What is the proof in dying for a cause
For the sake
For because, because
What of the keepers of infamy, infinity and well-oiled decency
Just droplets of water to a parched leaf
Careful carelessness bound with caring
a solidarity planning for legacy
Once I held a martyr in my hand
Once she faded away
Once, nothing, absolutely, nothing, turned out as planned
“Oh! Cold March winds your cruel laments…
Are hard on prisoners’ hearts,
For you bring my mother’s pleading cries
From whom I have to part.
I hear her weeping lonely sobs
Her sorrows sweep me by,
And in the dark of prison cell
A tear has warmed my eye.
Oh! Whistling winds why do you weep
When roaming free you are,
Oh! Is it that your poor heart’s broke
And scattered off afar?
Or is it that you bear the cries
Of people born un-free,
Who like your way have no control
Or sovereign destiny?
Oh! Lonely winds that walk the night
To haunt the sinner’s soul
Pray pity me a wretched lad
Who never will grow old.
Pray pity those who lie in pain
The bondsman and the slave,
And whisper sweet the breath of God
Upon my humble grave.
Oh! Cold March winds that pierce the dark
You cry in aged tones
For souls of folk you’ve brought to God
But still you bear the moans.
Oh! Weeping wind this lonely night
My mother’s heart is sore,
Oh! Lord of all breathe freedom’s breath
That she may weep no more.
Who is Bobby Sands? Who is willing to die for their beliefs? Or, why does our ‘stance’ outlive our ego? For that matter, when is enough…enough? In the end, does anything but death get accomplished?
Had he loved his women? He loved them as much as guilt. As far as, the sharing of misdeeds could stretch. But this one, the Keeper, carried the culpability, as though it were a cup of tea. A precious chalice of saturation to a thirsty martyr lurking behind a family tree.
The shame forever evolved. Resembling a tossed out Marlboro…an everlasting ash of gray . White, burned out, trash, here to stay..
A partner to, his, biblical claim. Delilah…her name.
Theirs was a love affair of another kind.
Delilah, with her Yukon Jack and Pall Malls.
Sampson, with accusations making everything around…small.
If one were too close. Blinded. Eyes shut tight. It would still emerge as though, heaven’s humor. Were as poignant and pointed, as the Papal’s shoes.
How droll? His and Her, backward, bibles…old news.
No punchline. No testaments! Sampson, just an aging fool.
A marriage to divine comedy. Where everyone put on flawed red shoes and danced to heretic, hazy, hues.
Whatever of true life there is in thee leaps in our age’s veins.
Wield still thy bent and wrinkled empery.
And shaken thine idle chains –
To thee thy dross is clinging.
thy martyrs die
thy prophets see,
Thy poets still singing!
“Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations.” ― Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.” ― Novalis
What good has it done?
…the mole hills.
I have read the leather books, as requested.
Obedience does not stand still.
In dark seriousness,
all is not fair in love and war.
So little known of,
a women’s scorn.
the rooms that made us who we are.
The passage to tranquility, a distance too far.
The broken bough, a fine line of scars.
I have hunted my state…
the town fairs,
so much more.
I have rummaged by the drunk nuns behind the sacristy.
Shame the only word found befitting
a tapestry of travesty.
Once upon a time,
I was led to believe there had been no way out.
After all, it takes years to break the doubt.
Step by step,
the unbinding of provincial doors.
Pen to paper,
my own book of revelations.
Testaments and edens of martyred manifestations.
A self-appointed release from damnation.