I have no idea, really.
I am a Northman; my blood is
Used to leaders

Of a different kind.
My heart and efforts placed
Before strong wills and

Absent egos.
All for the best of the tribe.
A fan of no human,

No single lie forgiven.
No hidden agenda  
Either.

When the longest spear of
Ridicule is thrown, make sure
No one raises

A shield strong enough to
Give Donald time to
Duck.

I ask myself, observing the
Battles of the infants, are there any
Grown-ups here

At all?
We're dealing with the fate of our
Children.

So much more our flesh and
Blood than anything
Animated.

Aw girl, did you dance with the devil
Get ripped apart
Where’s your heart
Ah, I see it beating in the gutter
Well girl, what can I say
Life's a *****, and then you die
But you don’t want to hear that
No,no, not in your beautiful world
Not in pin up poster world
Aw girl
You want to go down to the love hospital
They’ll put you back together
But guess what
That beating heart
In the gutter
Maybe wants to last past puberty
So hey, I’ve been round the block
I’ll give you ten seconds of my time
Best ten seconds of advice you’ll ever hear
That rose growing in the garden there
Is that not the most beautiful thing in the world
Now, not only is that rose beautiful
It’s also very smart
It knows some ******* is going to try and take liberties
So it surrounds itself with thorns.
Do the same
Be that rose.

my actress, who
sweated blood on Broadway each night
off Broadway too

said, on a long stroll
through Central Park. she was successful
because she did not like herself

on the stage, she proclaimed,
she was never herself, and she fell in love
with every character she portrayed  

every script was a better bio
than her own, and the playwrights knew
her better than she knew herself

and when our walk
was curtailed by a downpour, she dragged me
into a crowded cafe

where she knew half the patrons
and the wait staff, and they all knew the different
personas she had owned, on the dry stage

rain now forced her to choose  
which selves to keep, and which to lose
while she sipped scalding tea

with me, on a grey wet afternoon,
only hours before she would again be under  
the spell of the hot lights,

and read verses from the pens of prophets,
poets--those who purloined her soul for the price
of admission, to a place without self loathing

There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air 
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky 

There is music in the span of feathered  wings 
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon 
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees 

There is music in the silver drops of rain 
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall 
Music in the flow of rivers and streams 
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall

There is music on slopes of lofty mountains 
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring 
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers 
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths 

There is music in seas and oceans blue 
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy 
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors 

There is music at dusk when the day rests 
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light 
'Tis music of life that I hear

Today I saw you
Beaming like a bright star
In its intergalactic walk.
Pulchritudinous, graceful and fair.
Your hair wobbling down your neck
Like a shimmering wave
Upon a crystal Lake.
Graceful gait and awe-inspiring quiescence
No word I deem worthy
Can describe your beauty
To its depths unknown.