Iamb = .|
Of man---

Trochee = |.
Truth is

Spondee = ||
I AM,

Anapest = ..|
The man sought;

Dactyl = |..
Strange is he

Bacchiac = .|| 
To write free.


Cretic = |.|
He the weak...


Ionic a Minore = ..||
Is it Strong truth 

Ionic a Maiore = ||..
To write or not?

Fourth Paeon = ...|
Is it on form?


Amphibrach .|.
Soon found the

Antipast .||.
empty tomb; the

Choriamb |..|
Grave, was there rolled---

First Epitrite
a Superman .|||

Tribrch ...

risen from

Mollossus |||
Death's cruel touch.

The Faustian Bargain was Faust, who asked
Mephistopheles---a Freemason myth---
To give him the power to interpret
Any Poet, and derive from them their
Knowledge. To interpret perfectly their
Words. Goethe, who wrote Faust, had an intelligence
Quotient of about two-hundred twenty.
What I derive from Goethe is that his smarts
Felt like they were a curse from the Devil.
For knowing meanings with certainty, and
Not being able to convince others
Because they are unable to perceive
It, might seem like the power came from some
Ancient and arcane force of shrewd evil.
It is a discovery we have yet
To make, even in this, our modern age.
Yet, the curse of knowledge saved Faust from hell
And just perhaps, this curse will  save us, too.

I would fall in love with you so easily.
If the two of us were to meet one another on the street
If we were to both be single---and there is the problem
Because beautiful girls like you aren't single for long---
Our reverence toward God
Our broken history.

Yet, I am ugly. Just foul words
As you express your best upon the sheet
I express my worst.

I give you my poetry, and you read it.
You like the ones I hate.
The ones I hate most about myself.
Your mind is like mine
And as a woman, that is rare to find
One who is wise.

Even the things I would disagree with
I find are noble in your hands.
Such things as feminism make me angry
But when you speak of it
I remember it had its elegance.
And I understand you are a warrior
But so am I.

I stay away from you on purpose.
I do not come near your portal
For if I did, I would find one with like mind.
I do not know if it is the same with you.

Yet, I am ugly.
I am putrid.
However, embark on a journey with me
And I might fall in love.
Right now I am not.
Right now I am jaded.
I am selfish.
I am cruel.
I am angry.
Embittered by the world around me.

I do not want you for sex.
I want you for your company.
For, even the foulest thoughts in other women
Are noble in you.

For, you have a battle to fight
And I grant you excelsior on those battles.
As my nation crumbles
As my freedoms wane...
I am a glowing ember sodden by the lacquer 
Of too much kerosene.
Which, that kerosene smothers even my ember.
Yet, do not quench it---
The God I worship would never.

Yet, your friendship and amatoral touch
Is my deepest prayer.

The capacity to know something
Is, possibly,
The hallmark of true genius.

The capacity to be skeptical 
Is, possibly,
The hallmark of true intelligence.

The capacity to believe or refute everything
Is, possibly,.
The hallmark of true mediocrity.

The capacity to interpolate 
Is, possibly,
The hallmark of true ignorance.

The capacity to ignore
Is, possibly.
The hallmark of true stupidity.

Homosexuality killed free speech.

All stand in opposition.
All know their opinions are
The correct one.

They sit, talk about the flue
While the savior, the politician
From the left, contemplates
World War III.

I've lost all my zeal. Al of
My desire to warn.
I am impotent; my voice
Is not heard.

No, it is heard.
But it is ignored.

A Poem in Iambic Tetrameter

The truth is ne'er as strong in wise
As lies to speak in quickened fire;---
For specious words which lies surmise
Are stronger than the spoken truth.
But words well thought, in clever fay
Do shine on minds who mull away
A day's eve in one single thought.

Purple hair of the setting sun's fire,
With robes of the sky's daytime amethyst---
Her sandals are peridot sward, nestled
In the earth of her skin's sun-kissed velvet.
Her eyes are the ocean's green, with glass foam.
She wears the skins of all the beasts she took
In combat; the insects are her jewels.
She is betrothed to Time as man and wife.
As time will age, so will she weaken.
Until the two pass on to the heavens.
For nature grows weaker, as time passes
On, and the more unnatural man becomes
The time of Nature's magic wanes, so with
Her love, and mercy and her swells of joy.
Until she dies, and so does Time, and the
White Rider comes upon clouds of heaven.

If I could write my story
One day I were walking down the state park
Or sitting in the mall
Or typing at my laptop in the local bookstore
A beautiful girl would pull up a chair next to me
Sit down, and say high.
I wouldn't know why.
I'd be shy at first
But she'd be persistent.
Then we'd strike up a conversation.
She'd find out quick I'm a writer
Ask to read some of what I wrote
And then she'd like it.
We'd spend the next month
With that obsessive kind of friendship
That comes with just meeting someone.
And soon, we'd fall in love.

About a year of being friends---
An eventful year, where we waited on each other
And were in the pre-relationship phase---
I'd put an engagement band on her finger.
A little gold ring with a small diamond.
We'd have a night of weakness
Where we would make love for the first time.
Soon afterward, we would get married.

We'd have kids,
And I would homeschool them.
Not for any religious reason
But only to spend as much time 
With them as possible.
She'd work from home on the computer
And I'd spend my time teaching my children.

My writing would be a mystery to my children
Something which they would be forbidden to read
Until they reach the appropriate age.
And sure enough, they would sneak into the room
And take the step ladder
To take the book from the highest shelf
And read it. I would scold them.

However, my books would sell a modest amount.
A small amount.
Maybe I would make thirty thousand dollars a year from my books.
I would then take the money and tithe it
And invest it in treasury bonds.
It would be a supplemental income
Which brought us comfort.
But, I wouldn't be famous.
Nor a household name.
Just a random stranger some people met
On the internet,
And they bought my books.

When I was old, and had grandchildren,
Then, when it couldn't corrupt me
My work would explode in popularity.
Just enough that I was old and gray
And my wife too,
And my children with children and their children on the way.
And my work would be praised as the greatest of the twenty-first century.
I would win Pulitzer, Nobel, Hugo, Poet Laureate.
In old age...
And I would be surprised by the sudden success.
But, not changed by it.
I would know how to use the money
And would be like Milton Hershey
Who invested it into the widows and orphans.
To which, I would pass away silently in my sleep
At an old age,
My wife also by my side.
And I will have lived the life I dreamt about.