Volcano, great and mighty,
Minutes before eruption
A loud bang comes from the volano.
Smoke, ash and dust
Billow from the top.
Clouds form,
Rain falls,
Thunder olls,
Lightning streaks across the sky.
They sky goes dark as midnight,
People caught off guard,
People fall to the ground
Dead from carbon dioxide.
Rocks flying through the air,
People scream and die
Death and terror everywhere.
Not a soul lives from this eruption.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Song of Venice
Oh, Queen of the Adriatic,
You Are the City of Waterways,
Linked to Italy only by a thin stretch of land
You are the city with the mazes of canals,
Gondolas and vaporettos ride into ports.
Queen of the Adriatic you were called
When Marco Polo set forth to Asia
To meet the great ruler, Kublai Khan.
You have lived through the Years of Terror,
The Second War and Hitler.
You have throughout history.
You will be remembered within me
As the Queen of the Adriatic.
The majestic, the uncconquerable,
Never fearful, Venice.
You Are the City of Waterways,
Linked to Italy only by a thin stretch of land
You are the city with the mazes of canals,
Gondolas and vaporettos ride into ports.
Queen of the Adriatic you were called
When Marco Polo set forth to Asia
To meet the great ruler, Kublai Khan.
You have lived through the Years of Terror,
The Second War and Hitler.
You have throughout history.
You will be remembered within me
As the Queen of the Adriatic.
The majestic, the uncconquerable,
Never fearful, Venice.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Burning Anger
Anger flooded her brain
Anger invaded her blood
But not all was anger
Eyes shut tight
Immersing into a steam of anger
Burning into it
A dagger whipped through the air
Anger carved the track behind
Anger is a river of emotion!
Everything came crashing down
The dagger whipped toward her out of the night
It drove home
It cast blood from her veins
Blood trickling through the streets
Blood flowing like a river
It mixed with the street muck
The scent mixed with the air
The iron smell of blood turned into clouds
Hanging heavy over the town
Anger swirled into a river of emotion
Driving her from the Earth
Casting her soul into the air
Casting her body to Helll
Casting her soul into the Land of the Dead
But death is not the end
Death is only the beginning
The beginning of an unknown journey
Anger invaded her blood
But not all was anger
Eyes shut tight
Immersing into a steam of anger
Burning into it
A dagger whipped through the air
Anger carved the track behind
Anger is a river of emotion!
Everything came crashing down
The dagger whipped toward her out of the night
It drove home
It cast blood from her veins
Blood trickling through the streets
Blood flowing like a river
It mixed with the street muck
The scent mixed with the air
The iron smell of blood turned into clouds
Hanging heavy over the town
Anger swirled into a river of emotion
Driving her from the Earth
Casting her soul into the air
Casting her body to Helll
Casting her soul into the Land of the Dead
But death is not the end
Death is only the beginning
The beginning of an unknown journey
To Hades, To Shakespeare, To My Personal Heaven
Sinking, sinking, sinking
Into the boredom of philippic being delivered
Outside, snowflakes swirled against the dark
Of the Chicago landscape
Sinking through a pile of ripped pillows
I had become a troglodyte of the third-degree
My friends had all left me
Left me to think of the M82
Left me to take a lifelong hiatus
From the world
Fresh pineapple among stacks of books
The ice ready to fall and shatter the mirror
My life was disappearing fast
Everything I held dear was vanishing into the dust
Vanishing into the Book of Hate in my brain
Nature was deceiving me
It was all one mass of lies
Lies, lies, lies!
For an instant I was on a safari
Where lions ruled the plains
But with a fleeting glimpse,
It disappeared.
Everything swirled and faded away
My spirit and body began to separate
Thunder roared through the valleys.
It tore things apart,
It flung things asunder,
It flung the remaining pieces of my life far and wide,
Never to be found again.
Blurred white clouds of Salem,
Of witches, of wizards, of warlocks,
Images of vampires,
Actual vampires, not the sorry excuse of Twilight
Blurred white clouds of warriors of horseback
Spun through my fast blurring vision
Ghosts floated through, reaching to embrace me,
To return me to Hades, to Shakespeare, to my personal heaven
Through my spirit, my vision returned
Someone entered, screamed,
A mug of vanilla-caramel swirl coffee splashed to the tile flooring
My spirit disappeared into necrotic death.
Into the boredom of philippic being delivered
Outside, snowflakes swirled against the dark
Of the Chicago landscape
Sinking through a pile of ripped pillows
I had become a troglodyte of the third-degree
My friends had all left me
Left me to think of the M82
Left me to take a lifelong hiatus
From the world
Fresh pineapple among stacks of books
The ice ready to fall and shatter the mirror
My life was disappearing fast
Everything I held dear was vanishing into the dust
Vanishing into the Book of Hate in my brain
Nature was deceiving me
It was all one mass of lies
Lies, lies, lies!
For an instant I was on a safari
Where lions ruled the plains
But with a fleeting glimpse,
It disappeared.
Everything swirled and faded away
My spirit and body began to separate
Thunder roared through the valleys.
It tore things apart,
It flung things asunder,
It flung the remaining pieces of my life far and wide,
Never to be found again.
Blurred white clouds of Salem,
Of witches, of wizards, of warlocks,
Images of vampires,
Actual vampires, not the sorry excuse of Twilight
Blurred white clouds of warriors of horseback
Spun through my fast blurring vision
Ghosts floated through, reaching to embrace me,
To return me to Hades, to Shakespeare, to my personal heaven
Through my spirit, my vision returned
Someone entered, screamed,
A mug of vanilla-caramel swirl coffee splashed to the tile flooring
My spirit disappeared into necrotic death.
Memories
Screaming bloody murder
The place is still haunted by the people who died here.
The people who were tortured to death or insanity
About things they may not have even known.
That is my collection
My collection of memories.
Memories of trips all over the world
From the sunny Mediterranean of Italy
To the burning cold passion of England
To cold, icy Montreal
To cool, breezy California
To the frigid water of Maine.
The days of seeing the places I’ve read about
And written about
And longed to see for years.
Where people were murdered for all the wrong reasons
And all the right reasons as well.
The traitors who were never really traitors at all
But she had to get them out of the way.
The ones who threatened to take her crown
And give it to her half-sister, Elizabeth.
The screams can still be heard even after four hundred years
The screams of the tortured and the dying
The laughter as heretics died at the stake
The priest’s words floating over the smoke, over the whole courtyard
It was sadness, but not happiness
That grew in these walls
It was happiness that grew beyond them in the general city
The laughter that soared out of the playhouses and across the Thames
It was every emotion rolled into one
The shadows of them still haunt these places.
The grace of churches, but not of my religion
Cold water, but still somehow soothing
The frigid Montreal cold, but uncaring
The warmth of California, so relaxingly amazing.
***
Not bitterness, but destruction
Not my memories, but things that really happened
Not what really happened, but what should’ve been
Not just destruction, but killing whether it be in reality or on the stage
Not going back on decisions, but keep forcing through
But somehow still pulling unawares to a place
Where people screamed bloody murder at all hours
Be it day or be it night
The place is still haunted by the people who died here.
The people who were tortured to death or insanity
About things they may not have even known.
That is my collection
My collection of memories.
Memories of trips all over the world
From the sunny Mediterranean of Italy
To the burning cold passion of England
To cold, icy Montreal
To cool, breezy California
To the frigid water of Maine.
The days of seeing the places I’ve read about
And written about
And longed to see for years.
Where people were murdered for all the wrong reasons
And all the right reasons as well.
The traitors who were never really traitors at all
But she had to get them out of the way.
The ones who threatened to take her crown
And give it to her half-sister, Elizabeth.
The screams can still be heard even after four hundred years
The screams of the tortured and the dying
The laughter as heretics died at the stake
The priest’s words floating over the smoke, over the whole courtyard
It was sadness, but not happiness
That grew in these walls
It was happiness that grew beyond them in the general city
The laughter that soared out of the playhouses and across the Thames
It was every emotion rolled into one
The shadows of them still haunt these places.
The grace of churches, but not of my religion
Cold water, but still somehow soothing
The frigid Montreal cold, but uncaring
The warmth of California, so relaxingly amazing.
***
Not bitterness, but destruction
Not my memories, but things that really happened
Not what really happened, but what should’ve been
Not just destruction, but killing whether it be in reality or on the stage
Not going back on decisions, but keep forcing through
But somehow still pulling unawares to a place
Where people screamed bloody murder at all hours
Be it day or be it night
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