The Half-Life Rule

Fate’s destiny is to lay a path for trodding.  He began the travels of his path later than most,
A time when searching for intrinsic worth didn’t exist, living only for arrangement, not for
Desired solitude.  Listening to unsympathetic helpers preach of betterment and appreciation
For the struggle, only furthered the containment of seclusion, while his decay went unspoiled.
Why can such easiness grow stronger in the tightest of circles?  The randomness of actions
Could only indicate a need, a want, a self-fulfillment.  Sinking lower into the cavern of
Despair, the stalagtites closing, his mind focused on a world of his own, for his wasn’t.
His body was a immovable push-pin, the wounds never healing and growing in depth as time went.
The only solace for empathy lied in a recurring dream, a vision of fate.  Loving something so
Close, so long, so much, yet choosing to ignore.  Meeting fate with fondness, clashing of opposites,
Finding something to live for, the pins began to break free of his body.  Found was his soul.
Yet, why couldn’t he find happiness.  The Stonehenge of arrangement, coupled with a harshness
Of undesirable pursuits, no meaning behind his goal.  He strived, learned, grasped.  Hating who
He was and what he’d become, all for lack of courage and an inability to return to the past.
All the while, he remained passive, never bringing attention.  And the whole time he lived,
But his death occurred in the previous years.
 

Two and a Quarter Moons

Since the last moon everything has changed from leller to an anxious time
Of lawlessness, while all who watched remained in awe.  We sat on the bridge
Waiting for the subliminal passage of time to occur.  Neither of us posed a
Threat to personal security.  We shared, felt, loved.  First.  So much time,
So many thoughts, memories that we cannot fail to remember and pass on to the next.
It seems bright and complacent the future.  A time we can only dream about and
Pray.  I sit here now and am left feeling melancholy over the passage of this moon.
Soon a new moon will reveal even more bitter, bone-chilling facades of happiness.
Two.  Each seeks attention down different roads but I shall remember and not pass on,
At least until the next quarter moon.
 

Mark Nahey

Lost boy, apocalyptic caress, dried ocean, withered plant,
And the Red Scare.  Mark Nahey is a demon-like being.
He surfaces in dreams, conversations, dangerous
Occupations.  At night, when the eyes are heavy, his
Smell wafts to my sore nose, seeping into my blood,
And into my aching heart.  He extinguishes my oxygen lifeline.
Future is the most frightening of all, a time that will only come too late.
But future’s tardiness transforms into non-existence, never seems
To come too soon.  You’ll someday see
What I might have said as troublesome and decaying.
Then, when your payments are restored, a new,
More powerful Mark Nahey rewards you with more
Devastation that rivets your inner most emotions.
Challenge is what it boils down to, survival of the fittest,
And I am losing to Mark Nahey.  He is evil, makes toys
Out of men, continuing on to his next victim, but he never leaves.
 

Normandy
 

Staring over the cliff into the harsh water, I picture myself
During this ground’s most significant moments.  The ground is soiled
With blood, sweat, tears, and metal of fearful boys who only wished
For freedom to ring loud and clear.  I wonder who died here, who
Served cowardly, and whose bravery saved lives.  The wind whistles
through the nocturn and my companion is wise.  He knows, not first
Hand, but I seem to listen as if he did.  I am ten.  I am naive and unknowing of
What significance this place possesses.  We travel the countryside
Seeking shelter from driving rains.  I began to fear the future and wish
For an immortal childhood.  I want not old age, I want youthfulness.
Even now, ten years later, I still long for a youthful return.  Life seems
to pass by like a ferocious storm.  Youth’s here for what seems a few minutes,
Playing a huge part in the confirmation of future.
 

Dry Puddles

Lying in a puddle, amidst the excitement and sadness, I wondered why she
Left us in a bitter rush.  Its amazing the way decimation and tranquility go hand
In hand.  We hurt and cried and questioned and consoled.  No one had an answer.
The days before the storm seemed surreal, always seeming to be some sort of
Mischievous nightmare.  Waiting for reality’s silencing pinch.  Contemplation and
Sorrow set in almost immediately, yet again.  Its been three years and I cannot find
A single person who remembers.  Torturous ways of the person.  Seems as if no
One cares.  Maybe its me.  Times have changed for us.  New faces involved as if to
Say....let us pass and forget.  I cannot.  I used to make fun of her lack of mental
Involvement.  Now I wish she were still here so I could defend.  As I sit in this puddle,
I rationalize the existence of nature.  God’s will and the world’s mess.  I doubt if I will
Ever make sense of such awkward happenings.  I’m not sure I want to.  Every puddle
I walk by reminds me of her.  Wonderul ways of the person.
 

Red Devils

Shining sun sets the stage as the creepy mist fades.  The loam
Runs wide and long continuing past limestone.  Here is where
Legends are made and stories are born.  Nothing shocking
Pervades the onlooker’s hearts as Los equipos battle ferociously.
Giggs, the main guide, travels far distances in search of the
Perfect ground for which the fabled traders can salute.
His adventures reek of severe strength and masterful prowess.
As Giggs walks his path of glorified earth, his master watches candidly.
The real glory sets in as the winding spirit screeches past
The Savior.  Jesus Saves!  The sea of red chants in the
Distant country as the one you wanted left with the visitors.
 

Seventy-Seven Ninety-Four May

The season of spring brings with it the most powerful of storms, attributed to
An imprudent mixture of the air.  Boy Little, I understood not these storms.
The weather channel on the television displayed taped footage of powerful storms
That leveled towns and countryside.  I watched and grasped all knowledge of
Storms, in case I was ever caught in the middle.  I knew where to hide, seeking
Shelter from the driving rains and occasional massive floods.  I was scared.  I
Knew only of sights, not of sounds or feelings of being.  What is the fascination
With storms?  Insightful process.  Corruption of Mother Earth, tenderized by the
Splendid sound of thunder.  The visual promiscuity of lightning penetrates the soul.
Rain pours down onto the dusty earth.  Divine earth.  What is not to worship about
storms?  All watch, all seek a better understanding so as to guard against the jaded
Spell of drought.  Scared, wretched with fear, I encountered storms in ninety-four May.
Western Kansas.  Jane and I oak talking while the wind began to whirl.  Amazing.
Lightning before thunder.  Thunder closing in a few miles away.  Thunder overhead.
Rain covered two teens, and I felt an appreciation for storms.  Scared no longer, we
Sat up for the power to come back on.  Never....the lights remained off.
 

Sun of Indies West

Artform in itself.  Surely only God could have created such beauty and elegance
In one.  How am I to begin?  Head to toe is simply majestic.  Her hair.  Chestnut
Material of silky pursuit.  A mere shaking of the head provokes remarkable, mind
Expanding wallowings while the Caribbean wind gently aids futility.
Downward, caterwaul eyes that captivate instantly.  Dazing expressions of delight.
Trapped in envy.  Her skin, golden happiness.  A smile of character.  Washes away
doom and melanchor and leads to reproduce.  Indescribable is her face.  Nothing short
of the entire essence of beauty.   She basks in the Sun of Indies west.  And in these Indies, I Encountered, then no nearer the Saint’s Day than one.  A bright day of shear intrepidity.
One in droves of thousands.  We engaged, sharing hello’s and tis a pleasure’s.  Two shared
The previous dusk ideas of a week long bond.  Eager, yet striving for rest, I presented a
Courteous approach.  Conversing over the most general of conquests, we sand-filled indulgents, Talked meaninglessly.  In a latter hour, under the confinement of substance, I sang a sweet tune of Love to her ear, merely practice for a trivial challenge.  She listened.  Those chestnuts gaped Carelessly into a gaging sea of composure.  Enough was heard for encouragement to drive.
Henceforth arrived passage of a moment.  Incomprehension of intent.  No fear rose.
Gala days in the Sun of Indies west ended, setting up saying good-byes.  Homeward
Carried with it fondness of acquaintance.  Obligatory to touch keep was I.  Could not turn
Away from memories.  Fading away one night, ignorance of ardor perceived.  Still, those
Chestnuts, those caterwaul eyes, those golden reflections of beauty kept poise difficult.
 

Noontime Walk

Twenty three years old.  Blonde hair, baby blues.  A downtown Manhattan
Apartment with her fiancee and their labrador retriever.  All she could offer at
The time was two dollars, no more than coffee and a doughnut.  The carpet man
Would not accept.  She purchased to some a snack, but for this man it was a three
Day meal.  By no measure was this an act of anything but shear caring and sympathy.
To the man, this woman was the assertion of an oasis among an ignorant society.
As he ate, the woman sat and watched, thinking of how her life was full of such
Dreamless aspirations.  For her, it was no struggle to achieve.  Her daily routine
Went without complexities.  Yet, the opposite for Bobby Bum.  Daily survival
Was the ultimate success.  He had nothing.  No love, friendship, material wealth.  Nothing.
When he was done, the woman looked at him with tearful eyes.  “Tell me your trouble.”
Out of the lack of breath and ability, the man did not respond.  She feared.  Alexis helped
Him up, and the two scattered away.  She took him to the shelter on 6th.  “We’re full” said
An indignant hostess.  “We have no room.”  Alexis looked at the man, again with
Tearful eyes.  Inner turmoil.  The man began to walk away after a polite and gracious nod.
She stood there in the February wind wishing there was some way, some method of ending
This man’s plight.  She cried.  As the hour of one approached, Alexis began the resurgence
To her world of ignorance.  She hailed a cab, this noontime walk was over.  She wept.