Never Everending (Poetry - Non-rhyming)

You have such vitality,
Such ruthless cheer, such joyous pain.
Your clothing, like minarets on battlements,
A defense that invites me in.
Your smile, so open in its guardedness,
Tells less than it asks, and I wonder:
Is love an imposition, or a duty?
Never is such a long time,
To wait…
And when it happens, I’ll know,
That the wait will never end.
(that word again…)
And I see you – and;
…I see you.
And never isn’t too long.
Your defenses toy with me,
But minarets, though pretty, are yet stone.
I take no joy in your pain,
(I sometimes cheer at your ruthlessness)
And you have such vitality;
But darling; never is such a long time,
To wait…

Dum Vivimus Vivamus (Poetry - Rhyming)

Must we be haunted by choices?
Must we lose all that is good?
Must we forever remember,
Two roads diverged in a wood?

Why does the past so beset us?
Why does this farce still go on?
Why do we still feel the pain,
When the people and problems are gone?

Are we all cursed at our birthing?
Are we commanded to pay?
Are we then doomed to reliving,
One second? One hour? One day?

Never this fate will I suffer!
Never live life all afraid,
Never the taxes of ‘might have’
But rather the dues I have paid

And sometimes my course will show profit
And sometimes (more likely) ‘twill not
And sometimes I’ll do well to hang on
To the few meager memories I’ve got

But I will live life in the moment
And give it all I have to give
And keep in my mind always foremost
That while I’m alive, let me Live!

Ballad of the Warrior-Poets (Poetry - Rhyming)

I am a Warrior-Poet
Of a breed that’s almost gone
So settle back and listen close
As I sing to you my song

I believe in keeping promises
I believe in living free
I believe in things like honor
And the powers I can’t see

I believe that love is powerful
And if true will always win
I believe that magic rules the world
And religion is a sin

I believe that there is purpose
To all I’ve said and done
I believe that common courtesy
Is due to everyone

Sometimes I walk a lonely road
Believing what I do
But I’m a Warrior-Poet
And my spirit keeps me true

And now and then as I go on
I find a kindred light
And together our souls blaze afire
To wash away the night

We are the Warrior-Poets
Of a breed that’s almost gone
So settle back and listen close
As we sing to you our song

Sometimes we walk a lonely road
Believing what we do
But we’re the Warrior-Poets
And our spirits keep us true.

A Better Man than I (Poetry - Rhyming)

I’ll be never once a craven
I’ll be never twice a fool
I will keep my temper and my word
And always keep my cool

I may yet live a hundred years
Or more before I die
But every day I’ll strive to be
A better man than I

I pledge that I will think before
I let my anger grow
And always purr before I roar
And always let them know

I’ll keep my furies bound
And my muses running free
I’ll keep on trying to become
A better man than me

I’ll ignore an insult given
And give back a smile instead
I will drown my foes in mercy
And with kindness strike them dead

For I have made mistakes before
Of aim and judgment too
And I may make a thousand more
Before my life is through

But I will take the straighter path
I’ll walk it till I die
And every day I’ll try to be
A better man than I.

How Many Like Me? (Poetry - Non-rhyming)

How many like me have come before, and why I ask I do not know
I am myself, and strong at that, but still these questions dog my thoughts.
How many like me I ask myself, that walked this land and left their tracks,
and might I find if I did look their footprints staring back at me.

How many like me have come before, and left their mark in history?
And can I measure up to them, or are there none like me, but me?
Why do I think the way I do, where have I gone to reach this place,
what does it take to become me; is it a process others took?

You and I are not alike, I know this? Or perhaps I think;
and if we are, should we two meet, or hide ourselves until we part?
If we should find ourselves the same, would we two be the ones we are,
how many like us would we see pass if we should take the time to look?

If I should find me walking by, and look upon and know myself,
would this enlighten or despair, or produce results I cannot guess?
Can I survive another me, an ‘I’ I’ve never seen or heard,
And could this me survive myself? Can I make choices based on that?

How many like me have come before, and reached this point and thought these thoughts?
How many have sat in quietude, with roiling thunder deep inside,
When lightning crashes do they see, in distant light and noise and heat?
Or is it only fantasy, inside my head like so much else?

How many like me have writ these words, have cried these tears and known not why,
have spent their lives just ‘looking in’ to lives they cannot understand?
How many like me have sent their hopes, winging toward some future I,
In desperation wishing that, some day a me will make it clear?

These words are only messages, sent towards a one I’ll never know,
Who waits and wonders wordlessly, of things unclear to even them.
And if it’s you I send it to, take heart for you are not alone,
An ‘I’ is here, for you to meet, though we may never touch or speak.

You aren’t the first, I’d say to you, if only you could hear my words,
Take comfort, though the road is hard, because our tracks will guide you on,
How many we’ve been I do not know, but in my time the tracks were deep,
And when we reach the end then I; and you, and us, and we- will meet.

No Rest for the Wicked (Poetry - Song Lyrics)

There’s no rest for the wicked
There’s no grave for the last to fall
I fight my battles willingly, but
I cannot win them all

I see the tyrants standing
I hear their evil spell
And I pick up my weapons
To send them straight to hell

There will be no grave for me,
No one will mourn my fall
But I will fight the good fights
And try to win them all

No rest for the wicked
And there will be no rest for me
I fight my battles willingly
Even the ones no one will see

In the future I will stand
Against the ones who rule
And I will fight until I drop
I am nobody’s tool.

And when I die my corpse will stay
Upon the field where I fall
Surrounded by my enemies
For I will kill them all

There’s no rest for the wicked
And this is my atonement
When I die I’ll go straight to hell
But I will follow the ones I’ve sent

No rest for the wicked
No grave for the last to fall
I fight my battles willingly, but
I will not win them all

Flashback part 5 (Pulp 12)

When I walked back into the Hotel Marrones, the Wide Man was gone. Just my luck. I could hear the sirens that told me some helpful joe had called the five-oh. It was obvious there was nothing to be done for the waitress, she wasn’t even bleeding anymore, and the pool around her had spread to cover maybe ten square feet of floor.
I bellied up to the bar and reached over for the well whiskey. There was an empty tumbler still on a nearby table; I grabbed it and sniffed. Rye. Close enough. I filled it with whiskey and threw it back in a smooth motion. It burned like a good round of free weights, but with less work and more satisfaction. I waited for the cops.
The sirens drew closer, but then receded. I paused in pouring myself another shot. What could draw more attention than a shootout in a bar?
I left the bar and headed towards the flashing lights in the distance.

When I reached the source of the lights and sirens I was in front of a large white structure that reeked of money about to be taken in. It had nattily attired parking attendants out front, currently being interviewed by dusty street cops, and the façade was all marble and brass.
Across the face it said ‘Concord Inn’ in big gothic letters. My heart gave a little flirt when I saw it, like someone heavy had stepped on my grave. I stopped and took a second to shake the jitters out. Coincidence? I didn’t buy the stuff.
The cops hassled me a little when I went over, but their hearts weren’t in it, and they waved me through when I showed ‘em my license. I was surprised, they usually weren’t so nice to private dicks, but they seemed spooked by something.
Just inside the lobby was a beat cop throwing up on a potted fern in the corner. This was officially a bad sign. Beat cops are not weak of stomach. For a second I thought he might be a new guy, but then I spotted the sergeants stripes. Very bad. I steeled myself and walked on by.
I’m not sure what I expected, but I know that I was unprepared for what I found. It looked like a meat grinder had exploded all over the inside of one of the elevators, halfway through grinding up a full-grown horse. Except that all the recognizable parts weren’t horse. There was gore on the floor, walls, and (I looked up to check) the roof of the car. There was one pale-looking detective standing outside the door, his shoulders shaking a little. The other cops in the hallway were studiously looking away from the scene. When I walked up to the pale detective I made sure my boot heels clicked on the marble floor. This was not a time to startle someone. He turned around with a relieved look which quickly hardened when he saw I wasn’t on the force.
“What are you doing here?” the words came out clipped and terse, like he was going for tough, but it more sounded like he was trying not to retch. Which was probably true.
“Peace, officer. I’m a private eye. I’m working on a case nearby and I came to see if I could help.” I offered my hand, but he ignored it and kept staring me in the eyes, so I dropped it.
“We don’t need any help, thanks, and what case?” He seemed to be relaxing a little, but was obviously working up to throwing me out.
Some instinct prodded me, and I lied. “Looking into a man named Magoffin’s gambling debts, nothing to do with this. I’ll be going now, if you’re all set.”
I could see the realization spark in his eyes that if I left he would have to go back to looking at the scene, and he reflexively reached out a hand, but I turned and walked off. As I got to the sergeant he was lurching into a bathroom and I quickly slipped behind the reception desk and into a housekeeping door.
It was no work at all to get up to the fifth floor, where Angela St. Ives once had lived. However, it was going to be more of a trick to get past the cops on guard outside her door. That sinking feeling was back. I didn’t know how, but I was going to eat one of the Concord Inn’s fluffy white bathrobes if the scene in that room did not exactly match one I had in my possession…