Words of a Father

I could answer your many questions, still you would have no knowledge.

They are my answers and don’t belong to you.

I could tell you all the rules of honor, and you would not live honorably.

Honor can only be earned and cannot be given.

I could speak of Gods and teach you the words of my prayers, yet you would have no religion.

Those prayers are sacred only in my mouth.

I could tell you what love is, and you would not know it.

You must see it in me before you can.



The Alchemist, turn lead to gold?

You did not hear, what You were told.

False history it is, that You were taught.

The Alchemist, cannot be bought!

You offer nothing He desires.

Fail to grasp where He aspires.

Perhaps by way of explanation,

we’ll examine definition.

The prefix ‘Al’ denotes divine,

‘Chemist’ the student of properties of.

The reactions when such are combined,

lies foremost always in His mind.

His lab resides in His inside,

His tools are those of a disciplined mind.

Seeking no material gain,

it’s a purer Self to be attained.

Let this poem stand as lesson then,

to those few who would attend.

The Alchemist’s work was never in doubt,

for as it is within, so it is without.


A mage

and One who isn’t so,

the only difference

what each knows,

No genetic heredity

gives birth the Mage’s ability,

while passing by

Her mundane Sister,

It’s a skill

that can be learned,

a Mage’s power

must be earned,

The mystery schools,

of long ago

taught each apprentice,

this was so

this lesson must be,

carefully sown

lest the knowledge thought,

to be theirs alone

The key to any,

mystic door

lies within,

the reach of all

This truth of course,

was always known

for as it is above,

so it is below.

Inner Demon’s secret

Each demon within,

capering insanely,

howling wildly,

fanged and frothing,

jealously guards a secret,

It is loathe to share.

Hissing, venom-spitting,


coiling about,

a knowledge,

It maniacally works,

to keep in shadow.

Red eyes glare,

a promise of suffering,

raw and ruinous,

at impertinent approach.

Talons clawing deeply,

into It’s bottomless sack,

brimming with illusions,

unimagined horrors.

What impetus compels,

unmitigated madness,

wholly un-tempered?

What skeletal key,

nightmare drenched,

drives it unbound?

A chink along It’s midnight armor,

alike in each,

of It’s malign ilk.

It exists solely,

tethered to the hate,

nurtured in a human heart.

Night Forest

Barefoot in the night forest

cool moonlight rays

unveil a face hidden in the day,

No more malign

than the one shown in the bright sun

only less known,

Spectral eyes in the lantern’s glow

belonging to the unseen

whitetail doe,

Ancient lore sets loose

witches, trolls, and goblins

here where there are none,

A place of secrets

but secret only

by choosing not to know,


The best poems are never written,

they pass in sacred silence

No stanza captures,

a winter sunrise over a snow-draped pine forest

No meter equals,

the joy found in a first kiss

No style matches,

the sadness of losing a beloved friend

No alliteration belongs,

to the sore muscles and satisfaction of a good day’s work

No such license,

was ever granted a Poet


I see so many people burdened by such vast confusion today.

Suffering from a discontent they don’t understand.

Chasing dreams they never wanted to begin with.

Empty smiles for hollow, meaningless victories.

Deep in their hearts they know that they labor to build an empire of nothing.

Though they cannot admit it to themselves.

Desperately seeking solace in complex technologies where there is none to be found.

What a sad thing it is to make a living and not a life.