Hark! (A Carol)

Hark!  The Herald Angels sing:
Glory to the newborn King!
Strife on Earth, Black Friday sales--
Certain this year I'll prevail.
Shoppers, brawlers, gangstas--rise!
Join the melee for the prize!
Trample grandmas to proclaim:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!
Hark! Triumphant shoppers sing:

Glory to our purchased things!

Cash, our favored, most adored.
Wealth, our fluctuating lord.
Bring us greenbacks by the ton.
Santa rally won't you come!
Hustling hard to make more green.
Pray for rising equities.
Low we buy and high we sell.
Profit, our emmanuel.

Hark!  The bullish market sings:
Glory to our newfound bling!

Hail the red clad, jolly Nick.
Bring us everything we wish!
Granting wishes, he's our man!
If he don't, find one who can.
Celebrate while others cry.
Too bad Santa passed them by!
The Christ in Christmas been exed out.
Don't you cry and don't you pout!
Hark!  The reindeer Rudolph sings:
Glory to the mammon king! 

--------

This is actually one of my favorite Christmas carols, and I just noticed that it's metered like I poem, so I tried my hand at a parody of it. Don't worry I'm not a singer so I won't do a reading (singing) of it :-)

Ignore what people sell you, pay attention what they buy.
The former is misleading, while the latter seldom lies.

Someone Else's Wares

How can you give what's not possesed?  I won-
der how a thing like that could ever be.
To give and yet to be bereft of that
you hope imparted, yet it surely fails.

To give a dollar, first we earn one, then
the giving must succeed.  This math is sim-
ple much too simple, thus we overlook
its applications more abstract than this.

How can the anxious peddle bliss?  'Cause wo-
rry yields more worry.  How can someone thus
consumed be selling peace?  Such pretense, reck-
less vanity, and blind to one's humanity.

The tiny human that believes himself
is more.  First make your house a paradise
and then I may be tempt to sample wares.
If not, you peddle counterfeits, and worse
than this: it's someone else's wares.

-------------------------------------

Iamic pentameter.  I think this is starting to grow on me.

Lifeblood

Well, shall I take my wages from your pain?
And pile up stacks to sky be financed by
your comely dread, your sparkling tears such la-

mentations soothe my ear, I pray to hear

again those cries, since I rely take life-

blood by your gloom, your soon, impending doom.

Well, shall I take my laughter from your tears?
And shorten yours to extend my years of vamp-
iristic quite sadistic appetites.
I dine on anguish; dread, I savor it--
my fav'rite taste, since I rely take life-
blood by, your gloom, your soon, impending doom.

Well, shall I take my triumph from your loss?
What other way for it to be?  Expect-
ing me to ever lose? I dance upon
your grave, graffiti up my name upon
your tombstone, why?  Since I rely take life-
blood by, your gloom, your soon, impending doom.

---------------------------------------------

Seriously, I'm going to write a happy poem one day.  I don't know why they come out like that.

You know the deal, iambic pentameter, internal rhyme, etc.  Since I love end-rhyme so much I thought iambic pentameter would make me, you know... not rhyme--since the beats are irregular (well... they're regular but not regular for rhyming purposes something about an odd number of beats just doesn't work for end rhyme, i mean you can do it but I dunno, it doesn't do it for me, sounds really forced) but as you can see I get around that by having internal rhyme.  I can't stop rhyming :( I think I'll have to get an electric shock every time I rhyme to rid me of the habit.  But whatever... next poem is going to be happy... unless it's not :)

Overdraft (a duet)

With comeuppance so bitter, reprisal so sour
Please God grant reprieve thus postponing the hour
That karma matures, oh please say it's not true:
The unfortunate day comes that my debts are due!

I've been spending and spending with credit unending.
So imagine my shock at the bill that you're sending!
And all of these charges attributed me:
Are certain not mine, they were certainly free!

I surely wronged Grace, and boy how I screwed Sam!
But they surely weren't angels, and I am the man!
But the rest of these people, I don't even know.
If you can't right your records, I think you should go.

But even you right them, it matters not much.
I owe of them nothing, beyond of their touch!
So tell your employer to whom you did see:
My celebrity status:  these bills should be free!

My employer is Justice, and her boss is Death.
We've been keeping your tab since before you drew breath.
We've been keeping tight records on all that you do.
The unfortunate day comes that such debts are due!

Your celebrity status is all in your mind.
From where I do come from, you're case eighty-nine.
We've seen all your dealings, and we're not impressed.
If you haven't the balance, we must repossess.

Oh money?  I've got it.  I've silver and gold!
And property, women, and mansions--behold!
So tell me which one of these catches your eye.
I'll throw in a Caddy.  Now come!  Don't be shy!

And all your possessions from clay and the dirt.
To you, they have value; to us they've no worth.
We've seen all your dealings, and we're not impressed.
If you haven't the balance, we must repossess.

Are you lacking in reason?  Now, why be like this?
I offer my finest so just take your pick!
'Cause money? I've got it.  I've silver and gold!
And property, women, and mansions--behold!

Your properties: dirt squares; and women:  just bones.
And mansions: just shacks; can't compare them to Home.
Since you've nothing of value, since we're not impressed--
Since you haven't the balance, we must repossess.

Now invisible guards, to your left and your right.
Have daily prevented comeuppance from sight.
Been staving off accidents, cancer, and more.
We'll be taking them with us, relieved of their chore.

But...

As far as your fortune you think earned by skill.
Was actually result of a gigantic bill.
But not one that you owed, but several owed you.
You've exhausted their favor and now it's all through.

'Cause the way that you cheated and clawed to the top
Has put you at dangerous height for the drop.
'Cause unlike the mountains so wide at their base.
You nothing of substance to keep you in place!

The loans that you took out are now upside down
The height that you soared becomes depth in the ground.
Twelve lifetimes to build it; exhausted in one.
The fortunes you shored up are now all but done.

Just squandered your fortune, forgetting to save.
And accruing more debts every step of the way.
And in need of new fortunes to pay it all back.
And fortunes and virtues is just what you lack!

Fortunes?  I've money...

Yes, silver and gold.
And all of them empty, they're naught to behold.
The fortunes I speak of are not dirt and clay
Not property, women, nor mansions I say!

Since you've nothing of substance, no character fine.
You've dug yourself deep in a pit hard to climb.
Since you clawed and you cheated your way to the top.
Without base to support you, so here comes the drop!

Why didn't you warn me?

You sent us away.
Said, "Won't you come back on more fav'rble day!"
You said we were "buzzkill" with tidings unglad.
That the longer we stayed 'round would just make you sad.

You just could have pressed me!

Remember?  We did!
You emptied the bottle; in closet you hid.
And when we came knocking you said, "Go away!"
And when we knocked harder, you smoked Mary J.

So naked you stand here with nothing but shame.
If you must point the finger yourself is to blame.
You'd plenty of warnings, now that time has passed.
The days of self-glory and this marks the last.

With comeuppance so bitter, reprisal so sour
Please God grant reprieve thus postponing the hour
Yet karma matures, I'm afraid, it's quite true:
The unfortunate day comes that such debts are due!

I've been spending and spending with credit, now ending.
So why have the shock at the bill that we're sending?
And all of these charges attributed me:
Are certain all mine, they were certain not free!

----------------------------------------

Okay this poem started out as a bit of schadenfreude at Walter White's downfall (see Breaking Bad if you don't know).  Maybe I was the only one wanting to see him fail, but c'mon in real life everybody wants to see druglords fail and put in jail or dead, but make a fictional drug lord and everybody loves him *shrug*.

Anyway, first attempt at a disciplined anapestic tetrameter. I like beat that it has, kinda like a horse gallop feeling to it.  I hate that I write poems that require two voices (especially near the end when they finish each other's sentences), because it makes it harder to do a reading of them (seriously, you don't know how many takes I had to do), but... I only have myself to blame :)

Oedipus Wrecks: Genesis

Each portal to that grief-wracked, hellish place
Inscribed foreboding warning for the wand-
'ring, weary, woeful souls be-damned I AM
to stand before those awful, vacant gates.

"Through me you enter woeful city fine.
Through me you stray yet further from sublime.
Through me you plummet depths you'll never climb.
Through me you enter woeful city prime."

To heave such heavy sigh when learning our
misfortune hour to stand bereft of deft reflex
collision course impending wreck with dest-
ination none elect and yet arrived.

From other side such shrieking cries.  A tick,
a tock, began the clock of moth and rust.
With tantrum screams, yet dragged I AM toward wick-
ed gate, all begging coming much too late.

To hazard open up the eyes, upon
the portal thus inscribed a final warn-
ing, lifetime mourning for wand'ring souls
about to call abode the realm of woe:

"Through me you enter woeful city dear.
You'll flee from pain yet always find it near.
Through me you enter woeful city tier.
Abandon hope all ye who enter here."

In pain in screams in mother's cries tak-
ing birth between her thighs, she slumps relieved
on seeing babe and drawing first of ma-
ny breaths, now little one confess such woe.

The other side of wicked gate cries once
resounded turn to cheer, and only babe
continues woeful chorus, fresh the warn-
ing 'scribed on portal door that opened here.

They're instituted far too long perhaps
to grin and welcome into swaddling wrap.
The baleful words fresh from th'gate bid wel-
come grievous welcome mournful tenant, come.

-----------------------------------------------------

Okay, this is my first attempt at iambic pentameter, and I admit this one is pretty poor.  I usually write poetry almost exclusively with end rhyme, and though this has some, it's not the exclusive pattern.  I wanted to challenge myself and write in iambic pentameter (just to see if I could do it) with no end rhyme, but as you can see, that didn't end up happening.  The tone of iambic pentameter is different from my normal writing which is more song-like, this is more like a monologue in a play (I guess that's why Shakespeare used it).

I'll try again, but I have a feeling iambic pentameter is going to be my white whale

Vulcan Blues

To talk about the way you feel
How is it easily revealed?
And when I talk, I stop and start
I loathe discerning my own heart.

And when you talk, it's fancy free
You're spinning circles round of me.
You've lapped me thrice, before I start
begrudgingly reveal my heart.

But not so freely, how I edit
And why I bother, that's your credit
Without your prod, I surely would not.
Except your model, surely could not.

I'd rather logic, reason, sense
Ad nauseam, at your expense.
And when I finish, something clear
Not muddled feelings held not dear!

Like nitroglyc'rin, TNT
Emotions sabotaging me!
If only could divorce from me
These mongrel dogs of mutiny!

You love your feelings.  Me?  I loathe them!
I seek divorce, while you betroth them.
I'm missing out?  I guess that's true.
I'm less one mongrel on my crew.

---------------------------------------

Okay this one is a second attempt at iambic tetrameter.  I was a little bit less disciplined (more artistic) than last time.  Some lines end with a "feminine" rhyme (which I hear is okay actually, and not cheating) but I wonder about some of the 3 and 4 syllable words that have the accent on the first syllable or third syllable, if that works or it was too forced.  I of course offered a reading to "cheat" how it's intended to sound anyway :)

As far as the subject matter, I guess it's kinda weird, someone who writes poetry not wanting to talk about his feelings *shrug*

Oedipus Wrecks

The space between the earth and skies
No exit found between your thighs.

And every time we plumb those depths
Lament we haven't found it yet.

I know this was the portal in.
Why won't it take me back again?

And every time I lie awake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

But soul remains here wrecked on earth.
It's hunger bound and parched of thirst.

I sought oasis 'neath the skies
Yet found no fount between your thighs.

What siren song be-sung is this?
To shipwreck sailors seeking bliss.

And every time we lie, I die.
What beckons me between your thighs?

The body comfort?  That's too base!
We'd rather rise to higher place!

I found distraction in your mind
Yet soul did yearn for other climes.

The depths we plumb, the heights we climb
And both they fail to pierce sublime!

The ample curves are so adored
A body portal, something more?

It houses something in that skin
Which portal did you enter in?

With source beyond the earth and skies
it took no birth between those thighs.

Which gate is it you entered through?
And can you take us back with you?

We plumb the depths, yet can't say why.
We scale the heights, can't pierce the sky

The space between where I reside.
Which portal did you enter by?

------------------------------

This is probably my first long poem with a disciplined meter throughout (iambic tetrameter, try saying that five times fast).  I guess I usually do just straight masculine rhyme, and am quite lax on the meter (it may change from line to line or stanza to stanza) if it's there at all.  It was pretty fun exercise being disciplined for a change, I think I'll try some more.

Stride

This, too
shall I abide?
Bite my tongue
and take in stride.

Not to argue
nor complain.
Grin and bear it
and show no pain.

Resist the urge
to say my peace.
To incite war--
it'd be release.

And even though
I've club in hand
Shall I bow and look
the weaker man?

Shall I put my
wooden stick away
And agree with
everything you say.

Bite my tongue?
Swallow my pride?
Even this piss
shall I abide?

Faith No More: Just a Man (poetry cover)

Sky is crystal
clear tonight.
I'd rather not to
see the light.
Not to drink in
such a sight.
I shut my eyes,
and hold them tight.

I look above
What do I see?
The twinkling stars
they're mocking me!
Dancing so
beyond my reach.
Come to me.
I do beseech!

Sparkle, will you
in my hand.
Vain and foolish,
this I am.
Extend my arm
as far I can.
We cannot touch:
I'm just a man.

Lay my head
to get some rest.
Ignore the flutter
in my chest.
Sleep won't come,
I must confess.
I'm longing under
such duress.

Like Icarus,
I hope to fly
Approach the sparkling
lullaby.
But gravity
won't be defied.
I dream about
a cloudy sky.

'Cause if the stars
I could not see
I would not see them
mocking me.
Ignorant,
I am not free.
No more than man
I'd strive to be.

But remaining are they
fixed on high,
a mocking, restless
lullaby.
My hopes and wishes
they defy.
I dream about
a cloudy sky.

Sparkle, will you
in my hand.
And in my palm
a star did land.
Vain and foolish,
this I am.
You're burning me:
I'm just a man.

----------------------------------------------

So shout out to Jimmy, and his tradition of Faith No More Fridays, without which, I'd probably never hear of this song (it's Friday btw).  I was listening to Faith No More - I'm Just a Man, and an idea struck me (maybe it's been done before): what if I did a cover of it?  Only since I'm not a musician, what if I did a poetry cover?

Maybe it's more accurate to say a "Just a Man"-inspired poem?  But that takes too long to say.

If you never heard the original song, or just need a refresher, link is here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7g4L47kEcS0

The Abyss

The heart so void,
a vacant abyss.
Within, not even
a trace of this.

A desert abandoned
hope for rain.
Feeling nothing,
not even pain.

Rumors of color,
amidst dismay.
The sounds are muted.
The vision, gray.

High and low,
without distinction.
Freed slaves marching
toward extinction.

The urgent words
upon your lips
sound no echo
in this abyss.

Teardrops swallowed
by vacant depths.
Lay your head
on empty chest.

The heart so void.
It barely beats.
Closer than skin,
yet out of reach.

A tundra abandoned
hope for spring.
High and low,
not a thing.

Self-assured

All with opinion
All make their plans
On how I should be
As a man.

Two cents.  Two-pence.
I should be...
All have expectings:
Except for me.

"You're a decent man
You should have a spouse!
You should have some kids.
You should buy a house!"

You seem so sure,
but I don't know
if that's right way
I should go.

Everyone's doing it,
and they're so smart.
So I guess I'm foolish
to stand apart.

You go ahead,
tell me how it goes.
Take pics, send vids
of highs and lows.

But though my newsfeed
may accrue them.
I cannot promise
that I will view them.

They come and go.
Gone in a blink.
And what's the purpose?
I often think.

And the reader says,
"You must be sad.
Why so pensive?
Why not be glad?"

It's true.  I admit.
I think too much!
Supposed joyful things
don't bring me such!

The food: atrocious.
The wine: like gall.
I would partake,
but I'd vomit it all.

"Nonsense," you say.
I should do like you.
Wish I could be your
monkey-do.

But this little monkey
does not see
anything I would
rather be.

This little monkey,
with these two eyes,
hasn't glimpsed a thing
that does not die.

Sure I could pretend,
but there's no reward.
Others, ecstatic.
But me?  I'm bored.

"Isn't this fun?"
No, not really?
"This is the best!"
Can I go home?  I'm weary.

The food is five star.
To me, it's bland.
You call it worthless,
but to me it's grand.

And I really don't want
to spend the time
convincing the other
whose way does shine.

If it's shiny to you,
go ahead and walk it.
But why do you need me
to likewise stalk it?

You go your way,
I'll go mine.
Convincing the other:
I haven't the time.

Most tread quickly.
Few tread cautious.
All chase gaining.
None avoiding losses.

All with opinion.
There's no exception.
Does majority dictate
right direction?

Two cents.  Two-pence.
I should be...
All self-assured:
Except for me.

Woe

Strike a match
and watch it burn.
Something deep
inside me yearns

The trouble
nascent in the flame
reduce to ash
what we have gained.

Build it up
and knock it down.
Watch it crumble
to the ground.

Cry your tears,
but when you're through
dust it off,
and start anew.

I don't like to see you joyous,
relaxed on dock of bay.
Don't ask me to join with you chorus
on your bestest day.

I don't like to see you happy,
this not my jealousy,
Call me when you're feeling crappy
you will eventually.

It's not I wish upon you blue
I much prefer it when you're true
'cause when life puts us out to task
more genuine than a smiling mask
that tries to portray that all is fine
ignoring Woe which bides the time
and complacency I hate to see:
so do not call me smiling.

'Cause over your shoulder I do see
that saboteur named Misery
weaving web a trap unkind
and waiting for the ripest time
to spring upon us strife and woe
and in his claws I hate to go. 

Others might prefer your cheer,
but me I like to see your tears
'cause underneath of Misery's thumb
we're more willing to be done
fire loosed and burned to ground
ready now to turn around
and a change of course I love to see
so do not call me smiling.

But Misery just bides the time
you tell me everything is fine
and ignore suggestions of change of course
what can I do? I cannot force
but day eventually turns to night
and with it that recurring plight
that springs upon us when we're weak
and rescue ransom we do seek
but do not fear I-told-you-so
I do not revel in your woe
it's a shame that woe I like to see:
so do not call me smiling.

--------------------------------

I usually don't like to provide commentary on my poems, but I think this one begged some.  Some of my friends have told me that I have a certain knack for getting them to share the troubles of their life and turning an otherwise lighthearted catching up, into a sob fest.  I do not mind.  In fact, I prefer it.  This poem tries to explain why.

When I say "this not my jealousy" meaning it's not because I really like seeing people cry.  I don't.  But I do prefer the genuine to the affected.  If a person is genuinely happy, I have no issue with this.  Heck, I love this.  But when a person tries to fake happiness and willfully ignores sign posts pointing toward impending woe, this is what "I hate to see"  so if I have to pick between affected and dangerously affected happiness and earnest tearfulness then... "do not call me smiling"

Seraphim

Seraphim.  Seraphim.
Remember?
There were so many of them.
But now there's only devils and men.
The angels have gone away.

On a savior some will call.
Others delight in alcohol.
Hope for salvation? None at all.
The angels have gone away.

Agony and pain persist.
Sometimes I'm laughing despite all this.
Woe, the days the devils exist.
The angels have gone away.

Who could forget that fateful day
the day the angels went away
on an extended holiday
the devils rejoiced and did play.
Mayhem. Torment.  Here to stay.
Glory.  Sunshine.  Yesterday.

Seraphim.  Seraphim.

The angels have gone away.

---------------------------------------

I guess most people who know me know I'm not very nostalgic.  I think this blog starts with poetry from 2007, I have quite a lot of stuff that predates that which I basically threw away (don't ask me, I really don't have it, I honestly deleted it).  I may do the same with this blog too, who knows.

But for some reason, this poem came back to me.  It was actually the first poem I wrote.  Most of my poetry rhymes so it's easy to memorize and I guess this one is still kicking around in my head.  Anyway, I decided to write it down again and do a recording of it.  I think I wrote this in 2001 or 2002.  At the time, I read it again and again, wondering what it meant, or why I wrote it.  I guess in a way I'm still wondering about this piece, but with a a decade or so of hindsight, it's taken on some new relevance.  So I dusted it off the cobwebs of my memory and put it back in digital type... for now :)

Enjoy while it lasts.

Ephemeral

The best thing about
your worstest day.
Where nothing ever
went your way.

The bed you wish
you never left:
That hopeless day
you prayed for death.

The best thing about
your worstest day
When everything
caused such dismay

With misery as
your only friend.
The best thing is:

it also ends.

The sun will set.
The sun will rise.
No matter if
we live or die.

No matter if
we're glad to see
The world just spins
in spite of me.

My worstest day
won't end the world
This stubborn sphere
in constant twirl.

And my worst day
is someone's best.
My lowest trough,
another's crest

And the worst thing about
your bestest day
Where everything
just went your way.

Where you were on fire
and could not miss
That joyous day
you were the shit.

The worst thing about
your bestest day
Where all your troubles
stayed at bay

And all the good times
close at hand.
That awesome day
you were the man.

Everyone
with joy and cheer
Compatriots,
they bought the beer

And you would
laugh and joke with friends
and the worst part is:

it also ends.

The sun will rise.
The sun will set.
No matter if
we're ready yet.

Best and worst
they do not last.
Inexorably
becoming past.

Your worstest day
on ten years hence:
unimportant,
no consequence.

Your bestest day
it is the same
Who cares for glory
with no remain?

More important,
what have you kept?
Retirement savings.
What's coming next?

The seas will boil.
The skies will rend.
Don't mention your trouble:

it also ends.

Poppa!  Poppa!
Please do not preach.
Do not ask me
What I keep.

Leave me alone
to have my fun,
and failing that,
resign to gun.

Poppa!  Poppa!
Please do not preach.
I'm not a student,
So do not teach.

Poppa!  Poppa!
This is my life.
Poppa!  Poppa!
This is my fight.

Frivolous
and worthless shit.
But it's my life.
I'm loving it!

So Poppa!  Poppa!
Go away.
And leave me to
my best worst day.

You call me Poppa.
You say I preach.
I have no chalkboard.
You say I teach.

Go away?
Well, that is fine.
If you call tomorrow
I hope there's time.

The seas will boil.
The skies will rend.
The bestest day:
fair-weather friend.
The worstest day:
around the bend.
But don't despair:

it also ends.

Gimp Deux

Man, it's hard out here for a pimp.
Thus he walk with perpetual limp.
Tried to upright his swag,
but his leg, it still drag.
Hobbling and crookedly gimp.

--------------------------------

I've branched my new spate of nonsense poetry to another blog, plan on keeping the regular serious stuff here.  House of Nobi

Personality

I liked you better
when you had
no personality.
You were a blank slate
for all to see...

And paint upon it
what they wish.
I liked you better
when you weren't like this.

BFE

No graves in Egypt.
No place to lie.
An abominable
backwoods
place to die.

Here ye slumber
far from home.
Rouse ye peoples!
Rise ye bones!

Where shall we go?
Over there!
To a land of plenty.
To a land so fair!

Where the milk and honey
flows like rivers.
No lash.
No scourge.
No need to quiver.

In Egypt:
daily tyranny.
Promised:
perfect liberty.

Rouse ye peoples!
Cast down your yoke!
Escape 'fore light of day
approach!

Let's hide our Exodus
by the night.
Overseers,
escape their sight.

Where we go,
they may not follow.
Why stay here
in odious wallow?

Have you no dreams
of lofty things?
Of lands of plenty
and dine like kings?

Or are you content
with scrounging scraps?
And toiling to keep
the pharaoh fat?

But slavery
is all we've known.
How can you ask us
to leave our home?

Familiar it may be.
Home it's not.
Home not given
it must be-sought.
The devil accustomed,
whilst angel, naught.
Such weak excuses
to stay and rot!

You fear the desert
that you may die.
You say that as if
you're even alive!

Daily toiling
for others' gain.
The children watch you,
and do the same.

This not life,
but a death too slow.
Rouse ye peoples!
Rise!  Let's go!

Toiling in Egypt,
what have you earned?
Is master's head pat
what you yearn?

Walking on eggshells,
avoiding strife.
You're thankful it's whip
and not the knife.
They take your daughters
for night, not wife.
Is that your precious?
Is that your life?

You bleed and toil
and can't say why.
Tails wagging
for some worthless prize.
Cowering from death
without being alive.
Some withering windbags,
waiting to die!

Content with bondage.
Content as slaves.
The years did pass;
my beard has grayed.
And in all the wisdom
that comes with age:
I've never met
more foolish knaves!

The Promised Land,
not all can reach.
But better die striving
than to never seek!

Rouse ye peoples!
Rise ye knaves!
Throw down your yokes,
And be not slaves!

Our masters do flail us
with scourge and stick.
Dear Moses, your tongue
cuts deeper than this!

Fools we may be.
Worse than knaves.
Lack courage
to be naught but slaves!

The stick, familiar.
The scourge, we know.
But the desert is foreign.
How can we go?

As soon as we step out,
pharaoh gives chase.
Then sword,
not milk and honey taste.

We have no camel.
We have no horse.
Their army overruns us
as matter of course.

The desert sands
will be stained red.
Then what's the reason
that we have bled?

Friend Moses--dear Moses:
the hour is late.
Please leave us to slumber,
and do not wake.

In the morning,
let's do as we've done before.
And leave us to
our daily chore.

Rouse ye peoples!
Descendents of kings.
If lack courage:
behold what Father brings!

This staff looks ordinary
But it's something Divine.
If words won't quicken,
behold these signs:

Seas doth parted.
Lands uncharted.
Sobbing... sobbing...
For dear departed.
Hearts not guarded.
Manna imparted.
My peoples this journey
has only started.

Rouse!

Now you're inspired.
Later you'll wane.
Then turn your ire
in wrathful refrain.

You'll accuse me then.
I won't reply.
For in Egypt,
I found no place to lie.

------------------------------

This is actually a prequel to No Graves in Egypt.  Hope it moved you.  Any thoughts or critiques are welcome.

Goods

From mountain high
to valley deep.
Have you any
I may keep?

Here I wander
far from home.
Have you any
I may own?

Fickle lover,
you come and go.
You warm me up,
then leave me cold.

I used to seek
your warm embrace.
Such teasing wearied
from the chase.

The effort expended:
unreturned.
Bones exhausted.
Lungs thus burned.

And what is it
that I may show?
To take along
when I must go?

I'm told: acquire
mansions high.
What coin may purchase
a piece of sky?

I'm told: so purchase
things of dust.
But their very makeup
I do not trust.

Cars and spouses.
Houses!
Houses!
Nimble fingers
to undo the
blouses.

Crying!  Crying!
Hefty sighing.
"Comfort!  Comfort!"
I'm trying...
trying...

From flower to flower.
Leave... return.
Another lover
has left me spurned.

And the dirt, I'm forced,
to give it back.
So what's the point
in chasing that?

The taste of honey,
it is not sweet.
Have you any
I may keep?

Renters here
in borrowed homes.
On borrowed time,
and borrowed bones.

And things on loan
we must give back.
So what's the point
in chasing that?

But there's goods
that money cannot buy.
And to have it
needn't ever sigh.

Something that
can be thus owned.
Not rented like
these stinky bones.

But as coin
must toil to acquire.
Knees thus buckled
and steeled by fire.

No graves in Egypt.
No place to lie.
This is the desert
where I die.

You leave me dumb
and deaf and blind.
So Mammon,
get thee thus behind.

And when I die:
it must be so.
The goods I own
when I must go.

Scrawl

There's some issue inside these walls.
Some problems go unresolved.
Mystery is such.
I can't say what.
Eluded this heedless scrawl.