The First Bank of Poetry

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The wisdom of the world is in a verse.
The mystery of life is in a book,
for poets re-create the universe
in every rhyme. It may be worth a look

into the bank of poetry, the vault
containing all the poems ever born
and all the clever words meant to assault
our muddled brains. For surely verse is torn

directly from the living mind of Man
presented red and dripping (with a smile,
the mask of jesters since this world began)
that men may read these words of wisdom while

they're pulsing with emotion, seeking morals...
or resting, warm and comfy, o­n their laurels.

The Promise

Evicted from her garden by
a knowledge never sought,
was she villain, then, or victim in
a play that time forgot?
When tempted by an evil
bearing legendary fruit
did hunger conquer innocence?
Can history refute
this yarn of human weakness that
has passed from ancient times?
Is this a tale of simple truth
or fodder for our rhymes;
is it myth or could it be
a tapestry we weave
to chronicle the promise-- or
 apocalypse of Eve?

Thief

How carefully I made my way,
my treasure under lock was thrust
that safe my tender heart might stay
from words of lies in tones of trust.

The one to whom my fortress fell;
once comfort, now my greatest grief.
The one I should have known so well
has proved to be the vilest thief.

I see the thief. I recognize
a countenance I hate to love,
for as I look I realize
I view a mirror image of

my source of pain, this knave I see...
this thief reflected back at me.

Versions

Sections of life from the version du jour

in verses to hold all the pieces,

fragments of me from the cutting room floor

the ego/producer releases

to public inspectors, interpretive fools

who read what emotions surround,

attempting to fix me without any tools

by wiring my hot side to ground.

A cloth of intentions they’ve woven from thread

that’s spun from my lines or between.

They’d save me from living or ending up dead

or something they haven’t foreseen.