A (wise) man of two faces
Musings, commentary, and the occasional parade of novelty.

Updates Monday - Friday

Tough Love

Love is complex
it’s rarely simple;
it’s more than a reflex
to a flattering dimple.

It’s not a science,
no matter what they say.
When they’d predict compliance,
their subjects gainsay.

It is a feeling,
but that word falls short
of how love leaves you reeling
from its fierce retorts.

Perhaps love is a force:
unstoppable, immovable, and without remorse.

Wearied weather

Searching the sky,
looking for clues,
and wondering why
no one answers you.

You scream and you shout
but the clouds just don’t care;
they flutter about
and give bored gray stares.

So you turn away,
and retreat inside,
perhaps to pray,
or perhaps to hide.

But your problems don’t wait at the door,
they follow you in to trouble you more.

Parched Pathos

I hate the color of your skin
and the contours of your face.
My God calls them a sin
and my pride, a disgrace.

You murdered my brother;
you’ll reap the whirlwinds.
I’ll take away your father,
your family, and friends.

I’ll find those you hold dear
and set them all ablaze
and the last thing they will heard
is me laughing through the haze.

And finally, for my own mirth,
I’ll even salt the very earth.

A memory of melody

I feel as though
I don’t belong
for long ago
I lost the song.

I used to hear
it blow through my soul;
I held it dear
and now there’s a hole.

The silence bears down
with the weight of an age
and I’m starting to drown
in the pain and the rage.

And now I’ve paid a heavy cost
in scars searching for salvation lost.


In the heart of the night
when things seem most stark,
don’t give up the fight,
and face down the dark.

I know you feel weak,
like you’ve already lost,
but standing there meek
carries too great a cost.

Courage doesn’t stand
in the absence of fear;
it’s what you hold in your hand
when your terrors are near.

So stand at the ready, prepared for war
and give all your nightmares a proper what for.

A Royal affair

The old king was a tyrant
who played the game of war
and those who weren’t compliant
he would show what for.

The queen played games as well
not war, but of the heart
which, at a glace, seemed less fell
but were plagued by false starts.

The jester played the crowd
with pomp and pageantry
and told his stories proud and loud
and playful pandemony.

But when the lights went out, instead
the jester played games in the royal bed.

Poignant profile

I’m different from the pack -
I stand on the outside.
Always on guard for an attack,
always prepared to hide.

Is it so hard to just accept
and love me as I am?
Why do you feel you must reject
and hurt me once again?

I cannot change my ways -
it would be a lie
though honestly some days
I’m tempted to try.

So I’ll stand proudly, full of grace,
while tears are trailing down my face.

Off the beaten path

Please save me a kind word -
it’s been one of those days
where I still haven’t heard
a single word of praise.

Would it really be a trial
to stop by with coffee
or to linger a while
while sipping your tea?

Share with me a moment
of companionship
that would make me less lament
this day of utter shit.

For it’s in small gestures that I find
peace of spirit and of mind.

The pitter-patter of little feet in combat boots

Ten little soldier toes
are marching along.
All lined up in rows
singing a song.

The pinkies are the infantry
and vow to stay the course.
The rings toes are the cavalry
perched astride their horse.

The middle are brave musketeers
with rifles at their side.
The index are chevaliers
brandishing their pride.

The big toes are the king and queen
though which is which cannot be gleaned.

A night for soup

I hear the pounding on the wall
which is surely being worn
by the fury of the squall,
by the raging of the storm.

I see falling torrents of rain
drifting o’er road and grass,
clinging to the window pane,
and tapping on the glass.

I can smell it in the breeze
through the opened window’s screen
carrying the scent of trees,
musty and yet somehow clean.

And I can feel it getting stronger
gearing up to last even longer.

At long last

I meet you by the door
and pin you ‘gainst the wall.
And when you can’t take any more
I drag you down the hall.

I tease you out of every thread
until your flesh is bare
and lay you down upon the bed,
atop a halo of your hair.

I discard my clothes
and draw up to your side
and watch the blushing rose
that you shyly try to hide.

And, at last, we begin
our long-awaited night of sin.


I listen for the song
every time that I go out.
I can’t help but sing along
and sometimes dance about.

I hear it in the breeze,
howling through the moors,
stirring up the trees,
and racing ‘long the shores.

I hear it on a sunny day
and more-so from the moon
in every golden, glowing ray
and each quiet, silver croon.

The voice of the world soul
out and about for a stroll.

Goodbye halcyon days

I had a picture in my head
of the man I wanted to be
but I’ve settled instead
on this fragile forgery.

I don’t know what transpired
that turned my dreams aside
or what forces conspired
to crush them ’til they died.

But I can feel the holes
where they used to dwell;
all the shining goals
before they burned out and fell.

Forcing me, at last, to part
with the me I carried in my heart.

Breaking bread

One day while walking down the street
I met a man who hung his head
down terribly low in defeat
without so much as a crust of bread.

I offered him some food
and sat down for a while
and knew that I’d done good
by his contented smile.

And as the time flew by
I listened to his story
and then he asked me why
I cared for his history.

"I stopped today and shared this meal
because I know how eating alone feels.”


I kneel before the Goddess
humbled in her sight.
And I come here to confess
my love for her tonight.

She makes the forest and the field,
the mountain and the hill;
makes me weak and makes me yield
yet provides me with my fill.

Underneath the moon
I listen to her song,
a sweet, shimmering tune
that makes me feel like I belong.

And it’s only because of her grace
I feel that I have found my place.