Awake . . . It’s Night Again

As the world enters night again,
Greetings to the darkness, my old friend;
Will you hear the babies crying?
Will you hear the mothers sighing?
Will you count the money buying another round
For profound old men sitting at the bars
Looking at the stars as lonely cars drive by?
Will you cover the silent weeping?
Will you stand by the night watch keeping?
Care ascend like smoke; change is in the air;
Tiananmen Square
Lights up like the firefly
As we say goodbye
To the world we know, and hello to the new show.
Earth turns,
Heaven churns,
Hell burns;
And I bend to the darkness, my old friend,
Who ushers forward toward the new day —
Turning the page, dawning of another age —
Like the old, history will still unfold,
But the punctuated silence is the brilliance,
And here we are like some shooting star,
Seen and quickly assured we’ve gone unheard
As our world enters night again,
But it is in the quiet we begin . . .


And On the Eighth Day

We ride the tidal wave of hope toward the coastline of inspired vision;
It is our destiny in proportion to our dreams spun in the halls of heaven.
Our eyes are wide open to the myriad possibilities of grand, living life,
As we grab hold of the mystical hand to walk now on the water of miracles.
No evil wraith taunts our minds, nothing wicked haunts our open hearts,
For we have taken the higher way — rough and rugged and narrow but true.
Blue skies become our ocean with slowly floating, wispy white islands,
Burning Sol our guide by day, serenely sweet Luna shepherdess by night…

Tell me, pilgrim, do you know to where we journey on this the eighth day?

Lullaby and Sweet Goodbye

Lullaby an’ sweet goodbye;
No more milk  for baby’s cry;
Mother is  sleeping in  keeping
Of tight bed of night without peeping,
No weeping now from gentle, rouge lips,
Still hips showed their worth in painful birth.
Hearth is empty and father, brother are all gone.
Brawn couldn’t save, what dawn will now take.
No cake to bake for birth of new babe,
And no one can even fake one smile,
But mile will be walked without
Guile of sorrow on the morrow;
No more milk for baby’s cry;
Tis lullaby, sweet goodbye.

Erase, Retrace, Erase

Lay down.
Lay down your weapon on this block from once a building.
Lay down your weary head upon this rock from the rubble.

Lie down.
Lie down in this hell-hole of what once was somebody’s town.
Lie down under church-bell ‘ere in your own blood you drown.

Aye, this is where civilization once bloomed and blossomed.
Aye, this is where revolution spirit groomed you for death.

Ashes all around and the vultures cry.
Ashes call quiet, and the vultures die.

Oh, lay you down, now lay you down, now lay you down. . .
Why cry or laugh or frown; make this dirt your night gown
And crown yourself king of this stinking, devastated town.

Sleep this night of looming gloom away.
Sleep this night of fright in your way.

Let go.
Let go of war-torn haunts ever taunting your mind.
Let go of war-born guilt  that  your  soul  does bind.

Oh, not your fault, your fault, not your fault!
You were sold and bought and so you fought;
How else could it have been? You were caught.

And now sleep, sleep, sleep . . . where civilization once lay.

No More Throne; Just Your Bone

Somebody stole your throne like a dirty little bone,
And they trashed your crown, then fled out of town;
And now you know you tried but you lied, then cried
Because you can’t confide now; nobody’s on your side;
So just how wide is redemption’s door? Can you slide
On through, crawling across the floor with no more
Pride left; you’re bereft of hope; not even the Pope
Can save you, and you can’t misbehave as you pave
Your way back to heaven for lack of good luck packed
In your haversack… Oh! You’re the big Mack attack
Are you? But your shoe’s too big and your shit stinks,
Makes the eyes blink; and you’re after another twink
But I just wink as you sink lower for another blower,
But you can’t get none; your nightmare’s just begun,
Son of a bitch! Which way now? Now that there’s just
Your dirtied up bone, ’cause someone’s got your throne!


And the Autumn Moon is Waning

So blind! So blind!

We rush toward our own destruction


Underneath a waning Autumn moon I look up into the clear night sky, contemplating how the heavens never seem to change with the burning winds of history.

The howling gods of war may let a million pints of blood upon the ground and bury a thousand hapless souls at sea, yet the stars still shine — warm, bright spots against the cold, enveloping darkness — so impersonal, so eternal.

The pendulum of Fate swings in our world from triumph to tragedy. This is our lot. We are born, we die; we laugh, we cry; we believe, we doubt; we love, we hate; we fight, we surrender — the tidal flow, never ceasing.

Like the moon, we are here in the fullness of mysterious beauty and then we are seen no more. Another glimmering orb rises above the night horizon to take our place. And how else should it be? We were never meant forever, yet life lives on like so many lights in the dark vault of heaven.

We have been given so little time. Our life is like one lunar cycle against the backdrop of an infinite universe with no beginning, no end. Yet for a space we cast a pale beam upon our world to quietly illumine what would otherwise be hidden beneath a cloak pitch black, to whisper secrets otherwise buried in graves of blindness.

For a little while we tell our story to other children of the night as we circle round the earth. We will not always speak, just as the moon not always shines, for our life is but thievery, just as the moon steals her light from the sun.

Like so many stars in the cold, night sky we await the day under a canopy of darkness. In a world tossed about like chaff in the wind — always changing yet remaining so much the same — we come and we go and we spend our moments in earnest for a never-dying fire, an eternal dawning, a never-ending beginning.

But now it is night, and it is cold … and the Autumn moon is waning. 

Note: The above is years old and I’ve forgotten how many years — only guessing it was penned sometime during 2010 – 2012 — but I believe it is not only seasonally appropriate but at least somewhat applicable to recent horrific events as our world seems gripped now in fear…

Glue In My Shoe

I woke up, poked my head down beside my bed
Only to find glue in my shoe — ooh, nasty —
And I flew into a rage to shame any ole sage,
And asked who knew who put glue in my shoe!
But, of course, no one knew; ah! but they knew,
And I knew they knew, or at least had a clue
About who put glue in my shoe, but so few care
When it’s not their shoe with glue. Now, you
Might dare to care if it was your shoe with glue;
You’d probably spew in anger and threaten to sue,
Wouldn’t you? If you had glue in your own shoe,
But who was the shrew who did the sticky deed,
And was she full of mead? And how do I know
Any shrew did the trick? Screw it all anyway!
Maybe it was a crew that construed the idea
To make me pay my due ~ after all, I did accrue
An undeniable slew of debt on too many bets
But who the hell rang the bell to glue my shoe?
Now I’ll be stuck in the one shoe with glue,
And I cannot bid adieu to the one shoe while
Keeping the other, brother shoe without any glue!
How odd would that be, you see, but then again…
How many people are stuck in one shoe with glue,
Due to how they construe the best way of walking
On through the world with no breakthrough thought
To pop in their blind mind that they’re stuck
In glue in one shoe, like they’re eating fondue
And enjoying life though only one foot can be free,
You see; and this is me … with glue in my shoe.
Something’s sure as hell askew, and this I knew
So soon as moon gave way to sun, and the mad tune
Of clock made me pop out of bed, nearly on my head,
And, as I’ve said, only to find glue in my shoe!
But maybe I’ll not wear fare shoes at all this Fall;
After all, I’m surely not one to walk round with glue
In my shoe! I’m not the thrifty, sticky kind of guy.
So … farewell to my shoe with glue? It seems the case
However base and to leave the other one torn away
And then never worn, but maybe it, too, cannot stay?
Ah! Who put glue in my shoe! Surely not yours truly?

Tell me, please, do you, too, have glue in your shoe???

Long is the Night; Long the Road…

Long is the night to those for whom sleep doth fight; long and dreary the road to the weary; longer still is the cycle of life for those who live in strife … within and without, so rife with pain and no gain of peace in lease of time. Such was my frightful flight east away from beastly terror now marauding Uruk, stalking the countryside round about; the sound of such blight still floating on light wind, but I would not stop to bend knee, though free to pray. Kheba told me to stay the course, and though I may travel alone, an ill-suited fool-companion would only cavil and unravel my senses, lowering my heart and mind defenses, putting me in closer range of physical danger, as well…

But I’d reached the desert sand, where dæmon band could be heard clear as warped and twisted bird on this my third night of flight. My water skin was now dry — and did I try not to consider my thirst — but there would be water if only I could make it to yonder hills featherwhere lay still ponds and gentle brooks, or so it looked, if not an illusion born of my mind of confusion. No matter; I’d made my resolution from the revolution underway in my soul being purified by deprivation, new creation within; that is, the manifestation of determination and sobriety, of illumination and deadly-defiant piety.

Ah, but I was not alone; I knew, for the wind blew with the Spirit — mysterious, imperious, perhaps even deleterious, yet Source of Life — so yes, something was there to be with me. Something, or Someone, had always been but never seen. As an ancient sage of another age said, “hidden in keep of the deep! I do not know who begot this child nor if she is mild … but this, the same, came even before God!” Far older than the sod under my tortured feet plodding along the sanded heat that so nearly threatened my defeat. But would I bleat like some little lamb?

Oh, but damn the very thought! What a sham it would be, I boldly told myself. I’m not a lamb but man! Or to hell with it! Man to view; woman to few who know what I show from inside but try to hide? Does it matter? What fracking scatter of thought! I’m human, at least; not beast … but what? Even beast would not concede to dying without trying to live! The instinct for survival and revival is vital to the nature of every creature!

robe-desolate“Water … water … water from the daughter of Kheba… What could be wrong coming from one so strong?” the voice carried with ease on the gentle breeze. Enticing. Alluring. Seductive. Slicing through my senses. Impressively reassuring. Destructive. “Water … water … water you need to feed your strength lest at length you perish … and truly I cherish you.” Lies. Lies in angel guise. Snake eyes sharp to incise the unwise; to apprise the demise of desperate man; ready to baptize him in flood of his own thin blood. “Fear … you fear, my dear … fear you fear, not me, the one you do not see. Ah, but let me be your heart’s decree, and you will be free … free … free with me for whom you never sought, in liberty unbought, given freely with no thought … free to be what you really are … bright and shining star.” Not far from truth, I needed no proof from prophet, priest, or sayer of sooth; yet there was nothing to say but, too, I could not stay, though the hills still seemed so far away.

And So I Kept Walking…



Note: Both illustrations stock photos/pictures free for public usage.

Kheba: Pages From Forgotten Ages IV

angel_of_fire_fallen_angel“Had it not been for the crystalline, ethereal swords afforded by the Tri-Mater, and their sons and daughters, we would all have been slaughtered, except for the hypnotized, demonized chosen by the Watchers, frozen by their power for their own treasure and pleasure,” Metuşelah spoke in tone as if reading from an ancient book, with distant look in his eyes. “My father, Henokh, fought early and bought victory with his own blood amid flood of torturous screams… Some of my sisters and brothers died; my own turn would come soon enough…”

We were now seated in the courtyard garden, replete with lush green and flowers and bowers of olden trees. Stone benches were hard on the bone, but I dared not complain of pain while hearing such soul-searing tale.

“Avhnipaala took me as husband — brooking all distinction; she could have had better — when she had command of hundreds; an exceptional band of warriors. She had the hand of an Hiero-Güç archer — one of few — and blew through the enemy ranks like lightening and never sank; every arrow coated with Ruhani marrow… Wave upon wave came, but we did save this region from this dark legion fallen from heaven to ill-leaven earth.”

And so it was, for a time, because of their heroism the people were free of the terrorism of the Watchers, who fled north with their booty of brides under deific chides. And as Metuşelah explained, this is when his great father, Henokh, was lost to the frost of the netherworld as angry ice still sliced the world. One day they were walking and talking, then the Voice called, and without choice his father was gone, never to be seen again; at least Henokh was not guilty of flight of fright. No! Henokh was beacon light to his people… After his “stepping out” to walk about the spirit world, Lemek was shortly born to adorn the absence of so great an Hiero-Güç leader, destined to imitate his grandfather in so many ways in coming days.

methuselah_syndrome_IanLomeThe lull in war was as always before,” Kheba intoned, chilling me to the bone. “Peace seems ever so elusive; that much is conclusive. The Watchers and whores bore their mutant offspring — worse curse of Dyēus — which enraged the Watchers, who then engaged in battle against Dyēus, the Tri-Mater, and all sons and daughters; his angelic host and every heavenly ghost — I well remember — while their mutilated children moved west, southwest to best humanity, engulfing them in unbelivable calamity, all to claim a home where they could freely roam.”

“During this peace, Avhnipaala died when she vied with one of her own,” Metuşelah picked up his cup and drank, then sank back into awful memory. “My beloved had no idea that Rhea had been bitten and, thus, smitten by one of the Watchers.” Metuşelah eyed me closely and could see… “Oh no … no, no my dear lad. The Watchers had beauty, hypnotic beauty.” He shook his head sadly and said, “And they took great care to keep up appearances to ensnare so many … and that they did in plenty, including Rhea.” Tears. Broken heart, the better part lost. “My dear Avhnipaala! She now walks the halls of Valhalla; I know, but how can I not show how much I long for her? After all, I belong by her side, and there to abide forever.”

“Ah Rhea!” Lemek rose in anger that knew no panacea. “She struck my dear mother from behind, and only with luck did find fatal spot for homemade blade! But Avhnipaala bested her! My mother invested Rhea’s headless corpse to the Abyss before she herself lie dying on cold, stone floor!” Lemek walked to and fro, ready to throw himself into bloody battle with all his might. “Yes, my mother was better archer and leader than father,” he bowed slightly toward Metuşelah, who lightly smiled and nodded head toward his beloved son, allowing Lemek to continue rampage begun. “And far, far better than her son or even — yes and I dare to say this day — her son’s wife; for on my very life, Tariqah said the same! Ah! Ah! Is this not so, divine Kheba? She loved my mother as her own mother; my mother loved Tariqah as her one and only daughter!”

Seduce3“Yes, my dear, dear Lemek,” Kheba clearly nodded and replied, while each of us inside felt the pain of losing wife and mother, and apparently without any gain. Metuşelah motioned for his son to come and sit for comfort, but Lemek had some more to say, to sort out … again, as so many times in the past, so this would last as long as need be, yet no one dared feed the fire of anger and remorse; we waited and listened while Lemek ran his course.

“She acted as spy, full of lies! Rhea was the incarnation of lies! And did she ever try, really try, to free herself of Watcher’s curse, to be nursed back to health of mind, body and soul? No! Divine Keba knows! Yes,” Lemek looked at Kheba, his voice shook. “You were with us! You were always true, and ever able and willing to heal… Ah! But Rhea was sister, right? Ha! Damn the bitch! Damn the Watcher’s witch! Tariqah was right to have Rhea immediately out of sight, taken to the uzak-yerde as blight, to rot on spot of rocks and eaten by the birds of hell that yell for such wickd meat? Ha! Why cheat them of such a meal? Surely there was much evil there for them to devour!”


Avhnipaala  —  means “of warrior kings;” wife of Metuşelah

Crystalline  —  having the structure and form of a crystal; composed of crystals; lit. very clear

Ether  —  ancient: the upper regions of air beyond the clouds; archaic: a very rarefied and highly elastic substance formerly believed to permeate all space, including the interstices between the particles of matter, and to be the medium whose vibrations constituted light and other electromagnetic radiation; adjective, ethere

Hiero  —  prefix, sacred; holy

Hiero-Güç  —  holy (or sacred) power, strength, force, spirit, etc.

Ruh  —  spirit or divine power; adj. Ruhani, mean.  ethereal, disembodied, unworldly, immaterial

Tariqah  —  Means “morning star; victorious warrior; prosperous:” wife of Lemek

Uzak-Yerde  —  remote place; distanced from community/society



Note: First illustration, “Dark Angel,” (recast as one of The Watchers) found at Wallpaper Abyss; Second illustration, “Methuselah Syndrome,” (obviously recast as one of the offspring of the Watchers) by Ian Lom as found on Deviant Art; Third illustration, “Black Hair Seductress Serana,” (recast as Rhea) as found on Google Plus Photos