Joy fades, under the solemn breath of spring.
The microbursts throw the trees in raging waves
And the sleet falls in such a way, that is grey.
A man's wedding is but a day, and perfunctory
When the true sweetness of it, is laying at her breast
On the way home. No lust, but exhaustion.
For, boundaries were kept through life strict
But after that day, you can lay your weary head
Upon nature's comforting hills, and there rest.
Yet, the sorrow of the day, like so many,
Is it is an awkward day for all, and strange.
Joy should exist, but only angst. Though I've never had been
I understand it through literature, and see
The purgatorial affect of modern day
And wonder where joy has gone?
Some time ago, there was life in these bones
And friendship was deeply felt in my heart.
Then, I sinned---or at least the world knew of it---
And it shamed me... thus I walk with the knowledge
Of having sinned. Like many, I assume,
The gross abnormality of our purgatorial lives
Is met solely by the affect wrought by stained consciences.
That is why we no longer feel the deep joys
Or the deep sorrows, or the deep loves
But everything has a melancholy affect
Of neutral peace; except when moments come
They swell, and one wonders what it is...
This new feeling, but old feeling, this shared feeling
Though I've never been married.

I critique paradise,
But I understand Wallace Steven's metaphor---
What does that say?

A false happiness---I never said I was happy---
Those are my thoughts.
What paradise can be made here?
Truly? If you made bad decisions like I have?

Sure, I am contented with poetry
And musings---
Would great riches or fame appease my desire?
No.
Would a womb?
Yes, partly.
Would the very paradise which your comedian critiques?
Hopefully so... for this life is vain and hollow
And though the mind's eye is the great thing
That has given me respite in this life---
Imagining the great game I could conjure
From my books, which men would be steeped in like real life---
I know a game supplants imagination
For now humans create their own stories
Through their games, and all knowledge
Is to exert willpower over  others
And win their games and cheat.

The Christian, who waited thirty years
To marry, and therefore have love,
Doesn't wear his wedding band
In front of the audience of Circus Maximus.
But I, being the fool I am, expecting one Christian
To have consistency of character,
Thinking, "No man, who prayed
"Every day to have this good thing,
"Could be a fool enough to do this."
I had to shut my mouth, and the wicked were validated
In their beliefs. For, one man did not have consistency.
In fact, I thought I had lost my mind
And that time had warped me between two 
Points between the present and future
Rather than dishonor this man's character.
I'm sorry friend, but I witness it
That even the man of God is unfaithful.
What more to say about the billions of other men?
Repent.

Little words in my Seamus Heaney book
Handwritten in the margins...
I had thought you kindred spirit
When you had said, "Poetry is the expression of Say."
But, upon reading the ancient cursive--
Which I both read and write--
It says, "The expression of Self."
Then I say, I do not write poetry but something new.

If a man does anything wrong
Pound them into the dust.
What is wrong, is the milieu
We know, there is no objective "Right or Wrong."
Only what we make it.
Thus, we create, and we demand
Obsequious to the morality we created.
Which is to strive with all for the scraps
And to come out on top at any cost
So long as it does not break our laws.

I find myself so happy
I grew up with my parent's music.
I have youthful memories
Of Journey and not Nirvana.
There was something so real
About it... Also Sinatra
And Duke Ellington in my Twenties.
It's like I'm timeless,
As I have fond memories of old TV shows
And really could care less about modern ones.
I have no generation...
I am a little youthful
A little geriatric
A little middle aged.
I don't listen to Hip-Hop
But Elvis and the Eagles.
I don't even know who the modern bands are.
My generation is one man's
And it is mine...
I have no peer.
Maybe that is why I am a poet?

Every sincere expression of faith
Has been devoid of religion.
Even Christ Himself, came and shook the Pharisees.
Remember that, brothers and sisters.
The Orthodox Faith is a faith of poetic expression
Nuance, and not simply simplicity.
It is an expression of all of man
As man tastes the fruits of the Divine.
There is only one LORD, and that is Jesus Christ;
But so many poets have touched Him
Never knowing He was the gate.

Aught authors begin as dreamers
But then, when poesy tames their tongue,
They begin to stop dreaming, and see.
Thus, they cross the threshold into immortality.
For no program is found upon their tongue
But rather truths for all peoples, in every clime.
They shed their politics, and religion, and seek.
And then, if they are tamed, they find.

Muse upon one poem
For hours; if wise, its breath
Winding vicissitudes
Of a noisy brook—
For when it speaks
It is like the waters
Which whisper truth
In its most lifelike nature.