Original

Lying on the bed,
two bodies lay entwined.
Sacred vows are broken
Lust is served as wine

Hands exploring
Hearts dancing in delight
after so many nights
they have long been deprived

Tasting the honey-sweet sin
forgetting the poison within,
the horned devil is laughing
the traitors' fates have been sealed

Edited Version

We all live
in a fool's paradise
believe me
It is only a mental surmise

so rise
to the occurrence of today
tomorrow may come

It may not...

.
in the now
immediacy infusing my psyche
no thought of before or after
aware only of that crack in time
in which I exist while floating
on solid ground

accompanying myself on some quest
or pilgrimage
-- an unknown undertaking of
momentous significance
the thought of which brightens truth

experience fragmented
united
absurd
meaningless nothings
making infinite sense as
flawless, complete, perfect sanity

For Paradise is made of brutal stuff.
But fools strive for the hopelessly mundane,
while Hell shall offer good men quite enough.

One’s honor is a cold, contentious bluff.
Thence, why inquire at Valhalla’s pain,
for Paradise is made of brutal stuff.

No one of us, the frail or ersatz tough
can live a life of truth and Heaven gain
while Hell shall offer good men quite enough.

A man of high regard avows with fluff,
his lies contrived to purify God’s stain,
for Paradise is made of brutal stuff.

I am traversing
a universe of wonders
where, through mankind's inventiveness
we hear the sounds of the cosmos

I can listen to
volcanoes serenade stars
suns sing to mountains
black holes moan in chorus

abiding vibration
resonating

and, here
in the endlessly moving tapestry of eternity
where I am poised between before and after
in a present impossibly intangible

where the moment I reach for the future
it slips through my hold to the past

Original

Spring is heralded by tubular bells
filling the woods with hyacinth smells
violet, white and lavender blue
caught in the droplets of morning dew.

and the cuckoo calls in the half moon light
in the silver grey just after night
his partner chuckles cloaked in the dawn
happy the robin is rearing her spawn.

while poppies undress their whorl sepals
unfurling crumpled silken petals
revealing pinks, oranges and reds
blushing colours in the flower beds.

Poetic Resume

To pen the pain a heart has known,
the anger of a soul,
are things a poet does without regret
no matter where one’s thoughts are blown
or how one plays the role,
a bard’s resolve is often hard beset

My unsheathed sword is dulled
with gelatinous gruel
I smile slowly
I'm a survivor

I've wrought woeful horror
on unsuspecting neighbour
I smile cruely
I'm a lover

If I was the Knight-in-armor
with battles brought before kings
The rose-tint of history
would excuse these things

But I'm not

I'm a modern barbarian
and ours is the fury
that shall not speak it's name
for the want of salvation