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?

There's The Rub

It’s clear the sweetest danger lurks about.

Assuming your complaint is as it seems,

the muscle tension you complain about

holds promise as a fodder for my dreams.

The rub is that I cannot solve the tease,

the oily touch of ambiguity,

that scents your mild complaint. So, if you please,

could I massage an answer from you? Tea

is promised by the kettle. Building steam,

that yearns for an escape into the air,

has nearly reached the point where it will scream…

immediate release! What’s that, you dare

to murmur once again? Or did you growl?

No matter, I concede; throw in the towel.

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.

~El Alma del Caballo~ (the soul of the horse)

The old Vaquero rolled a smoke
and spoke of unseen forces;
the awful toll that war requires
of soldiers and their horses--

how some believe that war cures war;
of lessons known and told,
why men can’t learn a truth their heart
has not the shape to hold.

“Caballo hearts, old soldiers know,
reflect the hearts of men.
This fact was known when Moses fled
and Pharaoh learned to swim.”

“The horse and soldier share a bond”,
the old hand told the young,
“for Horse, like Man, enjoys the taste
of war upon his tongue.”

“None but a man who’s gone to war
and felt its mighty force
while clinging to a saddle, truly
understands the horse.”

"A mount was shot from under me
in battle near the sea
and death revealed the nature of
the horse’s soul to me."

“All horses share a common soul.
I’ve seen this thing, it’s true--
if you know one, a single horse,
then all are known to you."

The old man tossed his cigarette
and filled his coffee cup
and as he did another there,
a Gringo boy, spoke up.

"If what you say is true, old man,
one day, when men are gone,
the soul of Horse must perish too,
what point in staying on?"

The old man laughed, “You are niave
my cowboy friend. Please try
to open up your heart and mind
and I will tell you why

the words you speak, they make no sense,
I tell you here and now,
no horses in the world? This thing,
our God would not allow."