Conjoined

Perfection is conjoined to death

Just as the soul is truly breath,

As to a carcass vultures fly,

The breath is gone, the dreams will die.

The vultures hop upon the earth,

Devouring what you are worth--

The worms that wriggle on their beaks

Will sound the soul's resounding shrieks.

Your carcass writhes--you're living yet--

Utopia is where you met

The onyx blade, hear beating still--

The vultures, maggots get their fill.

From chaos you can't order life--

From vulture bones you'll make the fife

That leads you children to despair--

Your beauty's one that is not fair.

Yes, you bring death, the vulture's meal--

The culture's ground beneath the wheel,

And you rise up--the Devil's son--

For death's conjoined to perfection. 

Contemplation

I'm asking you to contemplate

The meaning of the stars,

The placement of the planets, fate,

How Venus seduced Mars.

And I will contemplate your eyes,

The beauty of the turns

Of galaxies and fern, your sighs

That make sure my blood burns.

And we will contemplate the birds

That sing their mourning song,

And all the phrases and the words

That make us both belong.

And they will contemplate the two

Who sit upon the hill:

The moon, her mate, the sun, who do

For each the other's will.

The earth, well, it will contemplate

The life that makes it live--

The animals, the plants debate

The love that we must give. 

And you will contemplate, I ask,

These words I sing, the song

Declaring death won't deal its task--

This, love, will right that wrong. 

Speaking Poetry

The key to speaking poetry

Is practice, practice, practicing,

For then your language will not walk,

But take the music, dance and sing. 

The Golden Age

Was poetry revered

In some forgotten age?

Was rhythm, rhyme once cheered,

Each author seemed a sage?

Perhaps I'll sing a song--

That poetry's alive--

And you will sing along--

My words will then arrive.

Perhaps a future time

Will love mere poetry,

Where conversations rhyme

And rules make language free.