My Poetry: When I Was a Spaceman

When I was not so old,
I would hide in small niche

Of blanket and pillow cave
From where I would fly

My spaceship,

First mate Ted by side,
Explore new stars and nebula

Or at least somewhere,

That wasn’t there.

And we would leave,
The cold earth behind

With its arguments
And black eye bullies,
School, and concealed tears
From weekend visits
Whenever we could.

In the ether we would be free,
Beneath that blanket rocket
Till ground control
Called up for tea,
And we would have to leave
Our secret galaxy
For another TV dinner reality.

When I was a teen,
I would hide in spacedust dreams
Dear old Ted long disappeared,
Swapped for friends
Who’d dance and sing,
Astronauts without a ship
Shoot straight through

To Monday without sleep

Ignore the days that dragged between
Till our bodies were weak,
Callow of heart and pale of skin.

We pretended we knew

The secrets of life,
And how to run, and run till we fell.
Until to bed, Itook

Ill of will and fight
Where dear ole Ted returned
With lopsided poppy grin
Where together, once again
We visited our secret galaxy
Waiting for a new reality.

Now as a man,
I hide in rye and beer
Neatly tucked away in niches,
Long ago I stopped pretending
This spaceship finished its last mission
In acceptance of this
New reality.   

My Poetry: And It Rains

And it rains,
Sometimes it snows;
It is always cold,
And it rains

So it goes,
Sometimes it’s fine;
It's always a lie,
So it goes

So it be,
Sometimes he knows;
It's always low,
So it be

And it rains,
Sometimes it goes;
It is always cold
Then it rains

My Poetry: Playground of the Gods

Death cult story told as truth
Round campfires, and in tomes
One man’s terrorist

Is another’s freedom fighter
Innocent son of seedless birth
Resurrected to save

Us from our greatest sin
Which sits not between our legs

But in holy layered ritualistic truth

That spirit beats flesh forever
We are but kindred spirit
Except for those we’re told to despise

But, if words stolen by Rome,
For vanity and for profit

Turned his image back to flesh,
Stripped book of cover story?
It's naked words held to the light
No God holding whip to slave.
No pulpit words to make us fear

No virgin birth or second coming
Just another mortal body
Born of Mother Earth's androgynous womb
Another servant searching for a way
To justify this spiteful world
Before pleading for freedom
Before her gavel of her glory?

What if cross was stripped of reverence?
Would corn bread still feed
Those hungry for the message?
Would red wine still sate
Those thirsty to sup his blood?
But what of he who casts doubts,
Or hunts for truth outside their spires
Where gnostic knowledge frees the soul
As turns body back into dust.
What of he who searches, but
Lays axe to sacred tree
From which fruit hangs,
Rotted by a false piety
Made bitter through a twisted faith.
Will in rapturous pyre he burn
If he ignores indoctrinated truths?