Naturalized Citizen

For you, for you I write.
I see you truly understand my country.
I see you truly understand its good.
I see you cannot see a single one of its flaws.
I see you believe in what America once stood.

Trust me, I wish I could see it too,
But I must write these odes,
I must criticize.
I must tear the fabric of our nation apart.
So that way it will be stitched back together
The right way
And you will still have your rest.

The Fanatic

The fanatic raises his weapon high
Making the blood sacrifice of his faith
The bare chested woman's husband his blade
Drew the blood of; the infidels are nigh

His every thought. "Pay back the sins in blood---
"All the dead, be the propitiation!
"The alter of soil; alter of stone
"Drip the blood of the dead infidel's sons."

The saints of his religion pick up the
Wounded upon the street, those he had killed.
They balm them with the oils, wrap sterile 
Gauze across burned visage. For their religion was love.

In the Heart of Man

When I look upon the heart of a man
Who consciously decides to practice err
I see him strain so hard to do what's bad
Though I also see in that heart repair.

When I look upon the heart of a man
Who offends as part of his daily bread
I see a man whose best, I understand,
Is as bad as a man whose heart is dead.

Though in deed, the first man's crimes seem as worse
Than the man whose second deed is habit
What awful sin the first commit was choice
While the second man's sin is found avid.

Which is worse? I do say they are both same
And sad, but the first man, who's sorely grave
Repented and found his good heart again;
The second is bad, and will not be saved.

For the first man finds Jesus Christ and prays
While the second man rather stays his way.
One knows his sin, and the other cannot.
That is why one is saved while the other will rot.

;

An Ode on Faith

An Ode on Faith

What keeps a man, when Abraham is preached,
From imitating him,---in murdering
His son?---to, another's life, be the thief?
Much the same that allows one, whose reading
Of a poet, understand the clever
Metaphors, and gives one's knowledge a truth.
'tis what allows a man knowledge; whispers
In his ears the meaning of sweetest fruit.
There is the literal, which, willing kills,
Without concept lays actions bare and bald.
The literal reading atheists fill
Christian minds, searching deeply for a fault.
Yet, we somehow know what a passage means,
For that is why faith remains; 'tis unseen.
Should man without this ability be,
Such man, hell's stone be his foreboding vault.

The Root of Western Frustration

Narcissism as defined by psychology
Is wanting to be loved.
Healthy ways of being in psychology
Is loving yourself.

I understand what a narcissist is.
Trust me, I do.
But, something about the definition seems stupid.

To want people to love you,
That is narcissistic.
To have the innate desire to love yourself
This is not narcissistic.

Let me reiterate.
It is narcissistic to want love.
It is not narcissistic to love yourself.

In other words,
It's healthier to love yourself
Than it is to be loved by others.

Let me reiterate:
Everyone are narcissists
And the ones who want love the most, 
Those are the ones who everyone say are sick.

Across the Seas I Look, so Forth, To See

Across the seas I look, so forth, to see
The rays of dawn's mid morning light;
I peer there cross the bays so seen---the sea
It calls a melodic light of mulled plight.
Is there or is there not a god to love
Whose majesty had planed the seas so blue?
For daunting feast of mind this task will seem
When shown that man his suffered life anew
Must live a life of grief upon this earth.
Yet, good has failed we men when God's in dearth.

How I Wish it Was Your Shadow Which Touched Mine

How I wish it was your shadow
Which touched mine.
How I wish in every evening 
Glow, that you found me
And were secretly my shadow.

If at one moment, 
You stood behind, waiting for me.
All I had to do was ask for you,
And you'd appear.

Yet, I have said,
"Do not be..."
Because I do not want a shadow.
For when I ask for you,
You do not appear.
No... you do not appear.

Hope is in every woman
With that familiar face.
I see you everywhere.
In the neighbor
At the mall
On the computer screen
The author of a poem
When I am driving through the local towns.

There you are,
Your face,
And I think, "It is her
"And all I have to do is reach out for her."
Look. It is not you.
Your familiar face,
If I could just have just one of you.
But, it is not the face I want.
No. It is you.
I find you on several dozen faces,
And each of them I want.
At the state park,
At my desk in school,
At the retirement home where I volunteered.
Though, it is not you.
It never is.

I get into a bitter fight today
And I lose hope that you exist.
Because men complicate simple truths with obfuscated 
Legalities, and political points
And hard to swallow talking points.
All I want is you.
And yet, when I call,
As I always try to call,
You are gone.
You do not come when I call for you.
When I'm at the family picnic
I walk down to the wine cellar
And I imagine you walking in,
And introducing our children;
For our love was a secret.
Whatever reason.
But, I walk upstairs,
And you do not come.
And I drink my cup
And I look into it...
I know I'm not supposed to...
And I sigh.