I am a mountain: immense, majestic

I am a mountain: immense, majestic,
Serene. I sit and watch those attempting
To scale me and fail. No one can climb
My hyperborean heights and survive.

They haven't a clue as to what I know.
My intellect is inescapable,
Vast. Whole galaxies are swallowed complete.
Everything is comprehended in its

Entirety. Nothing remains unknown.
Gods bow down before me in abject fear.
I know them all too well. Their pitiful
Creations hold no wonder for me. Their

Most pathetic invention, man, is a
Dog barking at whatever comes his way.

It's been five days since I've writ anything

It's been five days since I've writ anything;
Five days pure hell, unendurable hell.
If I could urge my Muse to sometimes sing
Could I escape from this infernal cell?

Oh, what I wouldn't give for lovely words!
Discovering the beauty in all things.
Like as to the songs of prophetic birds
Delightfully announcing coming Spring.

Would that I could approach their loveliness
Responsive to all nature, bright and true.
Incorporating their spontaneous,
Tender ministrations, blessed anew.

Enduring all troubles I'll ever try.
If only I could coax my words to fly.

Sonnet to Satan II

I wish to live forever and a day
Will come when I expect to find the clue
To immortality. I know the way
Must lie in making a blood pact with you.

But how to conjure up your awful face
Is difficult; it's not an easy task.
I've always tried to please your evil grace;
Just grant my wish, that's all I'll ever ask.

I've built dread temples honoring your name
And made them reek with virgin sacrifice.
No matter what I did you never came.
What more unholy plans must I devise?

Writing this poem has taken its toll.
Somewhere along these lines I've lost my soul.

Sonnet to Satan I

If seven deadly sins corrupt the soul,
Then mine must be impenetrably black.
To do evil has been my only goal.
What sins have you committed that I lack?

What did you do but refuse to serve man?
You wanted to serve only God instead.
And for your love God decided to ban
You from revolving 'round his holy head.

But I, however, worship only one
True god, and that true god is Me.
I spit upon the cross of his bright son.
I've never known mundane humility.

How much more deserving am I than you
To hold your name and your dominions rule.

Tell me your secrets, divulge everything

Tell me your secrets, divulge everything.
I wish to know of all your wants, desires.
Feel free to lose yourself completely, cling
To me; I'll consume you in passion's fire.

Why do you hesitate? Are you afraid?
Be not afraid, I will take care of you.
Let the flames over your body cascade
And burn away all pain, leaving no clue.

Of your former self, nothing will remain.
Then you will be reborn, immaculate.
Shining so brightly, as a newborn star.
From my love a new universe you'll gain.

Then I'll be as a planet orbiting
Around your loving life-sustaining light.

I wait for a poetic sounding line

I wait for a poetic sounding line;
A nimble phrase, perhaps a touch obscure.
Could be a complex Poundian design,
Or else a simple Frostian contour.

I wait and wait, but nothing comes to mind.
Could it be I have nothing left to write?
In desperation I attempt to find
Anything that will end this poetic plight.

I search the Cantos hoping for a spark
Of inspiration. It's a fruitless quest.
To North of Boston do I then embark,
But finding nothing must stop for a rest.

Sometimes it doesn't help to be direct.
The lines often come when you least expect.

"Write what you know," the writing teacher said

"Write what you know," the writing teacher said.
"But, what if you know nothing?" I inquired.
So she replied, "Then write of that instead."
And with those words this poem she inspired.

It's true I don't know much of anything;
No profound thoughts live in my simple brain.
With cultivated words I cannot sing--
My intellect is uncommonly plain.

I've sat in classes trying to abate
This nagging issue of my ignorance.
But with deep theories I cannot relate.
I'd rather romp in nature's opulence.

There is a truth beyond what one can know
That only comes from watching Nature's show.

What is true genius? A heavenly gift?

What is true genius? A heavenly gift?
A priceless boon bestowed by sacred powers?
Or is it something one can learn to lift
With furrowed brow and toiling many hours?

It's neither. It's a malicious disease
Infecting those who've discovered their art.
With crushing blows it brings them to their knees,
Threatening to rip their minds apart.

It destroyed Nietzsche, and also Van Gogh;
Incapable they were to keep its jaws
At bay. It then began to take control
And gaping madness soon gave them no pause.

Accursed am I with this insanity;
But, unlike them, I will make it serve me.