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The following works consist of 1 eulogy and 3 variously themed writings.

Dedicated to Grandmother: Clara E. Jenkins
February 26, 1999

This is a world and in it is a universe of fact,
Truth that we may or may not be inclined to accept,
And human tragedy, with which we tearfully react.
But those tears are never swallowed only kept,
And those tragedies burden us with no cause,
Until we are left with the body it gnaws.

This is a reminder and in it is a universe of meaning,
Understanding that we will always have some destiny.
Those dieing eyes we saw, before lively gleaming,
Soon became angered, possibly with mutiny.
That mutiny is in me because I do not believe
And strongly resist a pain we will all soon conceive.

That same pain that takes its step upon our hearts,
Not missing the common sanity we once had,
Is the biggest and sickest of pains, and it starts
With the denial that will now come to make us mad.
Clara would not want for us to waste a second trying
To live in this past when our tears begin drying.

But seconds are now all we have to live by,
All forever speeding through the null of space,
And to live by the mother-of-us-all's side and cry
Is another pain we may again fully resist to face.
That mind knew my mind and probably still knows it
Because it gave effort and fought to find my hidden wit:

And all that wit is flowing in my forefather-trained blood,
A blood that flows and circulates in most of our veins.
Its substance is experience and great temper that flood
Our minds to learn and calm our life-long pains.
Our pains, our anger, our sorrowful thoughts are never
God-given nor are they there for our mind it will sever.

But that capsule that bonds all these horrible things
Is one that makes itself the most feared object
Of our anatomy, and when that bell tolls and rings
Its loudest only to burst our eyes, we reject,
And our mind cracks as that bell. A resounding
Mind that cries, and it is ever-breaking its bounding.

Yes! It is most likely we will see her again soon,
And I tell you this because I want you to feel assured
That we will still be entirely guilty or innocent of this noon
And of that previous happening when death then lured
Her to her coffin. By then it would be too late to be awarded
Our not-forgiven or forgiven selves the time we have afforded

To her and to all her greatest wants and delights.
If we ask our God to yield upon us all the fortune,
And high honor of living with his angels and their mights,
We will see her, not as we are, but above our moon;
The journey of all forgiven and sinless deemed
And not in the dark path of the sinful esteemed.

There are those who say they had, and had well,
Their faith in this woman's days and her awe-inspiring life,
Whether it is from great distances, or in the bed-cell
Of her last breath. They are those who feel that long knife
And bleed those tears that stain our cheeks and spirit.
And they are those I plead to understand death-not fear it:

For they have hearts full of her forgiveness and love.
This day is given to them and all who come to make use of it.
So she is so greatly fortunate now to look at us from above,
Then to see us in pain one more day on this planet.
There is an outlook on fear understood by the knowledge of men:
“Fear itself made bold.” In such a position death itself makes life-Amen.

"The Conjurer"
(Lost Circa 1997)

“Dacus Potentia”
Circa 1998

A sharp knife passed my way,
And with my luck I happened to flinch.
Horrified that I could have died that day,
I observed the metal and its lngthy inch.
I began to dream…my blood began seeping
And I noticed I was deeply impaled.
Bloody tears I began weeping,
And with my last breath I exhaled.
No tears for me were cried
And no sounds but taunting laughter.
On a cold floor I had died
And no heaven or hell after.
Ice-cold blood streamed across my chest
As I realized my life was in vain.
No longer shall my life be a test
And feel any penalizing pain.
I questioned my life and said woefully,
“What have I done to die so unripe?”
And soon I wondered slow and somberly
That guilt are the tears I must wipe.
I can not live if death is what I muse
And knives potential of demise.
I cannot dream of “grasses and dews,”
Unless my melancholy can cease and rise-
Thus I unlocked my mesmerism of the knife
And placed in its most rightful place;
Not on the floor or through my heart and life,
But only in a small, black wooded, case.
I glanced out my window and it's clear glass
To notice the grasses and their dew.
I witnessed invisible gusts of air pass
And trees tremble with all their sinew.
I looked up and saw a blue celestial sky
That resembled the void of dark space.
I began to wonder again and asked,
“Why? Why did the knife pass my pace?”
Perhaps I do need to discard my guilt,
The guilt that others discard unto me.
What dignity I ever had will only wilt
Unless my innocence can plea.
In time the knife will cross your path
To make you realize what ground you stand.
The question “what if” will plague you as a wrath,
And life will be more of a demand-
And to a hand that writes my breath:
To life! To horror! To love and death!

“The Summit”
Circa 2000

I have never been atop the mountain
And, yet, I have tried breathing its thin air.
If I've ever sipped from a fountain
Of cold water, few times was it there.
Only once did I test an icy stream.
It was a bit like fine pointy claws
Or pricks. Even so, at times it would seem
Almost rewarding to break the laws
That held me back from reaching the top.
I could look down at the world to see
Or feel amusement that it would soon drop
To its knees to faithfully worship me.
I may have had the thickest head around
Yet the world would follow my name.
I could hear the sad, mournful sound
Of the people below me dreaming the same.
It is a sad sound to hear a climber
Who groans so loud to be where they are.
He makes it to the line of timber
But soon gives up going too far.
It is a sad sound to hear a dreamer.
Oh, but still, I am one! Aren't I?
I once did seek the light and the glimmer
Of it bringing me to altitudes so high,
And so endlessly satisfying, as it were,
That once I had made it, at last,
To the top of the summit, there would occur
(Or befall upon my luck) an overcast.
This thick overcast would soon blind me
But I would certainly deserve it, I admit.
I'd deserve to fumble around and be
Totally stupid to wrongly submit
To the evil ways of those who live
Happily there lives upon the peak.
They have indulged too much to give
From their heart (laden high and weak).
They deserve too much to be right,
To drink from their cold fountains,
To breath the thin air day and night
And fall painfully from their tall mountains.
Some would see them fall off and laugh.
Some would watch in horror-their little gods
Tumbling off, rather helpless-like a calf.
These little lambs (whose shepherd's rods
Were held back a time to many) sing
To their foolish shepherds an ironic song:
“O to thee we shan't forebear to bring
Upon thy face our spit the day long!”
Know that they are not entirely helpless
And that they can help it if we adore them
So much as to inevitably never regress.
We can avoid the venomous spit and phlegm
That they cannot refrain in bringing.
Luckily and alas, we are unable to deafen our ears  
Completely of their ridiculous singing.
Which is one of my greatest fears:
If we become ignorant of the thin air,
icy streams and of their high summit,
Then, for life, we can only call it fair
That we will be climbers that plummet.

“She Loves Me-She Loves Me Not”
Circa 1998-1999

Listener, do not, I beg of you,
Insult the holiest of my passions!
By God, and truly, we are but two
Beyond the hate of hateful reactions;
Before time my love and I were one-
Then to be set apart as moon and sun.

Those sweet seconds our eyes meet,
I cannot with-hold life or reside sane,
For infinite time stops in its defeat
As two become one once again.
My lady (Purity) God has not forsaken,
My love for her has truly undertaken!

Is my face one she somehow disdains,
Or, is it one for which she dares love?
“Does she” my perplexed mind maintains-
Invariably asking the polished stars above.
Follow me, my friend, into my mind;
What needs to be found, we shall find!

     Let our minds begin from the end,
That I have no existence on Earth,
But in the palace of which I tend;
Where I remained until my mortal birth.
I know whereof my misfortunes be-
Only on Earth, until death attains me.

From my mother's womb was I bore,
And there upon me she laid her kisses.
Then, under divinity, was I swore,
Protecting me from perpetual hisses.
My God given noon in September,
Was to be one I can never remember.

With those days came some force
Which, under circumstances, made me weary.
In the null of a universe it took course,
Strong enough to make the biggest man teary.
This one, of many, I make haste to obey-
Or upon my death bed I will lay:

For then I would be forgotten by all,
Not that they would waste time in caring.
My bones would be naked and raw,
Useless for the body and soul pairing.
Prey, I do not, at any instance, fear this;
I may never have a life I will heartily miss.

This one force makes years of a burden
And every weak soul it swallows whole.
Endless is its grasp from boys to men,
Brainless is its victims when its belly is full.
Do nothing but believe me, it is all truth!
(Now it is biting me by the neck with its tooth!)

It is Love that consumes my heart
And soul from heel to mind!
But does not take breath to start
Eating its bloody meal, only to find:
A weeping corpse with no right to its might
And too exhausted to bear a fight.

I am not one to say this force,
Or any other in nature, is of pure evilness.
But know that it is the only source
Of which comes my confusion and sadness:
My cheeks drowned at any moment in time;
I know Love is beginning to dine.

From some point after my autumn birth
I convinced my self of being unable of loving
And without the greater emotion of mirth
Or all other awesome passions of living.
It was a destiny of mine to be of less;
An ugly opinion my conscience did not bless.

Now I will never think myself in such a state
Of mind. For any “state” of lies
I cause myself to believe, I can relate
To anyone in these love-fearing sighs.
Oh! But this “sigh” to be a poem to relieve-
To be a document or reality we believe!

This love, like any thought, does contain color
And it blushes my mind a heaven blue.
Would I rather have a black mind to favor-
Black like that hair-fair God! It is True!
I wear it and it wares me: A blue soul am I,
As it covers my love-immersed cry.

(Never Finished)