever be told from those,
that are so bold to lie.
You would have to lose your mind,
then try to find an ear to plead your case.

It seems until you find yourself in this type of bind,
you just continue on your way,
leaving the deadly signs behind,
never to remind yourself: Be kind.

It's always truth or dare to me,
that pressure of your exposure breeds,
my innocence to be.
Scream they do, those ones on here.

Where coats are worn like cloaks of fear.

Upon the setting Sun; Each and every one,
when darkness creeps and makes me run,
from persons of this character, they sneer.

They tout, "You'll never get away, 'cause I'll shout and block the Bay."

"I don't do!" "I'd never be!"
A Guy or Gal that you would see
out and about in the downtown fairs,
where Dungeons, Lairs and Whores compare,
the going price if you dare.

To me, it seemed a daily deed,
to watch and ready for.
You never knew which of them came through,
your home may become the next throne: Duty.

Company. That's what they'd say,
"desires your attention."
"Sit-up straight and don't you Hate!"
My way of life, or, did I mention.

Long times did pass,
this was the way, to see their dishonesty and shame.
Never did I want to be,
a human being.
To tell such lies and prepare those lines,
all to snare their prey.

Should I grow-up,
survive what's rough, this sultry type of life.
I'll always say,
"Be honest, give way,"
for I won't lie to you.

Do you enjoy the style of nights
that bring you those silk stocking tights?
Are you the type that looks and views,
lusting after more?

Be not ashamed?
Hide not behind the Internet to see.
Discretion is wise I know,
'cause of this dirty game.

Playing with these types of Chains,
will link the misery to you.
It may even shift that missing link,
forever you'll be too.

Beware of the Spook in YOU!!

A Liar is never true.

The Honesty of One Insight to what happened upon each Night

That pressure that your exposure breeds,

my innocence I'd like to keep.

Scream they do, those ones I've seen,

where their coats were worn like guilty beings.

Upon each setting Sun,

when darkness made me run,

these persons that I speak of here,

would begin to tout the curse.

A hidden booth scenario tried on,

"I don't do" / "I'd never be"

A guy or a gal that you would see

about this town or in the fairs,

where Dungeons, Lairs and Midnight stares will compare

for the price of such a dare.

To Me, I guess it seemed a daily deed.

To watch and ready for!

You never knew which one came through,

your Home may become the next big nest, you really never knew.

Company!!

Announced, that is what they would say,

that Parental Stay that is.

Desires your attention, a forceful voice was heard.

Sit up straight and liberate, but don't you dare show any hate.

My way of life,

did I mention.

Long times would be this way with me,

the path that only I could be.

Dishonesty and shame plagued myself, never did I want to be,

a human being with lies to tout

and pre-prepared lines to shout.

Should I survive, if I grow-up, live through all of this rough stuff

and be able to get through this sultry type of life.

I'll always be and say to thee,

"Be honest and give way!"

For I will not lie for you but try I will to do.

Do you enjoy the style of the deep and lurid nights that creep,

the ones that bring silk stockings too.

The girls where the pointed shoes, high heels, they were known to you.

Are you the type that likes to look at all the views of what erupts,

temptation, lust and so much more,

it brings you to the Dungeons Door?

Be not ashamed at your Five Star taste,

for more than that is required to be with these kind of tempting beings.

Discretion is wise, it's a dirty game.

To play with Chains and Whips with plain, hooks attached for you.

All of this may shift your mind,

the missing link is not your kind,

for birthed in each of all that want,

never share this type of taunt.

It is the dare or possibly the snare,

I set you in a trap.

The missing link is so far found,

inside the mind of what's not bound.

All for the sake of the hidden truth,

for once a Liar, twice a fool,

and simply said "That just is not so cool."

for those of us that drink from the Challis of the Dark

Armor of the Darkest Fare

Where are the Immortal Ones?

The Divine, the Sage or the Oracle?

The Keepers of the Gates?

Have they abandoned their posts?

Does Satan's Shield guard these places once known?

A Dark Fare, produce your payment, produce your wares as well.

This is such a callous act to view these days and times it seems are here.

To turn your back at Centuries past, of calls, I hear the cry.

You asked, but I do say with honesty of sight,

you do deserve this curse, it plagues you every night.

Show not your shield,

your Family fell, your patronage dissolved.

The individual now you are, in such a stance you stare.

Covet not your present loss: Pay the cost instead.

Just friendly advice I give to you,

it comes from the very beings below.

Unkempt you are in structure of,

belief or moralistic stand.

Project you do, with vocal stance, you scream..

"For pleasure only, I reside on Earth, my choice, my wealth, my right."

To be caught without the Armor of ancestral strength.

A Satanic or and Evil lead,

blame not the judge who brought the laws upon yourself,

it is you who carry's through.

A Sage? An Oracle? Or a riddle to solve,

the mortal view of some.

Declare to yourself the failure of a moral and righteous stand.

No being should live in fear.

Of Course unless you transgress your being,

you will be addressed some day.

In all of your moralistic lies,

this would be the time to know.

Your finish will come soon to you,

the mortar of your truth.

To prey upon another being,

will be a hard core fact to thee.

For once you're born; A birth record.

Why be born again?

Removal of a Mother's right,

immoral for you to have done.

To try to force yourself this way,

is to say, you stood before you could.

Removing the Maternal Way.

Arrogance in such a spread

of blasphemy and more.

Is what is hated and related in this land today.

To disrupt such natural states,

creation set forth to be.

Removes a prominent point of status,

even Evolution bleeds.

Find the blame for yourself,

it lies within your being.

To presume that you could be

as wise as Monks and Kings.

Forget not what you have done,

to layman and the like.

Your actions of such disregard, records in Halls of Lies.

Not to one or two or more,

but, you influence the World this way.

'Til today you teach you seem much like the leach.

For your patronage of such,

opinions that do spread.

To most, the evident host is scoffed, ignored and since long dead.

Your laws so stiff, with those changing clauses

which blows in the prevailing wind.

Encounter doubt, it's what I shout,

you only scream to move about.

There will be a day,

when one may say,

"You fool, your Origin lacks!"

upon review, there is no sight,

you just rip off whats new.

Upon such wisdom of innocent views,

the questions will blind your push to bind, the weary and the scared.

Your take over of, to shove your sight

with know regard or precedence to who,

will evident the life of those that fight you with their might.

A peaceful resign,

I offer now, to derail this long tall tale.

The few who will not be in-line, support the railing.

They say with certain tact and fact,

we are not many and we suffer the rack.

It's true, I stated by no mistake,

my shock and horror did show.

In response, I spoke in tones, in low they were so heard.

A Fighter, A Warrior, I am not known,

but quit I will not do.

I'd rather speak with outward voice,

with vocal sound and written verse

to present this stance for you.

I may be singular in my view,

the majority I know is seen.

In the end, I will not have sinned,

but stood with dignity,

and told what I will do.

Even if I have lack of numbers,

to support my growing sense.

Life still sees and liberty grows within my very being.

Blessed be my every vote for such,
of what I dream to be.

At least I speak of other means,

to use this gift that birth gave me

to get through life with what I need

and not with what you're told you lack upon the entry of.

Your own imaginative thought will be,
 free and never bought.

This came when we were seeking out the place to call our own.

Mother Earth and Creation did all the work we seldom see these days.

But in all truth I know this too,
 Evolution does the job each day,
 that makes our history true,
and witness we all still do.