In pursuit of nightmares (Dreams of a fundamentalist)

What heathen mons of churning breath,
in ferity spurn who, writhing death;
can’st in retort to such howls of they,
serve madness to those mad astray.
Fore these thunderous furies ground
to desperate fools such luring sounds,
beware the gods of men less meant
Sierra! the gods of dreams misspent.

To My God From Me (A Complaint Most Humble)

Wouldst fear or fathom unimpedes’t mine thus putting forth
a question I doth know’est not be worthless or of worth,
Verily yea I wouldst then pose it unto my reigning God
and if the glory Hallelujah recieves’t with a nod.
Upon the hallowed floor of heaven placeth shall my brow
supine shall and humble be my back’st then as now.
With the sound of ashes left in embers dying in most vain
shall these words in halls of heaven echo sans redounding gain.
“Why dost thou let all my walls,
fall and crumble every day,
when knowest thou in all thy wisdom,
how hard I do strive to raise.
Why not do the children of heaven
grieve each moment as my people,
and how may comest their rejoice
every time there are no wounds.
How is it in just report when
all I needst is a hand
that when my words may come to thee
shall only thou hear then a rebel.
Lord my savior, Lord my shephard,
why should I pray to thee succor,
when bleeding hands with tourniquets
have painted dark the purest wounds.
Why must those who holdest faith
hurt the most to keepest thus,
but those who mourn no further loss,
they mightest grieve upon its gain.
Lord I hath no more to ask
of thee nor of thy wisdom but,
If irked thou art that much by doubt,
then how can silence be thy word.”


Falls the sweetest apple, from the stem of its laden bough,
like a supple water drop from a dripping finger tip.
To grace the quivering lips, or the tainted wastelands brow?
Shall it hold its mothers hand, or deign to let it slip?
For every fruitful tree, there is a lifeless one,
and every where I look, I lose and find my faith,
but then I turn to ponder how the children of the sun,
can forgive its scorching love, and in its caresses bathe.
Alas! I find my peace, where fireflies come to nest,
inglorious they would be, would they awaken at dawn,
but faith has vouchsafed wings, and to apples sweetest rest,
tomorrow they shall depart, to where those before have gone.