Mightai

When solitary am I one
or sum of all the parts I've known
in voice, in heat, in touch, in song
is all a composite in me?

When broken are our strings attached
or frayed and thrown against the wall
can I be trusted with your heart
if you're not conscious to assist?

When confronted with wondrous hopes
are our eyes opened or dormant
and when the images present
are they but film against eyelids?

What might I have to deal with loss
when such is more than I had gained
what strength I have to maintain ties
when pull is of continuum?

And in that last hour will I be;
cease to think, and therefore not be
or will I find in circumstance
that light has persisted through muck?

Might Eye

What might become of expression
when pain is left unspoken for
and waves persist and clouds exist
but tarnished smile is forgotten.

in bronze flecked skin and mangy fur
a voice is heard and becomes one
with reborn child's intuition
where it is as if it has been.

Blouse canopies and ties as slides
to pools of red or green jello
where crackers and browned toast are boats
for knicks and knacks to be sent off.

And in this forbidden domain
where outsiders perceive such calm
is pain and amnesia as one
where all is wrong and none is kept.

Might VI

His insistence on further gain
when all that is, is found in place
has turned the cheeks of former friends
who'd had enough of meek replies.

Their fury unrelented once
his whip, unfurled, was not so long
as to their delicate hinds strike
or command any further peace.

For words are spat without minds eye
to guide the pathways that they make
and leave an anarchy in form
where once there had been rhetoric.

And find him then, the final hour
and ask his forgiveness with haste
for even eve had known her sins
but taste would not relinquish her.

Might V

What might we see in broken fence
when combustion has been repealed
and all that gasps is found below
as fixed as stone-ed stalactites.

For chances unrelented once
with swiftness of a former known
but now unheard of convenience
the childs' eyes will be unveiled.

For country nay community
on slick black steeps and crooked steps
with emptiness' companionship
his feet will run their course at end.

And finding sick reality
that time was lost eternally
when lesser men shook fists and spoke
and left a void from what they took.

Might IV

What might tonight still be forget
and left to rot as intended
by those whose wealth must crest and fall
with sound critiques and sly rhythm.

Will tension tip the hands of few
to ebb away a life of work
and bleed their dreams on tattered page
to sign their fate in crimson ink.

As confidence has sweeped them clean
and sustenance maintained unphased
will turncoat forces don the mast
and slowly stir our seeping pores.

In pools of kindergarten feasts
and kinder greens still left at bay
would conscience still allow our lips
to utter once again our game.

Might III

What might of mine is certain to
inflict upon the forlorn child
a further devastating blow
of mind and soul and futures hope.

Swift carriage of a former day
did sway and tip at first it met
a mound erected just that hour
and spilt its contents in slick mud.

But darkened though the pages were
and unfit for further good use
the words remained, persisted, stayed
and latched themselves to writers' teets.

From where the source of hues and fire
did meet the guile of lesser men
has circumstance thus been defiled
power raged with hypocrisy.

Bay

Freckled sand - we lie beyond the high tide line,
there is beauty there unseen for miles and miles,
her eyes are bright, her skin freckled too,
we're drowning in sunlight - choking on heat.

It's hotter than hell and she's sucking the breath
from my mouth. She's squeezing the life from my chest.
And the heat; she's an electric blanket in
the middle of summer.

Devoid of energy - I want to roll away to
the kiss of the - lusciously blue sea.
Oh, the salty aftertaste, the sting that encompasses me,
but there is no escape; lavender smoke fills my lungs.

I can feel the scald of her fingertips,
edging along the outline of my lips, the steam that
rises enters my nostrils and spreads across
my face. I'm flushed and smiling through struggled breath.

I'm content slipping out of consciousness
her soft hair my pillow, her scent my last
breath. I can feel the lick on my feet
of soft seam foam - I don't think the tide's ever been this high.

Might II

What might I have in circumstance
when word has leapt away from ears
and led the minds to fill in gaps
with muddled facts and consequence.

But tepid dreams have sealed my fate,
lukewarm desires did freeze and thaw,
and heart beats, though erratic, go
with inflamed passions once released.

Might I

What might have I to gods' denials
lash out my tongue - a whip of slurs
so slushed my soul from wrath of hide
a retribution in pains form.

And still the marks implanted there
are shame and loss of manhood thus
my heart is torn far worse than flesh
and mind imprisoned, shocked by pain.

Tempered though I seem to be mad
mad, stark mad, am I in practice
whose head has eased by erstwhile pain
once cut through clean as lettuce should.

The laws of peace' archaic past
had such decreed my arm unfair
to slice from spine a misplaced mind
a heretic in voice and job.