New? year

Ben's hands fold

to pray for another day

one anew too

in another time

but the old lame slime

cheers a cup of cheer

raise a glass for the new year

blah blah Auld Lang Syne

still the old lame slime

a wash for numeral digits

scrub those zeros, ones, twos

shiny new sixes in time

lingering the old lame slime

predict all those accordingly

what's in store well ahead

for sure the perfect chime

one of the old lame slime

but Ben's hands grasp tight

and pray up over head

to hope so well

for a different climb

away from the old lame slime

Sacred night

a sacred night to eye the sky
to look above into the past
the lights they reach through the dark
signals from the very start

a gaze upon our eternity
the endless dark waves of the sea
the waters glisten within the stars
on this sea our dreams depart

to set sail across the sky
drifting to find their right place in time
reaching their destination as a gift
but for now our dreams must drift

In the box?

what be it in the box? 
albeit a strange looking box
all wrapped up in papers that glitter
golds, reds, and greens of autumn litter
what be it in the box?
can't wait to see

what be it in the sox?
albeit rather long red sox
all hung precariously next to the flame
if they burnt up it would be such a shame
can't contain myself in this waiting game
what be it in the sox?
pour them out already

what be it in the sleigh?
albeit an odd place for a sleigh
up on the peak of our icy cold roof
to keep it so high to be so aloof
why all the secrets, enough is enoof
what be it in the sleigh?
oh please here my plea

what be it in the bag?
albeit a stupendously big bag
hurled over the shoulder of the jolly guy
jelly for a belly, ho ho ho is his cry
as he hops into the sleigh and away to fly
my questions vanish with him into the night sky
what be it in the bag?
somebody answer me

Angel smoke

their raven wing clouds
the day in mourners shrouds
ashes flick to ground
from angels on their cigarette breaks



the time to shed our clothes
throw away those dirty robes
as they hang on iron gates
we sink into the earth



their murky ink clouds
the grays they spin around
showers of ash rain down
from chain smoking angels on high



the moment to tear our clothes
to strip down and disrobe
throw them over the iron gates
and revel in cold soaked earth

December 18th

words written in white
a language of a tongue
forgotten in the frigid
conclusion of the fall


words written on panes
of momentary glass
from a pen unseen
an author abhorred, mostly


spectral icy ink
tattoos the frosted flesh
echoes of the perished
that will linger still


after winds tear from
the trees their leaves
the sky sheds its own
in lace it buries


glazed in white words
promise of winter worlds
that torments dreams in
the conclusion of the fall

Swordplay

"Good sir,
I have no quarrel with thee!"

but a quarrel we must
with the instinct to thrust
into and within physical fits
to rouse, to spill, the lust

extended blade of steel
unsheathed, the heated
feel of blood that boils
the sword, a rigid eel

clash the blades and
ring, the song they sing
in rhythm, in thrusts
through the air they swing

alas, to fall upon his sword
run me through my kind Lord
savor your blade within my
gut, what pleasure you hoard

warmth flows and spills out
upon my chest and all about
pull from me no longer your
blade, pray now it be a spout

leave me in the awe of death
twas my birth upon your breath
wipe your sword with my cloak
and immerse within my depth

"Good sir,
thou taketh advantage of me!"