Dirty Lime

I left my own match stick to dry,

And took out a tooth pick to try

To mark the wet line.

It should be so fine,

So take back this match stick and cry.

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Nature and Excellence.

Whom must I give praise for these sights?

To whom shall I hail for all these delights?

For he has left great beauty

That crowds my senses and might.
If you were woman in disguise,

I might lay my head on your thigh.

But you are not bound, not held by a guise,

Nor at hand to bend to wills that are not nigh. 
You are rough edges and fine dust, 

Endless shapes that distract my eyes, 

The endless scents my nose will trust,

And my ears and tongue dance to your wiles 
But you are neither man nor feel like me, 

You creep, you climb, grow and bear fruit.

You weather storms and manage yeast,

Then you wilt when you are at an end.
You take your time to leave us gay.

To be a home or a place near our homes.

You blind and act as our shade from lights.

You are the world – I greet your bliss.

The Sonnet that Spake Heartbreak.

On this lush crag once stood,

Oak of heaven, born of Jove.

Its roots, before this mood,

Grew hope no gale could move.

Then sudden oak death came,

As a wench after man’s ill.

She swooned and made it lame,

It buckled, could not still.

It did come down with a shrill.

“Father lord!”, it did wail.

But she came with much thrill

“My Holy Mary!”, he would hail.

And the spell she left was broken.

And her spell of love had spoken.

Idle in Wait.

It rained while I stood idle in my darkness,

Receiving pellets in torrents from up high

As I listened to the verbal bullying of the storm.

I stood still, ever calm to face this wretched tempest,

To watch it Keel over foundations, break down relations

And drown souls in a river of individual damnations.

I stood, restraining the urge to duck for cover, denying

Myself the warmth of another, and I watched this rain that

Was not natural.

It rained and I stood idle in my darkness,

Mastering the bitter cold for a sign from my master.

I longed for my release from my binding.

I waited for the command that would free me, 

For the order that would send me back to my post.

I waited, for the voice that would praise my output.

I waited, I stood idle and waited for the sky to clear,

For the chance to perform my duty as the sun

To light the darkness that blinded my master, to

Ignore the darkness of my hollow sustenance.

It rained and I stood idle in my darkness;

I stood in wait with a calming duress, 

Waiting for that time of calming showers and

The passing of the numbing clouds.

I stood idle in wait for my master,

During the time when her soul was in longing.

This rain was not normal.

It was never from the gods of nature.

It was my master weeping for warmth.

Lordd – Canto I

In the moment of mornings when the Immortal Night haggles

The Breaking Dawn for time, a spawn of man; the good seed formed

Of their sweat and lust, the good seed borne in the likeness

Of the holy house is born from entrails and blood. 

In a moment Learned hands gather in frantic chorus, they exclaim 

In piercing screams to “Get ready! Get ready! He is coming!!”

When the gift of the gods is out, when the gift of the revered is freed 

From its fleshy binding they give praise to this new life. They give praise for this

Newcomer in the gathering of two legs. They chime and praise.

They welcome this new form in glee, this gift of life from the givers of life, 

They sing to those most high in hallelujahs. They welcome him

To the specie of supremacy, to the house of Gaia,

And their stream of thought lifts their praise in humming

Before their mercurial nature makes haste. “Hallelujah!” They hum before

They break out in loud hails that infect the anxious family. They mirror 

Their love to their masters; the fathers of their holy houses, the most 

Revered lords and saviours. 

They welcome the child with praise for their Lords in a booming chorus.

And every day they sway to it, they sway every day of that week until the seventh day, until when he is given his name. 

Again, learned hands gather in a frantic chaos to grant this holy gift a clan. 

They offer his birth rite, ask his eager parents, so proud and glowing, they ask them; 

“What shall We name him?” They ask them, so proud and glowing, 

They ask them; 

“Who does he look like, Our gifted ones, who?” they call to their

Fruitful children. They tell them;  “name him after your fathers.”

They beam and proclaim in glee. They decide;

“This is your name Child.” This is what the waiting ears want.

They lift him to the sky. They lift him to the gods,

Who are pleased with the child of their faithful. 

And as dawn releases it’s light unto darkness and the stubborn night sends champions

To hamper his rival; loud cackling that precede the flooding 

Of the sky and earth, claps and the numbing thumps of war that call the tempest. 

In all the chaos the child gets a name; 

A name too grand yet fitting the unforeseen.

A name too proud to revere Authority. 

A name that will regard the Chorus of the hands,

That will regard the chiming of the sect – of giving glory to the Lord,

As continuous depravity of power.

The name of the child is Lordd.

The child that lusts for Power.

The child that will challenge His God.