The Snake and the SquirrelOne day, an old Burmese python was slithering through his jungle home when he passed by a pool of water. The snake turned back toward the pool to take a drink and as he approached it he saw a small, red-furred animal, eating a nut, in a forest on the other side of the water. Reflexively, the snake struck at the creature, through the water, but was abruptly met by the muddy ground beneath it. After taking a moment to come to his senses, the snake slithered around to the other side of the pool, closer to it. He carefully dipped his head into the water, but once again saw only the muck-ridden floor of the pool. As the snake was shaking his head dry, he saw the animal lift her head from her meal. The squirrel seemed to peer directly at him through the water.Distracted, the squirrel carelessly dropped the plumpy nut it was treasuring. The tasty morsel fell off and rolled down into the water. She raised her tuffs in surprise, emitted a small cry of disappointment. In an attempt to retrieve
We're ThereAnd so, at last, we've reached the inevitable end,the destination we've been chasing all along.A bittersweet resolution to everything we've doneand now, I guess, it's time to say so long.
The Myth of IndependenceYou say "hell is other people.",but where do you think you'd beif everyone around youshared your misanthropic view?Without cooperation,in a world of apathy,what exactly is itthat you think that you could do?
Brain WaveFor so long I was stuck,but then inspiration struck.I found the right idea, at lastand now I'm on my way.
Misanthropic Abandon“Hell is other people”,a wise man once did sayand from where I'm standing,they can all just go away.No one is an island,but I'm damn sure going to try.They only people I want to knoware me, myself and I.
MediocrityIn the mushy middleright between loved and despised.With no distinguishing features,but potential unrealized.It leaves no lasting impression,just emphatic apathyso all that's left to sayis that there's nothing here to see.
I'm FreeBreaking out of oldstructuresand their inherentrestrictionsuntil all that's leftis pureexpression.Completelyunfettered,and finallyset freeto embrace theopportunityto say exactlywhat's onmy mind.
Don't StopI've got to keep on moving,there's no time to take a break.If I let up now,it just might be my last mistake.I need to take a breath,but just can't afford to slow.I've made too little progressand I've got too far to go.
DigitariaA survivor of a warthat will never be wonmakes its way through the cracksbent on finding the sun.The tenacious invader,working away.Doing all that it canjust to live one more day.
Snow QueenShall I find thee all in ice ensnared,the tree boughs stripped, the blossoms bared,trapped in a wet and wintry grave -the blight of snow and hoarfrost shared?They brought you here, their souls enslaved.The altar where your minions prayed -a brilliant diadem of ice,the offering that your cold heart craved.They linger here whilst you enticetheir frozen limbs as sacrifice.Their wizened hands by you declaredthe chosen few who paid your price
Collected TrioletsThere are some stories I cant tell.You are too old for fairytales.You are too old for carousels.There are some stories I cant tell.You father said he wished you well.He said the card is in the mail.There are some stories I cant tell.You are too old for fairytales.Its hard pretending not to care.Your smile is worn on mannequins.Im sure I saw one wear your hair.Its hard pretending not to careThat you are standing, silent, thereAnd separation is glass thin.Its hard pretending not to care.You smile is worn on mannequins.You didnt hear me whenI said I loved you. OnceI mentioned it again.You didnt hear me. WhenYou laughed I knew right thenI had to change my stance.You didnt hear me whenI said, I loved you once.The bees attack an orchid bloom,The hornets laugh and then they glowerAnd then they start mixing bee tombs.The bees attack an orchid bloomBut merely buzz their foolish doom,The hive descends on pur
The Defense of Gawain (Fragment 1)He brushed his wavy hair from his pale faceJust like his horse was shaking off the fliesWhile following behind. Their limping paceWas slow, although the city rang with criesSurprised from friends who thought that he was dead--But still his head slumped down, and still his eyesAnd clammy cheeks were flushed with streaking red,Though they were running, dashing to his side.And then his young brother, half-laughing, said,"Oh god, I thought--you know we thought you died?That awful task--you left, you rode away--And then did not come back. Oh, how I cried!I thought you died. On last year's new-year's dayA year since you had left, they all agreedYou must have failed your quest, but I said nay--I knew my brother Gawain would succeedAlthough it seemed to all impossible.But you did not come back, and I concedeI thought you died." And then his voice sunk lowFrom where it had been shouting in delight,And then he said: "But brother, may I know--Your hair is snarled, unkempt--yo
To Save A PrincessTo Save A Princess:In most of the stories, whether old or newIt is usually the knight that saves the maidenBut reality is never as sweet as thatAnd often the truth gets slightly misshapenBut this is a story about the truth;A tale of Pirates who aided the KingThough most would credit his honoured knightsWe know they didn't do a thing...Instead what happened is an epic storyFor it began on a night when the moon was fullThe Pirates slipped from their hallowed shipLike wolves cloaked in woolThey hid amongst the jagged rocksAnd called like birds to communicateThe soldiers thought they were hearing thingsUntil they began to hallunicate...Visions of frightening ghosts and shadesCovered their eyes and sent them screamingThey clawed at their faces and toppled to the ground;They woke the camp with their horrid keeningThe ground was alive with running footstepsYet soldiers began to fall like snowIn panic their ears could not hear the soundOf the rifle
Losswhatshe askednot smilingshould I do nowliving with the memory of your losses?
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung wordsTogether on row upon row againOf blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,To point with honesty failed verse of thine.No real poet discards upper case words;Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.You seek to free verse of those stern letters,Sever away bleak capital fetters,But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,To make our dull words sound great all the time,Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,Heralding a poet’s summer prime.Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,The subject not gilded in raiment fine;Your bold ink font, crystal waters divineTastes bitter to the ton
So That HappenedJust when I thought that itwas over, said and done,something told me thatit's only just begun.So I took another shotand tried with all my might,I only hope that it'senough to make things right.