So here is my poetry. Sometimes I feel like a poet, and this is what flows from my soul. You can't really try to be a poet. It has to come spontaneously and soulfully. If you try to force it, it sounds phony and heartless. Some people are lucky to be able to come up with a lot of poetry directly from the heart. I am not one of those people, so this page will probably be rather small.
"Come in under the shadow of this red rock,
The rusted cars are not.
The crimson fires burn.
My eyes close with a sigh.
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow in the morning striding behind you
Or your shadow in the evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust."
-T.S. Eliot, "The WasteLand"
The fallow field is stained,
The shimmering sidewalk dulled,
The rows of houses emptied
By the blood of fallen fools.
No paint has touched this wall.
No vandal's can has loosed;
Only the blood of fallen fools.
With crimson streets they blend.
The crimson puddles dry.
The blood of fallen fools.
My last breath pains my chest.
My eyes close with a sigh.
I've become a fallen fool.
So here I lay in the shadow of a fallen tree,
I see fear in every handful of dust.
Some walk in the light of a triumphant king;
I walk in the night of the savage beast.
Some see the shine of a horrid sidewalk;
I see the blood of a fallen fool.
Some grieve in the presence of a buried friend;
I rejoice in the growth of an unplanted seed.
Some hide themselves from the light of life;
I stand tall in the shadow of death.
Some go to become part of the world;
I have already become more.
I am the world.
-3/16/97
Ramblings of a Dead Man
I have witnessed all.
As I come upon the closure, all is revealed.
I have seen the big bang.
"Let there be light, and there was, and it was a good light."
It was the best of lights.
As I emerged from the darkness into a world of love and light,
The universe expanded around me.
It started with a stranger's hands.
It ends with a strangers hands.
The closure is coming.
Let there be dark.
All is revealed, no enigma left behind.
In the end,
all is seen,
all makes sense,
there was no free will.
The past is an open book,
already written,
unable to be changed.
The present is the
writer's pen,
transcribing all.
The future, infinite in possibilities
is waiting to be written down.
There is free will here.
Choices can be made, outcomes are unforeseen.
I will do what I want.
The past is not yet done being written.
But,
at the closure,
when all becomes past,
there is no present,
there is no future,
and there will have been no free will.
In the end when all is revealed,
all causes have been seen,
all effects rendered.
All interrelations can be seen.
In the
