The funeral rite concluded
With the pastor shaking hands,
Offering words of comfort
I didn't quite understand.
The undertakers came forth
And summoned pallbearers' four.
They marched beside the coffin
Carrying it steady toward the door.
I didn't cry or whimper
As I followed right behind.
But deep within I screamed
Don't leave O Mother of mine.

We were exiled from the Garden of Eden.
Its sinless wonders nevermore to regain.
So every man on life's toilsome journey,
Must enter the valley of pain.
We don't enter because of desire
And it's certainly not a voluntary fare.
But, rather, it's a matter of destiny
Compelling and forcing us there.

Real Power.

Since Mohamed Ali-then Cassius Clay-announced that he had written "The world's shortest poem," I have known that I would be a poet. "ME? WHEE!" His triumphant proclamation evoking shivers within my troubled teenaged identity, for I reasoned in rhyme.

I want to get close
I am afraid.
Afraid of what you might see.
My eyes.
My thoughts.
My dreams.
My heart.
My soul.
Everything that makes me who I am.
My feelings.
My emotions.
The truth of my own reality.
The reality that I am scared.
Every second.
Every minute.
Every hour.
Every day.
Scared of not being perfect.
Scared of looking stupid.

YOU MIGHT THINK I AM STRONG
I THINK YOU GOT IT WRONG
I LIVE LIFE DAY TO DAY
HOPING IT WILL GO MY WAY
I HAVE MY FRIENDS AND MY FOOD PLAN
MY THERAPIST AND MY THOUGHTS
MY EXERCISE AND MY EXCITEMENT
THEN SOMETHING HAPPENS AND I GET CAUGHT
CAUGHT IN THE ARMS OF ED
TURNING MY EYES AWAY
FROM MY FOCUS TO WIN THE FIGHT
THAT I THOUGHT WAS GOING TO STAY.
HE TELLS ME THAT I AM SELFISH

Chicken Soup is good for a cold
Sleep is good for the Flu
When I get a case of the Fears
What is a person to do?
It is not bacteria
Although it can eat away my soul
It is not a virus
Yet, it can keep me from feeling whole
I know what will do the trick,
What will put me back on top,
A great big bowl of Ice Cream
Will really hit the spot
That was great and now I am done
One bowl just won't do

It was not me as I am now.
It was not me as I was then.
It was then when God was truly in me.
When God was in me, I was a young man.
A young man with hope, will and desire.
Desire to give my love and the gift of God to the ones in need.
You see, that was me.
Thus, it was not me who hurt you so,
But it was me as I was then.
It was then when God was not in me.
That is when I hurt you though.

Kafka lands resurrected in Crewedeposited by a silvery alien craft,And whilst he is wondering what to doHe is asked to show his passOr pay an instant one off fineAt a cash dispenser of his choiceAnd they are checking all the timeOn his irises face and voice.

Four Poems: Katrina's Pathway
Harvest of Apoplectic Horses
((Dedicated to: Katrina)) crisis)
It has happened before:
Nearby and afar,
Where the four-horses of
Apocalypse
With their flaming nostrils
Breathed in the fury of the winds
Only to vomit out, disaster; -
Then galloped away,
Against pale faces!...
#824 9/2/05
The Vanishing
[Dedicated to: Katrina]