Pour

Come rushing down sweet summer rain
Wrap in moisture the still burning pain
Come down and cool the molten asphalt street
Wash away the tyranically oppressive heat
Let static build, lighting flash and thunder roar
Allow me to bask in the sudden down pour
I want my hair to be left in dripping locks
I want rain in my shoes to saturate my socks
I'm done with cliche suns and skies of blue
All I need is the sharp cold rain and you

Why I Bleed

There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. -Ernest Hemingway

How many pages have I coated with blood?

Surely enough to slate a battlefield's thirst

Yet still, new unblemished reams call for more

So away go the bandages, torn are the stitches

I clench my wounded heart and let the red pour

Drenching the paper, quenching its thirst

But why must I drown out the empty white?

Could I have found the secret of alchemists past?

The source of immortality is neither medicine, nor elixir

But the bloody letters, torn from the body day by day

To live forever between covers, sealed in written  word.

"Love casts out fear, but we have to get over the fear in order to get close enough to love them."

Dorothy Day on how to love enemies.

Ode to Winston

Two plus two is four
I know this
Cometh the pain
Cometh the pain
I see the fingers
Four extended
Four
Two plus two is four
I think this
Cometh the pain
Cometh the pain
I see the fingers
They're extended
Four?
Two plus two is five
I want this
Cometh the pain
Cometh the pain
I see the fingers
I tell the lie
Five!
Two plus two is five
I know this
Lessen the pain
Lessen the pain
I see the fingers
Five extended
Five

"The dictionary definition of a Christian is one who follows Christ; kind, kindly, Christ-like. Anarchism is voluntary cooperation for good, with the right of secession. A Christian anarchist is therefore one who turns the other cheek, overturns the tables of the moneychangers, and does not need a cop to tell him how to behave. A Christian anarchist does not depend upon bullets or ballots to achieve his ideal; he achieves that ideal daily by the One-Man Revolution with which he faces a decadent, confused, and dying world"
Ammon Hennacy on what it means to be a Christian Anarchist

"We must use the weapon of love. We must have compassion and understanding for those who hate us. We must realize so many people are taught to hate us that they are not totally responsible for their hate. We stand in life at midnight, we are always on the threshold of a new dawn." 
Martin Luther King Jr. on how to fight hate.

"We are spending all this money for death and destruction, and not nearly enough money for life and constructive development....when the guns of war become a national obsession social needs inevitably suffer"
Martin Luther King Jr. on the Vietnam War

Release

At some point there's no more space left

At some point there's too much weight to heft

To push up against, to force high into the sky

And I? Am I to simply step aside and stand by

As you rip, tear and destroy everything that I hold dear

You don't realize the need they have to hold you near

Hold you and hope, that maybe you wont ruin it again

A basic hope, that again and again you rip and rend

Made useless, in that it has been torn and tattered 

The things they wished for you have since been shattered

And here I  stand, too mad to beg but too scared to look away

So I fall too my knees, throw my head down and pray

I beg God to intervene, to cross that divide that you created 

To brighten your heart, to defeat your thirst that cant be slated

To do whatever is needed, to take you from where you stand

Refusing help, scorning aid, turning away each extended hand

Because I don't know anymore, I have nothing left to say

I have no olive branches unburnt no hopes for the new day

Too many times have promises been broken, chances squandered

Too many times has the path been laid bare and you still wandered

So now I'll stand back, I wont pull you away from what you become

But never forget where you once called home, where you came from

A house of sainthood, of sinners trying to make some light 

In a world where darkness is stacked against all the right

And you succumbed, you fell and you let yourself be taken 

Shirk the blame create the guilt but it is still your faith that was shaken

You stepped away from the promising future the plans and power

And I remember when once I was wrong and i looked to you in that hour
And you were good you reminded me of proper dos and don'ts

So maybe you'll return to that  man you were or maybe you wont

This is the first time I've done a poem this way, I kinda just let go of some things I had been holding onto and this is how it turned out, I know it's a little rough but bear with me.

God Bless,

Ammon

The Nature of Expectations

At the start, they're good things

A recognition

A commendation

One likes the start of them 

But at that point they're rare

An instance of going above

And beyond

The thirst for appreciation 

Drives one to exceed expectations

Again and Again

Until one is no longer complimented

Thus the extra work falls by the wayside

Now there is disappointment

Why has the good work stopped?

Extra work piles on

Now more good things are needed

To be recognized

To be commended

Hands Talk

Our hands define us
Not in that they shape destiny
Nor in that they foretell the future
But in that they record the past
Scars, callouses stories of a life
I scratched at what hands meant
In The Process of Existence
When I feel hands as a general rule
I look for things, callouses of course
But also a strong grip tells stories
If a person has something to prove
They'll clench your hand like a vice
If they're personable they'll be firm
Weak handshakes burn me especially
You're meeting a person, that's important
It's an opportunity for you to connect
And weakness is what you show?
Ridiculous. Simply ridiculous.
Knuckles talk too
Rough knuckles are angry
Soft knuckles are more calm
Nails are also a tell
Dirty nails mean a worker or a slob
Blunted, chipped, nails probably a worker
Long creepy nails with scum? slob
Clean nails mean lazy or clean freak
Short manicured probably clean
Long or chewed on lazy bum
I'm just saying hands reveal things
So I always look at hands
Maybe you should too

Bitter Night

New fear born of rage born of wrong
Animosity blooms as shadows grow long
And in the time of stars and stolen light
Jealousy burns and anger blurs the sight

My First Villanelle

Hugging tightly closely fitting 
Sparkling shining like a bright suns rays 
Swaying bowing slowly spinning 

Now our dance is just beginning 
Can you see her bright eyes blaze? 
Hugging tightly closely fitting 

Hear the piano lightly playing 
The dance continues in a daze 
Swaying bowing slowly spinning 

Hushed voices softly singing 
Surrounding us in an opaque haze 
Hugging tightly closely fitting 

Eyes shining tears falling 
No escape from her stunning gaze 
Swaying, bowing,slowly spinning 

See now the dance is ending 
We are alone for this final phase 
Hugging tightly, closely fitting 
Swaying bowing slowly spinning 

poster's note: I never came up with a title for this piece, it's from my freshman year feel free to offer titles if you feel so inclined.

Why Must I Fall Again?

Why must I fall again?

Why must my core be so vulnerable?

Why must every look she gives me

Be so redolent of pain

Of sorrow

Of chances lost

The deep pit of hellish emotion

Cannot be negotiated by youths

with hearts unblemished

novices of treading loves

murky waters

This stark realization bludgeons my senses

As I try deliriously to find my soul mate

Such a visceral experience, unique

In power In rapidity 

In foolishness I am the blundering jester

Traipsing around the world in search of love

In search of companionship

In search of a healing heart that will alleviate the pain

All the scarring turmoil

I have ever felt

and that will be in need of me as well 

poster's note: this was originally written by rots28, he sent it to me and i made some suggestions he thought i changed enough that it was co-written

The Process of Existence

a hand brushed my arm and i looked up
the palm had the callouses of work
but had not yet attained that sandstone quality
that characterized the hands of working men
my eyes wandered over a not so young face
pioneer facial hair colonized baby cheeks

he wasn't a man yet but he was growing up fast

burlesque knuckles stood out on coarse haired hands
a smoke graveled voice spouted harsh swears
skin hardened from years of industrial labor
eyes glazed over with cynicism born of experience
a limp that told of athletic days long passed
bitterness emanated from pores creating a cloud of regret

he wasn't old yet but he was ageing fast

an aged arm reached up and grabbed my wrist
arthritis riddled fingers held me like a vice
skin faded from age clung to his skull
parchment flesh, marked with the stories of life
liver spots and scars, wrinkles and crinkles
a testament to a well worn existence reaching its conclusion

he wasn't a corpse yet but he was dying fast

Attempted Introspection

Feeble thoughts float across my mind
Tedious incorporeal theses linger
Teetering on edges, until attention shifts
And  ideas, symbols, hopes get left behind

I yearn for contemplative brevity
Complex analysis of intrinsic concepts
Overlapping confusion kills concision
And so surfaces a facade of cool levity

Impractical plans incoherent inquietude
These things rule within my cerebral cortex
Below the rabble and arguments of my conscious
Pragmatic practicality rises over useless platitude

Climbing the Stairs

Click, Crack, Pop
This is the language of my body
Contract, Groan, Release
This is what my body knows

The muscles tighten, the leg rises
Bones slide and joints bend
Tension is released the foot falls
Click, Crack, Pop

Rough sole meets step
The pressure returns to the thigh
Tendons tug and pull straightening the leg
Contract, Groan, Release

One step conquered,
A stairway to go.

You know when you lean too far back in a chair,
And you almost fall and it gives you a scare?
Well, that's how I feel when I look at you

The Time Before Complacency

Whatever happened to youthful idealism?

When was it replaced with cynical “realism”?

I yearn for the days of sit-ins and walk outs

The days when we could actually bring change about

Is it so wrong that what they try to sell me, I won’t buy?

That I don’t believe it when they play politics and lie?

I want some personal change, not the Obama kind

I want a revolution, an overwhelming movement of mind

A progression from the societal glorification of slaughter

That separates father from mother and precious daughter

To a righteous world in which peace begets peace

And this senseless violence and death might finally cease

I can't pledge to a worldly state but I can pledge to something more

I pledge allegiance to God, 

The almighty ruler of heaven and earth 

And to the people whom he created

One covenant, in His name

With mercy and redemption for all

Be Real With God

It's alright to be mad at God, because you get mad in real relationships. It's alright to question God, because being human means we don't have all the answers. But it's only alright to be mad and to ask questions if you are prepared for his answer, because in a real relationship, where you don't know everything, you've got to listen.

When the tide recedes
And the world proceeds,
Who will comfort you then?

Embracing an Exit

Phosphorescent flashes fly across the fading sky   

While all my fears and failures fall from my eyes

And amidst the tedious ties, tithes and highs

I began to sort out stout truth from doubt and lies  

The piercing pain presided in my chest

Welling up and washing over wiping out the rest

And despite hung hopes and hefty hearts

I knew that we as a pair had played our final parts

But your loving lachrymose lingering lips  

Forever perched upon a teetering precipice

Moved maddeningly throughout my mulish mind

Baleful and beautiful an unbreakable bind

In the nebulous nothingness the necrotic thoughts soar

And while you focus on the petals I remember the nettles more

And while your juvenile jugular beats a jiving jungle rhythm

I sing a soulful ode opposed to your sensationalism  

Tell-tale trembles release truths that tumble to the floor

Where they ramble then run on until building into a roar

Meanwhile each malevolent word maintains a malignant meaning

Demeaning and demanding and detrimental to my being

Finally without word or whisper I walk out

Holding strong against the resounding shout

I make my escape fleeing at an insane rate a burning thirst to slate

Furiously and fantastically free I leave to find my fate

Burning Out

A conflagration of life erupted from the wound
The shooter stared, eyes absent of their previously indignant fire
Blinded by the bullet that had in an infinitesimal moment connected the two
With a heavy lead bond, tethering him permanently to the sight

The steaming crimson release sang with an eloquent quietude
Of the ever tenuous grip on life, murderously and abruptly broken
The final luminous sparks indicative of the souls presence leapt from the hole
Burning their way into mudded irises, cauterizing pupils

The guttering glow faded from the sacred hearth and limbs turned to ash
As molten life seeped out of previously bustling vessels
Charring grass, coating in soot the impromptu tomb
And smoke rose up beckoning the shooter to quiet his furnace

Tongues of guilt sprung up to lick his eyes and consume his purity
And in the inferno of right and wrong, anger and action, life and death
A quintessential flame was extinguished and a light went out
The once rosy blush that illuminated his pale skins receded
And by either karmic cosmic justice or perverse regret
His world was reduced to cinders