Free Verse (1981-2004)

“Come, little singers,
laud me some beauty,
then taste the blood
of my wounded lyre,

“Do you really know
the shadows
that flit and flirt,
about my pyre?

“When Athens is in flames,
and Thebes laid open wide.
And run, as you will.
There is no place to hide …”


Balladeer once, but nevermore.
I’ll sing no more
songs of transcendent beauty.
Of sunsets, worth their gold.

But who will call, to answer
my rage?

What hate drowns all else
in its wake?

The anger that burns within,
gnaws, grinds away, until
every edge is smoothly
razored.


“All my verse, it has been felled,
its End foretold, its death-toll knelled …”


by the Cain that lurks
in every man. Oh, He is
the ultimate killer.

But sing no songs for me.
No ballads for the fallen
in battle.

Not until you know, at least,
What this hand,
I once thought mine
—by pen or sword—
is capable of

When my God has refused me
even a voice to plead.

And my own demons

Answer instead.