Justification of Cain

"But towards Cain and his offering he showed no pleasure." - Genesis 4:5

With fruits
of labored soil
his pleasure has expressed
what ground he toiled with diligence
and hope.

Hoping
all his offers
with pleasure will express
his thoughtfulness and loyalty
he owes.

But no!
Towards his gifts
no pleasure is expressed!
You lust for flesh and disregard
his herbs?

Is his
not earth You own?
No pleasure You expressed
stirs anger and not envy. It's
not fair!

Fear not
he lusts for flesh;
pleasure need not express
what Bias slain is what he never
keeps.

-------------

Author's Note:

Inspired by this Bible verse: "But towards Cain and his offering he showed no pleasure." - Genesis 4:5

This is a Cinq-cinquain. Although the last cinquain has an anomaly.

A Quote from Francis Ford Coppola

I got a back issue of this magazine last night, and I can't stop enjoying the read. It's an old but decent copy of All-Story's Cinema Issue of Winter 2003. I love it. The magazine is supposedly linked with the Coppola's empire of film and writing. Well, i got this quote which I really liked:

"And if you desire to write yourself, I can suggest a basic exercise that will help, if you do it every morning: Apply the seat of your pants to the seat of your chair."

-Francis Ford Coppola

Escaping His Ill Fate

His body hanging, swaying,
held by a tight rope around his neck
and by parlous woe
of gore - animosity!
He's to daydream, witness
a redemptive pact with his Devil.

Held by a tight rope around his neck
like an addler wrangling
his nape, his throat, his existence!
Dragging his soul to hell
with anguine diablerie,
a venomous Lothario!

And by parlous woe,
Oh, such star-crossed hell!
He grieves of the ugly
fate he is suffering
from, an eyesore peck
of troubled tenses.

Of gore - animosity!
Acrid schemes they do,
Those bunnysons, heck!
Do they treat him well,
like how they treat a weakling
without a single pence.

He's to daydream, witness
castles of Spain and fantasy.
Redundant wants but still he's dreaming
to escape ill-fated brow.
So his soul he has to sell
And pay whatever price it'll take.

A redemptive pact with his Devil
will set him free from rudery.
Faith? Blood? Life? What do you seek?
He asks the Devil's dens.
Heaven is a place of rue,
for it he died tricked and wanting.
His body hanging, swaying.

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Author's Note:
This is written as a threnody, in expanded lilibonelle form using a modified sestina rhyme scheme.

Bleed

Bleed,
let go of your anger
let go of your monsters
let go of yourself.

Bleed,
from a deep cut
from misery
from anxiety.

Bleed,
like you have to
like you want to
like you care.

Bleed,
for in your blood
resides the filthy
horrors you must free.

Bleed,
for in your blood
trickles the woe
of dreams unfulfilled.

Bleed,
for in your blood
their screams are heard,
redemption they seek.

Bleed,
let go of your anger
let go of your monsters
let go of yourself.

Bleed,
from a deep cut
from misery
from anxiety.

Bleed,
like you have to
like you want to
like you care.

-------------
Author's Note:
This is a repost from Allpoetry.com, originally posted March 18, 2005.

Thirteen Nights, Thirteen Tankas

I.

creature
of the night,
wake up!
have you no
god to fear?

II.

restless
souls wander
his paths
of nether
together.

III.

he rides
like legends
tell of
a man on
dead horses.

IV.

with him
visiting
all night,
persuading
to wake me.

V.

pass through
the borders;
cross the
darksome land
of his Nod.

VI.

silence,
dear witness,
while he's
taking me
where god sleeps.

VII.

his eyes,
tightly closed;
his breath,
falling fast:
orgasm.

VIII.

we fly
on his wings
i hold
black bold keys
to his joys.

IX.

i will
doze to his
point of
no return
and no hope.

X.

an eye
is watching
you leave
with all my
bloody tears.

XI.

cold winds,
dark dead skies
tell me
that he's gone
back to hell.

XII.

nightmares
bring him here
without
sight or sound
only fear.

XIII.

at peace
of slumber
he dreams
of heaven
being burned.

Author's Note:
These tankas are in English form (2,3,2,3,3).. and they are all written separately.. It is not necessary that the tankas above talk of a single and common subject. They are independent of each other..;-)

Erik: An Ephrastik

He's
ghastly,
horribly
legendary.
Hid for many years
by mask and monstrous lair,
he stirs a voice within her,
wondrous, angelic, but sad bird
she must fly with fellow sparrow,
leave him wanting death, his lonesome piano.

**Erik is the name of the Phantom of the Opera. This piece is therefore based on that musical (and the movies). I was inspired by Mr. Greenleaf's own ekphrastic on the same legend.

**An ekphrastic is a poem taking "as its theme a particular piece of visual art of any genre, virtually representing through poetic description something originally represented visually." - Sol Magazine

**This piece is in the form of Etheree, it consists of ten lines of unmetered and unrhymed (hey those rhymes are accidental) verse, the first line having one syllable, each succeeding line adding a syllable, with the total syllable count being fifty-five.

The Page Cannot Be Displayed

God, I'm infected. My PC's slowing down because of some pesky bug.


An illness creeps,
discreetly seethes
with stealth and spies
and hacking lies.

Worms that wriggle,
bugs that fester,
eat it for a
rotten mission:

Annihilate
a terminal
with evil pure
downloadable!

To steal some cash
with mastered code
and maggots load,
now system crash.

The kernel's fried
like horses tied
to electric,
malicious post.

No page displayed,
its piece be-holed.
Fault invalid,
Sickness, behold!

Successful crap
and all messed up;
Thieves up your head
feast on, braindead.

Queen Vashti's Will

"And let the maiden which pleaseth the king be queen instead of Vashti.
And the thing pleased the king, and he did so."
-Esther 2:4

She will be truncated.

Decapitated,
and amputated.

Impeached,
and dethroned.

For her visage
is a deception,

her digits,
thieves.

Her royalty's
a hoax,

and her crown
is mine.

For Three Poetesses

FOR KAREN

behold my arm
I reach out to you
callused it may be
bleeding it may seem
I offer it to redeem
you from make-believe
and immerse you
down, abyss
for them but bliss
for us


FOR GALE

with much angst and pride
you rock your side of world
so how could I ever forget
such sweet dark thoughts
of a life-bitcher like I am?
oh hear me,
let me explore his mouth
with my pierced tongue.
I will please him
like I do you.
let me love him,
suck him,
like you want me to.
love evil,
suck evil,
the way I want to.


FOR GELEEN

what is that light I see?
though faint I'm sure
that it is there.

what beauty and misery
could I ever
compare to thee?

what joy it has caused
to me as if
it is joy itself.

what pain that cure
has tried to
take away.

Magdalen and Me

I.

Passionate about passion
Craving for her presence
Reminiscing every minute
Loving all of it!

II.

Gently
she kisses him
but with so much passion

Electrifying
her kiss starts an
impulse that runs through

His body
so pefect she's kissing it
and licking it good

Real good
that every damn thing
fades.

III.

Last night I dreamed
of us
A veiled woman called Magdalen
and me
Making love passionately
so hot
Our perspires and oils
bathe us
Lubricating our bodies
and our souls
For that climax we always
seem to want.

Your Mystery

Your voice haunts me
keeps me awake
on witching hours

Your eyes scare me
show me a world
I've never been to

Your joy confuses me
belittles my pain
and passion

Your love surprises me
brings me back
to where I used to be

Scream

In every SCREAM

I SCREAM

(though not as audible)

I want to rid
the PAIN
to

SCREAM it back
to you.

it's in the hands

my hands often crave to write
but it isn't the writer's itch
nor the poet's delight
they just want to scribble words of thought.

as ink spills, my tears fall;
emotions become words and words emotions.
and if to cry out loud fails
then to shout through my pen should work.

everything my hands do bring me nearer my grave
and indeed my feet carry me to different places,
yet no farfetch'd journey there is
than to write a thousand words.

the hands write
and the heart speaks;
but what is in the hands that make it
the perpetuator of my sorrows and dreams?

Insomniac's Wish

In a blink of an eye
things start to blur,
out of focus
but a deja vu.

Fog on confusion
for a dream wide awake,
yet another reason
to close the eyes.

A long lost feeling.
Such a feeling seems
too foreign
but altogether familiar.

Addictive and loathesome,
vague but bold.
Emotional irony in its superlative,
an insomniac's wish.

The Road Less Traveled

This road is less traveled,
perhaps not taken at all.
It is brutally lonely,
and frightening, too!

But hell am I walking it,
gravely but bravely.
I don't know where it leads me,
doesn't that make me a hero?

For I might not be Alexander
nor Miguel Villalobos.
Never a Napoleon,
in my dreams an Adolf!

Yet I can be my own hajj,
a silent dark crusade.
With my pen and my matter,
I can be the next gold conquest.

But I've yet to complete this mile,
conquer its monsters and their howls.
Walk through this deadly path,
and keep myself alive.