These are all written by me:
With time doth grow,
Some have known,
As passions descend,
Hearts shoot and ascend,
To blossom the bud,
Through frightening cold,
Of planted love,
With time doth grow . . .
Ode to Autumn Wind
Autumn wind, Oh haunt my skin,
Frame my heart, fresh again.
How good I felt, when was I alive?
I played with grass 'neath sultry skies.
Once was I young? I dreamed of joy,
Now I'm ill, fighting lies.
As time moves aging flesh at rapid pace,
I seek another me, hiding 'neath my face.
And nature transforms, autumn appears,
Leaves whither, as they whisper secrets in air:
That one must thwart, a pyre, Hades or worse,
To transcend 'fore he enters a hearse.
His hues alive and true of shades of gray,
To hues which flame new,
'Fore he whither away.
Before his earth and slime decay away,
And dread the Angel declares, "go or stay" so--
Autumn wind, haunt my skin,
And frame my heart, fresh again.
Young Christina the Astonishing
Somewhere 'neath those sad sparkling eyes,
Deep a brooding soul hidden lies.
Glued to a slight delicate frame of flesh,
Magnifying fiery passions pouring out her chest.
Immortal, oh, her youthful flesh cries out,
Through the playful carefree smile of her mouth.
Her veins flow with wine of ashen grapes,
Hallowed by heroes of olden days.
They whisper in the dark recesses of her soul:
"Trod the path the Saints and Mystics roam,
Leading to the starry mansion of our heavenly home."
A Young Woman
Once, in a flowing land of beer and cheese,
Graced was earth, with a newborn babe.
As angels giggled in autumn breeze,
They knit her soul and formed her frame.
With dolls she played as seasons changed,
Nature fed, and she bloomed like Spring.
In her it kindly held its gaze,
In her it breathed stuff men do crave.
Then God shone in a human way.
Then hearts leapt and laughed and played.
A world appeared; she learned what it meant,
To be jaded, used, cracked like cement.
A child of Adam and Eve no exception,
A cry from ideal planned at conception.
A fateful lady in secret waiting,
A ballad in the solemn making.
A reed he found her, shaken by the winds—
Of places, persons, passions, and things.
Yet when a smile shot forth her milken face,
Stars sparked dispersing space.
A knight and lady in modern days,
No sage could solve this ruin, this rage.
So soon they parted, walked their ways,
For they knew they are naught but puppets in a play.
The Child of the Machine
Sing to me Muse sing! Rage, ah rage!
Seethe out your passions, tear up the cosmos.
Sing the sad tall-tale of a cyber-hero
Limp and bleeding, as witches squeeze,
His blood on altars of pseudo dreams.
Drive in, log in—log out, drive out.
Produce, consume—consume, produce.
Mad are we? Have you left us Muse?
Achilles and Arthur have died,
Now fate turns, to his demise—
Now neurosis breeds psychosis.
Now he marches, in slow despair,
Free as a slave to a thoughtless grave.
But not you and I, Muse, comely and ripe,
We as wanderers--will ride.
Heath upon the ancient moors,
As solemn lovers to the end of lore,
We sip the moment forever more.