Bustling energy of trade, fueled by wind and sea
By the bay, this town lived and died
Hauling stock, beast and trade

Commerce of lives, both benign and mine
Thousands of souls, the lifeblood of a town
Building, crating and shipping

Southward rumors of ancient gods, living in ocean deep
Too fantastic for the mind, first trickled then rain
They said, Cthulhu had walked again

Scoffing, things of myths and madness
Forgotten legends, and salty sailors' threats
But rituals pestered, beneath night and cloak

Attentions turned, as they always must
From fantastic, back to life and living
Until adrift, floating death made fall

Rumors resurfaced, cinders to flame
Dockyards without workers, migrants leave
A strange disease, visited from slave to master

From managed flame to fire, the grotesque grew
Crying of unexplained pain, watching madness spread
Freezing port, travel and even the wind

The bay lay like glass, frozen in August's heat
Neither wind, nor wave bothered the docks
And folk looked now, to the religious for bread

Of those, Christians alike
Busied with new, task at hand
I thought, we might pull through

But newcomers mingled, stole members away
Slowly churches emptied, in a span of days
As even their pantries, emptied and barren

I speak now, last fateful night
More dark than pitch, as quiet as death
A silent fire blew, giving neither heat nor light

Beams cracked, charred to ash
Before my very eyes, unbelieving and true
Foul smoke, oily and slick crept

Tendrils spilled out from the hall, I shuttered back
Those that it touched, almost gently
Fell, shuttering and breaking with plague

Gathering my wits, wife and children
We fled town, witnessing gathering horrors
Mishappen feature is friends, family terrorized our way

They had been broken, white eyes seeing naught
Flesh drained of color, ashen and sometimes crushed
Clawing at faces, a great violence to all near

A couple puking sea water, conjoined at the hip
Another opened his own gut, searching and chanting
Still more hunted, having features more akin to the depths

In the morning, as the ocean birthed the sun
I could just see, what remains of the town
In its unearthly stillness, movement caught my eye

A procession of black, marching in step
Strangely orderly, a contrast to the night
Following a symbol, a banner held high

It was then that I knew, remembered from the past
Prophecy foretold, elements of evil from lore
Stories from grand mere, meant to frighten or more

Fallen gods, cast from the stars
Slumbering, undead and yet alive
Bedded beneath, immortal in the deep

Such creatures, nightmares of another race
Gathering ours, devouring sleep
Now, awake

i'm completely insane im not afraid to do any things you give me to try!i cant function with out my music playing but ill do anything that is crazy.i take thrill seeking rids that last till im called up on the phone saying your insane. that means noting to me cause i already know that! is there any thing this world that can be done cause whats the point if you dont have the exitment in your life to try new things. im insane cause i dont think stupid i think smart before its tested. my parents think im insane cause im not afraid of what the consequesnes that come with the dangerious ideas. im insane cause i think big not small . this world has never showed what my insane mind can build. im insane cause i show no fear cause im willing to make sure the road is safe for my own friends and family.im insane cause im not afraid to prove the skeptics wrong. im insane cause i want to improve this world better with new ideas. im insane cause im not afraid to speak my mind wen my heart starts to cry.
im insane cause i can read a chapter book and build the storie around society.
im insane cause i have so many things to try. im insane cause i have a big heart and im always caring even when things get dark. im insan cause theres no fear when it comes to the new suroundings that blind the beauty in  life as we go. im insane cause ill never let go of what the truth has told me . im insane cause im inovative and mechanicaly inclined. im insane when riots break out i stear the grouyp the right way. away from the danger. im insane cause i only follow what my heart and mind say to. im insane cause my family tells every one im not afraid of what dangers wait for me. im insane cause i'm willing to get answeeres for the hopless who needs to be helped.im insane cause ill risk my life to help you in the most worst conditions. im  insane cause im not afraid to help you fight when your wounded.im insane cause i want more answeres to help societys troubls. my family thinks im insane cause im always crating someting crazy to solve a problem even if its really stupid. my mind is insane cause im not afraid to take things to a new level. every one i know thinks im insane cause i want people to fell free and not traped that slaves them to. people call me insane cause im always working on new things to improve my theriories that might be insane but what if they became the next thin g to work for societys lies. im crazy insane cause theres nothing im willing to try so follow me in my foot stepf and be com what you truly want to speak your mind. speak your mind with me and society will be come opened with ideas to try for future hope . so follow me and we will open a world with ideas that will never be silenced by fear

thank you letting me speak my mind

follow if you dare for change

She once told me she liked being sad, sad enough to feel helpless, because she wrote her best poems when the sky was gray. She was married to the idea that artists need to suffer to create. And I told her she was stupid. I told her that all that sadness escalated from the point where you feel helpless to the point where you become helpless. I told her that what made a good poet was their emotions, like paint did to a canvas- blues and oranges and greens and reds and all the in-betweens, were what helped crating. I told her that being sad didn't help if you didn't had happiness to contrast it with. I told her that poems about jealousy and anger and sadness were beautiful, but they were even better when they were about love and stars and trees and bees and how the world was captivating in every aspect. I told her that the sun was better that tears and that kissing was better than hating. I told her that the sky was prettier when it was the shade of his eyes and that even though he would never look at me the same way back, they were beautiful- he was beautiful. I told her that even when her family never loved her much, she had made it through so much and that was brave, and bravery is beautiful. I told her that the best way to write quality material was to love life- to accept everything it threw at you with wide open arms and when it hit, you had to be human. You had to feel.

you felt like my cabin,
when the wood sank under.
loyalty doesn't take time,
it takes character.
seeing fallen branches
crating to one side of it,
like rough patches,
which I saw him through too.
and there i sat with you
with 3 drinks too many -
and saw the way you spoke to
strangers under the canopy.
did you notice me watching?
i knew it as soon as we sat down
and shared battle stories,
like coming back to comfort,
then into torrential feelings
i found parts of you in me,
shavings of pain and joy,
contingent to democratic debate
and i found parts of me in you
pairings of ego and art,
conditional to romanticising realism
did you notice me too?

I walked a strait line

After a distance - such curved and lead me astray.

Upset at the false meaning of a seemingly “right way”

I decided to make my own way and draw a line

Such won't curve,swerve ,or leave another astray

The map which I’m drawing out as I go

Unfound ventures by many

Over looked by perfectionists

In the distance

See me reach paradise

Since I was unhappy with being lead

by the so called right acting leaders
I decided to become my own leader, instead.

I reached the truth and promise lands

through my own, unselfish, and clear minded tricks

of movement and devise.

This most silent of silent nights
Was no different from any which had come before it,
Nothing at all to mark it as extraordinary or sacrosanct:
The village had long since stopped putting up decorations,
(Lights featuring jolly snowmen and steadfast wooden soldiers,
Now faded, cracked, with ancient and capricious wiring
Impossible to replace and impractical to repair)
Those old enough to harbor warm memories of caroling
Having long since wintered in some southern locale
Bearing Spanish names of dubious authenticity,
Those left behind by circumstance or stubbornness
Very likely slouched behind a cash register or un-crating paper towels,
The Wal-Marts, Kinneys, and Price Choppers,
In a shotgun marriage of customer service and rank capitalism,
Staying open a bit later every year,
Though at least providing the unanticipated benefit
Of one less hour to fret over things unbought,
One less hour to dwell upon promises unmet.

There is some solace, perhaps, in the notion
That the good times were only so good, after all
(It’s been said when the great ditch connecting Albany and Buffalo
Was finally completed, you could already hear train whistles,
Shrill and of ominous portent, in the distance)
And as Barbara Van Borland,
Thrice-married and eternally hopeful,
Opined from her perch at the Dewitt Clinton House,
If you’re gonna fall, better offa stool than a ladder.
Perhaps there is a certain mercy in laboring under the yoke
(Allegorical, but securely fastened all the same) of knowing
That we should expect little and prepare to make do with even less,
That these hard times are the only times we can expect to know.

How, then, do we carry on?  
Follow Pope’s dictum, one supposes,
And say your lines and hit your marks
With as much conviction as can be mustered
As we walk through this land of shuttered country schools,
This forest of plywood and concrete,
Where shoots of grasses and patches of weeds
Rise up through crevices and faults in the neglected blacktop
(But ride out on the back roads of the other side of river,
Out toward Cherry Valley, say, or Sharon Springs,
And see the wide panorama of the valley below,
The hills gently, gradually sloping upward to the Adirondacks,
Creating a vista which would make Norman Rockwell blush,
And you would say My God, how beautiful
If it didn’t seem foolish to give voice to something so patently obvious)
Until that time we are carried gently to that plot
Where we shall lie down next to our parents
In the newer section of the cemetery
Sitting hard by the edge of the sluggish Mohawk,
Where the remnants of by-products
From dormant farms and long-closed tanneries
Mix with the residue of hasty abortions
And the bones of forgotten and un-mourned canal mules.

Poetic analogy
The barbarity of this universe is frightening
Constantly on verge of damnation
We close our eyes, alluding the reality around us
Running from what ruined us

We plough earth with our truths
Jesus is lord
Allah is God
Lord Shiva is......
Don't dare disagree  I'll shave it down your throat
or chaos rains
until one is deemed superior

So we forgot what love is
And  hated each other
And focused on our sins
And inhaled decriminalization
Of our race
Of our faith
Of humanity
All the while ******* our deeds
On God


Now you are busy cruising through life
Crating facade for justification
Isn't hell too nice a place for you!

A mere mortal betting on division
For loyalty
Or sometimes hope
Is the most heinous deed
Committed on behalf of love

(AUTHOR'S NOTE:  This is a re-post of an older piece, but I am inexplicably fond of it, so I thought it warranted being on the line to air out once more.)

This most silent of silent nights
Was no different from any which had come before it,
Nothing at all to mark it as extraordinary or sacrosanct:
The village had long since stopped putting up decorations,
(Lights featuring jolly snowmen and steadfast wooden soldiers,
Now faded, cracked, with ancient and capricious wiring
Impossible to replace and impractical to repair)
Those old enough to harbor warm memories of caroling
Having long since wintered in some southern locale
Bearing Spanish names of dubious authenticity,
Those left behind by circumstance or stubbornness
Very likely slouched behind a cash register or un-crating paper towels,
The Wal-Marts, Kinneys, and Price Choppers,
In a shotgun marriage of customer service and rank capitalism,
Staying open a bit later every year,
Though at least providing the unanticipated benefit
Of one less hour to fret over things unbought,
One less hour to dwell upon promises unmet.

There is some solace, perhaps, in the notion
That the good times were only so good, after all
(It’s been said when the great ditch connecting Albany and Buffalo
Was finally completed, you could already hear train whistles,
Shrill and of ominous portent, in the distance)
And as Barbara Van Borland,
Thrice-married and eternally hopeful,
Opined from her perch at the Dewitt Clinton House,
If you’re gonna fall, better offa stool than a ladder.
Perhaps there is a certain mercy in laboring under the yoke
(Allegorical, but securely fastened all the same) of knowing
That we should expect little and prepare to make do with even less,
That these hard times are the only times we can expect to know.

How, then, do we carry on?  
Follow Pope’s dictum, one supposes,
And say your lines and hit your marks
With as much conviction as can be mustered
As we walk through this land of shuttered country schools,
This forest of plywood and concrete,
Where shoots of grasses and patches of weeds
Rise up through crevices and faults in the neglected blacktop
(But ride out on the back roads of the other side of river,
Out toward Cherry Valley, say, or Sharon Springs,
And see the wide panorama of the valley below,
The hills gently, gradually sloping upward to the Adirondacks,
Creating a vista which would make Norman Rockwell blush,
And you would say My God, how beautiful
If it didn’t seem foolish to give voice to something so patently obvious)
Until that time we are carried gently to that plot
Where we shall lie down next to our parents
In the newer section of the cemetery
Sitting hard by the edge of the sluggish Mohawk,
Where the remnants of by-products
From dormant farms and long-closed tanneries
Mix with the residue of hasty abortions
And the bones of forgotten and un-mourned canal mules.