Birds of Paradise

 

Forged in the vast chasm of Kīlauea,

The blood of the Earth.

Pele's fiery angst, dashed upon

An inexorable Pacific chill.

Perfection in chaos.

Life born through death;

Verdant resurrection

On these molten wings.

The sword is removed; the garden is broken

Once more by God's own image,

Casually defiling divinity;

Through crimes of good intention.

Eden's lament echoes

Through Hawaiian valleys,

Warbling in extinct songs.

Ghosts of the birds of paradise.

Vacant Days

Let the air come fill your lungs

Words once scrawled, now be sung.

There can be no better way

To try and fill these vacant days

Precious metal, yet be wrought

With gleaming gems, light we've caught

Let whatever be displayed;

They cannot fill your vacant days.

Farmers call or curse the sun

Whether storm, or loaded gun

What'er your trouble, be not dismayed

It cannot fill these vacant days.

Time shall flow; words shall pass.

Kiss of death like broken glass.

When the Lord comes and stays

I know he'll fill these vacant days.

Mariana

Being grand in loneliness

No embrace in darkness

under such pressure

can highest heights 

match that depth

some were made

to be alone.

Mercenary Love

Flamethrower mouth
Lash your scorching, searing tongue
Leave the burned out towers
As tombstone to this mercenary man

Familiar

Stronger.

    The infant crying,

         first exhale of 

            new rain upon parched earth.

    Pulse gaining speed;

        the first thought when awoken from dreams.

    Sails bursting forth

        with God's breath 

           across endless seas.

Fonder.

    Fire blazing, 

        brazen along unknown horizon

    Igniting the courageous mind.

    Inhaling familiar scents

        through upturned nose, 

            with uplifted breast.

Deeper.
    Fathoming anew the oceans 

        as mysterious and briny
            as the Sun's dark memory on the skin.
    Beholding the promised land, 

        always before you

            clearer now than the grave.

Weaker.

    The perfected

        first wobbly-steps upon storied shores.

    Earth trod underfoot, 

        pliant as this clay-molded purpose.

        Still unclear, yet very dear,

            Listening to the voice;

                The tide, a rhythmic siren song.

.............
..................
.............