O Thanatos, omnipotent dread lord

O Thanatos, omnipotent dread lord,
I humbly bow before your mighty hand.
With strength you wield your evenhanded sword
That sends men to your undiscovered land.

So long have they attempted to escape
Your ineluctable ferocity.
They know not that with love your actions drape
And only wish to bring them close to thee.

You save us from the pangs of pain and strife
That torture many to the brink of woe.
Released from the cruelty of earthly life
To your embracing arms they long to go.

I know now that of you I need not fear,
And promise not to flee when you draw near.

Don't waste your time on trivial concerns

Don't waste your time on trivial concerns,
For life on earth is undeniably short.
Enjoy yourself, your gravity abort,
And learn to love life's many twists and turns.

The playfulness of children, one soon learns,
Is soon replaced by age and heavy heart.
Let it not be in you a missing art;
Be one in whom the zest for life still burns.

The time is now, do not procrastinate!
For life is passing right before your eyes.
You have so little time, you cannot wait
For happiness. You have to seize the prize.

So don't let little worries get to you.
Let lively step and song carry you through.

So happily we're frolicking along

So happily we're frolicking along
On hills and vales of undulating rhyme.
Enticing others to our playful throng,
We soon become oblivious of time.

All worries, ills and fears just disappear,
Absorbed into the fabric of this verse.
If for some reason they should reappear,
Just read these lines and they will soon disperse.

The use of this incantatory chant
Is guaranteed to make your pain subside.
It has a lively stride and playful cant
On which negative feelings just can't ride.

For use of this I cannot charge a fee,
As friend to friend, I give it to you free.

Oblivious to all outside mind

Oblivious to all outside my mind,
I sit here, mesmerized, working my pen.
So eager what in my mind I might find,
To do aught else would seem to me a sin.

Unnecessary for you to remind
Me of those who are suffering in pain.
Of pain I know so well, my only friend.
But of such ills I refuse to complain.

For pain caused my Muse to appear again.
She came to me in my most desperate hour.
My only hope is that she will remain,
And allow my once hidden art to flower.

To her I dedicate these solemn lines,
For they were born of her creative power.

O Beauty! O Loveliness most divine!

O Beauty! O Loveliness most divine!
How could I ever to a summer's day
Compare thee? I cannot, for words decline
To scale such heavenly heights; they fall away.

The stars that are your eyes so brightly shine,
Illuminating everything in sight.
To your celestial face I bow and pray:
Return to me, reverse your hurried flight!

For I cannot go on with you away.
You tell me what to write, and how, and when.
You're this poor poet's only true delight;
You instill strength and courage into my pen.

O Muse, please hear this humble prayer of mine,
I only wish to worship you again.

There was a time when I was all alone

There was a time when I was all alone
And prayed for someone beautiful and fair.
A goddess heard me from her lofty throne
And saved me from the depths of my despair.

She raised me up with words, so strong and true
And asked only that I should worship her.
There was nothing for her I would not do;
My love for her was absolute and pure.

But soon I strove to make of her my mistress
And bend her to my dominating will.
Some demon must have possessed me to do this,
Influencing me with his evil skill.

Alas, I have no lines to write today,
For my sweet Muse has left, she's gone away.

Dreams

There is no sound more beautiful that trees
Carefully nudged by gentle autumn winds.
The music thus created by the leaves,
My mind to peaceful sleep it soon commends.

Of ample space and monumental skies,
I dream a land where I would like to live.
The wind blows there as when a goddess sighs.
For such a world my fortune I would give.

No worries, fears, nor thoughts of hate, nor woes
Disturb this world of pure serenity.
It is a land where only goodness grows,
Where people live in peace and harmony.

In dreamtime am I soon transported there,
These dreams are all that keep me from despair.

It took some time but finally I found

It took some time, but finally I found
A sonnet is not something you can force.
It likes to enter when no one's around.
Each time it comes it takes a different course.

To catch a sonnet's not an easy task.
It moves its body like old Proteus.
A master of disguise, it wears a mask.
On seeing it you'll think it something else.

And don't be fooled by its harmless intent.
It really is quite dangerous, you know.
For when you think it finally is pent,
Right through your hands directly it will flow.

So when hunting for sonnets, just beware,
Each time you think one caught, make sure it's there.

Mere words cannot describe her gentle grace

Mere words cannot describe her gentle grace;
So, compensating, strive to build a shrine
Where worshipers may go to offer praise
And feast upon her beauty most divine.

In fervent prayer they call upon her name
And wait for some small sign of her sweet love.
A lock of hair would satisfy the flame,
Or even a slight nod would be enough.

But she is not expected to reply
Since of this shrine she does not even know.
For this poor poet is regrettably too shy
His humble edifice for her to show.

And so she is like some bright distant star
Who only can be worshiped from afar.

My thoughts are oft of melancholy hue

My thoughts are oft of melancholy hue
Due mainly to an existential bent.
Enveloping myself like morning dew,
They drag me down an unending descent.

I feel my sanity slipping away
On fragile feet, escaping with each breath;
Abandoning me to the coming day.
Accepting fate I devoutly pray for Death.

But will Death come in time to rescue me?
I fear of its capricious nature most.
Just like some parasite -- Insanity
Has sunk its teeth in me, its humble host.

Too late! It's penetrated to the bone,
And now this insane creature is full-grown.

When reading unintelligible verse

When reading unintelligible verse
I'd sometimes sell my intellect too short.
I really shouldn't think myself the worse.
Perhaps the poet hasn't done his part.

So many poets' popularity
Is based on their ability to vex.
A simple poet is a rarity.
Why do so many want to be complex?

Although I have intelligence amassed,
I'll not attempt to seemingly appear
Astucious. As a poet I won't last,
For my verse is uncommonly austere.

If one should wish as poet to endure,
Just learn from Pound, and strive for the obscure.

A poem's not a sentimental thing

A poem's not a sentimental thing.
It lives and breathes and walks on five good feet.
Sometimes it has a tendency to sing.
A stranger creature you will never meet.

It clothes itself in ornamental rags,
Of colors never seen by naked eye.
With nonchalance it's tail it often wags
To those who would be fooled by its disguise.

A poem once told me that it was blue.
I disagreed, and said, "No, you are red."
It shook it's head and said, "You misconstrue,
What's wrong with you, is not your brain well fed?"

I don't take kindly to poetic sass,
And getting angry, told it, "Up your ---!"

The Perfect Poem

A nimble thought when intricately wrought,
In lines of grace which perch upon the page
Has always been the ideal that I've sought
In countless poems regardless of their age.

I've looked in books too numberless to mention,
In weighty tomes that I could barely lift;
But none were able to catch my attention --
Just think of all the lines I've had to sift!

It seems that every poem which has been penned
Has been run through my ever-searching mind.
Could it be such a poem's never been,
Not a single extant member of its kind?

Instead of in a book upon a shelf,
Perhaps this poem resides within myself.

O Muse, what lines shall I compose today?

O Muse, what lines shall I compose today?
Please tell me quick, I know not what to do.
Each time I grasp, the words, they fly away
And leave me empty, so I call to you.

Perhaps I should be writing of some love
Who, when I showed my feelings, broke my heart.
Or better yet, the shining stars above,
Who symbolize the ideal of my art.

But when I try to write my feelings down
In some poetic fashion dignified,
The words, they seem suggestive of a clown
And I am left here gaping, stupefied.

This barren page, it mocks me endlessly,
So in my haste I write words carelessly.

My loneliness devours gentle touch

My loneliness devours gentle touch
And pulls it to itself in close embrace.
A hungry mouth does not know when's enough
And oft destroys that which it sought to praise.

It seems to me that love's a thorny vine
That rips and tears a once contented heart.
It's possible that you could lose your mind
Once love has rent your tortured heart apart.

What can one do to circumvent this hell,
This ever-burning, without-end desire?
If you know something keep it to yourself,
I'd rather burn in love than lose its fire.

Although at times it seems a horror show,
When once you've loved you'll never let it go.

The first sonnet I ever wrote

A sonnet's not an easy thing to write.
It twists and turns each time you think it caught.
Just try it once and see if I'm not right,
That everything you write turns out pure rot.

Some poets seem to have an easy time,
Like Spenser, Shelley, Shakespeare, Keats, et. al.
Their sonnets have a beauty in their rhyme,
This sonnet should be on a bathroom wall.

But they spent many hours at their craft,
Until their words, like music, flowed along.
The finished work is never the first draft;
The writing process can be rather long.

So now I know I have much work to do,
And many lines to write before I'm through.