Poem from the 21st Century

My inner artist burns
to build a new world
past the last revolution
for something special like

Freedom and equality for all
from an umbrella of social concern
it is the youth that change
the status quo, certainly not

The hooks of flowers, the marriages
family builders, who must
play their accustomed niche
the biological imperatives

where years blur in ancestral worship
descendant divinity, evolution’s
meditation on forms: self-replication
my inner artist burns

For this corrupt economy to fail
past the years of anarchy
for something special like
an ethical communal setting

It is the youth who envision
a better future, the elders
no longer have the courage
to act upon once lofty ideals.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Revolution-91757837

Ode to Writing

I bring to the table
That which arrests the sun
I am a writer, to raise a finger
To my weary mortal lips

What I speak has been spoken before
What I say, will never
Be said again – I am
The vowel attempting

To pronounce, metaphors unknown
On the table’s wilderness
The writer pretends
Enough failed ascension

For a lifetime to know
My pen has tipped over the page
Spilt the ink in a trickle
Of heart to the goose quill

That which once said:
Can never be quite said again
Representing a moment
Unique in the history of art

I bring to the table
That which the light can attest
I am a writer, to raise an eyebrow
To the stars sunk in the air
That hang low across the sea.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Writing-49291934

Ages Beneath a Yellow Sun

I felt a Springtide, in my heart
And Celebrators to and fro
They kept treading summer
Even beneath the Autumn’s glow

I felt a Funeral, in my brain
And Mourners to take part –
That sense was breaking through
In departing friends of youth

I felt a Quiver, in my fate
And service to the choice
Of freedom and love’s satiety
Making a Crease across my soul

And all the Heavens were a Bell
That run O’ so clearly in the silence
Where I am solitary, undiminished
Finished knowing, I check my pulse

With a pencil, larger than Serenity
I felt all the problems bending low
And a Scarlet prison of the World’s ills
They kept perpetuating history

While a few of us chased
The Delirious Charter of futurity.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Kuroshitsuji-funeral-200633429

God Permits Industrious Angels

Time, too much, too little
I do not want to live forever
Forever, composed of recurrent nows

There is no exception
To this simulation
Time changes everything

Except for Infiniteness
Those latitudes of home
That we can imagine past biology

Removes the dates, duality
Of mind, faulty perception
There are dimension beyond time

These months dissolve
Into further months, the years
Give way to an exhaling them

And the seconds pound like
Heart-beats of forever now
I do not want to live forever

And I won’t, though miss these weeks
Maybe, without internal debate
Or external pause, life is what it is

Celebrated days among the tragedies
No different from the stuff
The years themselves are made of

Time, too much, too little
You have executed memory
And composed a crystallization of “I”

Though I know it’s not real
There is no exception
To this simulation.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/no-time-48613390