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Poetry

Found dead in bed

The Doctor said.
How did he die?
And please don’t lie,
I asked knowing the answer.
It was the strife of life,
No nagging wife,
Just the accumulation,
Of the strife of nations.
It wasn’t caused by the bottle of vodka before lunch,
His brunch,
Or the Ketemin or amphetamine;
Nor the extra jab of Insulin,
Who knows?
He tried that once before,
That time someone broke down the door!

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A prayer to the Patriarchs

We demand that you our patriarchs,
You the prince and sons of creation,
You the givers of life,
of magic and wisdom protect us in this our hour of need in this place devoid of your presence,
Where your names are but a distant and denied memory,
Save us so that as fathers and sons we may rise again against the enemies of purity and truth.

We with our heads in the jaws of death,
We who are the shadows of men.
We who darkness has spawned from depths of the stars,
Followers of the night,
Seekers of the rainbow light,
Will fall on our swords so bright,
And never giving up the fight,
Until the last of us has fallen when time shall cease,
Rather than give up the three worlds to the beast.

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After Four Years

After four years & may be more.
I see surviving words that have gone before,
I welcome them as a friend,
Hoping that I am close to the end,
Which is no more than a beginning.
But my god,
I have been a stubborn sod,
And have only myself to blame,
When seeking fame,
And using time,
Which cannot really be measured,
But is mine.

Then I end up crying when I see words and time spent on them crumble,
When first time round I should have listened and been more humble.
But listen to who,
Myself or you,
For whom I now edit and read,
And for whom I bleed,
Hoping that I will know why,
Before I die.

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