Stevens County Verses

Painted pony under shade of dry pine,
at the foot of the mountain in a meadow.

Blue backed barn swallows swoop into the rafters
of this barn that is older than I and my fathers.

Grendel the farm dog lies in pathways in the sun,
too old and tired to move for the children.

I strode the deer trail in midday,
until a buck and a doe scattered at my trespass.

‘These wildflowers,” I say, “what are they?”
Yet I grew amongst them, I never knew their name.

In the meadows of lilting wildrye,
the cattle and deer feast together amid dilapidated barns
and mysterious mounds of stone.

Side by side, white birch and pine
rise up in the forest.

These barbwire fences across acres and acres
though decrepit never seem to fall.

I saw the mighty river from a bend in the road
that I had never known was river view.

Waylon n' me

Pork Chop

I went outside
and lay on my back
on the hot patio
in the sun.
I lifted my arm over my eyes.
I felt everything around
and in me,
the wind, the birds,
the sky, the sun,
the anxiety, the woe,
the joy, the peace,
my blood one with the sun.
It was only when
I heard the sizzle
of the pork chop
in the cast iron skillet
over the songs of sparrow
and crow and jay
that I returned indoors.

Proverb

The clatter of dishes brings the dogs to the door.

Love and Not Destruction

Through the sagebrush Grandfather,
as a child I come to you.
When the earth is once again living,
when it moves and laughs and breathes,
I will walk with you.
Oh Grandfather,
when the earth is once more
more than just a cadaver,
I will commune with you.
I will lay beside the fire
this new living earth shall usher,
usher forth with love,
love and not destruction.

Uranium

Though June,
we still see snow in the mountains.
A spirit blanket to cover
the Spokane Tribe
that slowly dies of cancer
contracted from a Cold War gash
never fully sutured
seeping Uranium that poisons
the water, the wildlife, the fish,
the native chokeberries, bitterroot,
and the ceremonial white camas root.

Our Song

Everyone one has a song to sing
And in their own voice sing it.
Let us then be a choir of chords together,
For a blade of grass withers when cut,
Yet is a basket to fill when woven.

Where the Calves of Bison Lie

Amongst the xanthous balsamroot,
purple larkspur and shooting stars,
where the calves of bison lie,
the pronghorn mother beds and bears her children
beside the roads of man.
For the coyotes know the maker of the highways
is the maker of fire and death,
and they shy from killing the pronghorn fawns
for fear of maker's machine.

LXVIII. So Sang the Blood of the Fathers (Follows 'Poetic Fathers')

So sang the blood of the fathers,
as the jawbone it slipped from my hand,
And that jawbone of Balaam’s jackass
came to rest upon bloody red sand.
From blood and bone sprang a great dragon,
rearing his ugly death’s head,
Yet I saw that he was beautiful,
for I, his master, had nothing to dread.

LXXVII. Totem

Old blue crow atop
Yellow hydrant,
Thou art faded with age.
And yet you return,
My harbinger,
Every day in my front yard.

LXXVI. Poetic Fathers

When the time had come to
Raise up my poetic fathers in praise,
I, of youth and long mane,
Suffered grievously under the burden of their law.
And taking up the jawbone of a literary ass,
I slew my fathers every one in a bloodlust frenzy.
I clove Poppa Pound in two,
I decimated Whitman’s ranks of many sons,
I tore Blake and Shelley and Wordsworth asunder,
I hacked Auden and dismembered Jeffers,
I annihilated the Beatnik Philistines,
Even laid to rest my beloved Longfellow
In my blood red mist,
The Romantics, The Modernists,
The ways of old and new I slew.
As I surveyed the carnage about me,
Chest heaving and ears ringing,
I knew that which I had done.
I wept amongst the entrails and the blood,
For I was all alone.
I became manic, wild, a madman,
I fell upon the ground and cried out as
I strove so desperately to piece my fathers back together,
Matching bloody bits and pieces.
But alas, it was not to be, the damage was too great.
In despair at seeing the savage work of my hands,
I fell upon my sword.
As I slumped upon the ground,
My blood flowed forth and mingled
With the blood of my fathers,
And this blood cried out,
Electric, rushing, raging, singing:
“Rise up young man rise up!
Do you not know that to praise your fathers is idolatry,
And to slay them is to murder,
Yet to do both is human,
And to know it is divine!
So rise up young man rise up!
For you are no longer a son,
But now a father in this bloodletting!"

LXXV. Spring Illness

One of these years
I will finally succumb to these illnesses
that ail me, aye, but once a Spring.
In that day I will hear Jeffer’s Demon klaxon call me thrice,
And leave my psoriatic skin filled with strep and sin and vice,
And I will die,
Leaving my body to the earth
And the rest for God knows only
As the angels cry as the sailors:
‘Who shall have this!’
Over my soul and spirit and heart and mind.

LXXIV. May the Law of Moses

May the Law of Moses convict you
In that you may never uphold its weight,
Just as the Gospel of Jesus compels you
With the good news that you are a saint
When your stone tablets break.

LXIII. Technology

Technology
hath made apes of us all.

LXXII. April Morning

My beard bristles as the back of a boar,
As the boar, I come back for more
coffee,
Standing on the back porch in the spring sun,
My heart full of love and my head full of lead.

LXXI. Simon's Song

For Simon Rodia

To the unknown, indefatigable,
Stumbling toward some existent light,
I sing.

With your hands you have built towers,
Towers alone you smite.

Within the darkness thou hast labored,
Thou hast cast thy light.

To the man, the hammer, the chisel,
To the spires that they bring,
I sing.


But more so to a conquering spirit,
With which a man is give.

The spirit of self hewn horizons,
Horizons he sees and wills to live.

To the man, the spirit, and the hammer,
To the courage it brings,
I sing.

My Daddies, and My Daddy's Daddies

LXX. My Daddies, and My Daddy's Daddies

The black and white bodies
Of my forefathers prostrate upon the ground
In rigor mortis clutching
At their spirit leaving earth
Is no less sobering than the day they hit the dirt.
They with once shining eyes now dulled,
Their coarse beards caked with mud,
Their useless relics strewn amongst the grass.
These are my daddies, and my daddy’s daddies,
Now just black and white spirits
And the dirt beneath my feet.

LXIX. A Toast for Violet

For Violet Beatrice Mannan, on the occasion of her 5th birthday

May you rise up as the willow,
Beside the willow and the pine.
As I raised a glass the day of your birth,
So you shall when I die.

May you grow tall in the valley,
Amongst the flowers and the grass.
Ever smiling back to my smoldering fire,
As the days begin to pass.

May you wander down the rivers
With the sun upon your face.
And when the crows obscure the sun,
My smoke will lead the way.

LXVIII. Nakedness

There is a nakedness between us
That rends a great divide.
In this nakedness I hide.

Though our Father calls out to us
Our nakedness divides.
In this dark divide we hide.

For fear is simple and hope is toil-
Between them is a great divide.
Naked knowledge begs I hide.

LXVII. Hymn for Him

I kissed your bare neck as you wept
For the given up ghost of your brother.
His body was broken but his spirit was freed
To take wing o’er the face of the river.
His body was covered, though his face was unveiled
To take wing o’er the face of the river.
These lessons of death to the living so move
The Holy Spirit within as a river.

White Horse

LXVI. Golgotha Morning

Rifle hum heartbeat thrum
sunrise
through the crooked trees
rising up like Golgatha’s
crooked teeth.

LXV. Wise Men

Wise men, thou art wicked,
For in this thing you boast:
The knowledge of knowledge above all knowledge,
Forgetting the least is the most.

LXIV. Days Like This We Spent My Friend

The days like this we spent my friend,
Smoke spewing dragons in the sun,
And poems and lores and epics and tomes
That else never saw light of day.
Days like this we spent my poet,
Conjuring up our worlds
Like gargoyles upon a Gothic spire,
Taking a smoke break in the sun.

LXIII. Hawkfather

My Father appeared to me
In the form of a hawk
And spake unto me from
His throne of rock:

“My son, the time will come
When you must slay me
With your’n bare hands.
And when you have done this,
Take from my form a feather
To twine into your hair.
Then set me upon a pyre,
And let my smoke rise unto the heavens.”

Saying this, he alit to the sky once more.

And I wept, for I was all alone.

The Days of Pagan Thunder: Osceola

My man heart has been broken Great Father,
And I must pass away.
I did that which I felt in my heart,
And now I pass away.
Why my father hast thou left me?
I die all alone.
I lay my head to slumber forever,
But I am not out for long.

The Days of Pagan Thunder: Weyland

With iron great bands have I twisted
And wrought all that I’ve been given
Until all I’ve been given I’ve twisted
Into immeasurable shape.

With forcible sinew I’s twisted
And forced to beg what others’re given
Until all of my iron being twisted
I‘s given to violence and rape.

Woe is my iron now twisted!
Woe ‘to the urges I’ve given!
As the iron and my body lie twisted
So does my soul stand agape.

LXII. Swan

White swan rise above black sky,
Leaving the burning plains.
Fly you to your mother and sisters,
To your father up above.
As the land rises up in flames,
Take you to the sky.
For you do not belong here
In the blackness and the ruin.
You belong in Eden,
Or unfettered from the ark.
Across the face of the deep with your sisters,
Bearing all the winds,
To Cuchulainn in the south.

White swan leave the black land
To your lover up above.

LXI. Gun

The cloud sky was marbled,
The cumulous sinew of the angels descending.
The sun cut the gloom in shellshot scatter
As snow awkwardly straggled along.
The sky was black and blue and white,
Drapes ripped apart or rending.
The snow crawled out from under the sun,
And the sun hid itself again
The warcloud of the angels ascending,
The day I got my gun.

LX. They That Have Been Broken

They that have been broken
Are they that have been raised
For just as was with Lazarus
They have seen the night then day.

LIX. The Pitiful Snow

It tries to snow
As a wounded deer
Scrambling and scared
From the roadside.
Would that I could
Take mercy upon you,
Would that I could take mercy.

The pitiful snow breaks my heart.

Valkyrie

LVIII. Birdsong Sunrise

For Jenny Anne, my Valkyrie


I.
Birdsong sunrise,
over these hills unto mine eyes
like my Valkrie rises.
She rises as the sun, clothed in light,
yea, my Valkyrie arises.
With babes about her garlanded,
and swaddled to her breast,
as the sun she rises.
The birds, they sing as angels,
the birds they sing for she.
Like my sun she rises,
My Valkyrie to me.


II.

I have seen the blackness,
Yea, I have seen the crows.
Yet I have seen the valley
Where within my lover grows.

I have seen the valley,
The valley of Hamon Gog.
Therein lay the bodies
Littered by my wrongs.

Yet I have seen the sunrise
Lifting o’er the dark
And my lover astride a white horse
Bearing the Savior’s mark.

LVII. Flocks

As far up as the birds go,
They of a flock fly together.
Over the buildings and under the clouds
They of the same dark feather,
Regarding not the weather.


As high up as the Tower rose,
They of one flock smote it together.
Until the Lord uttered the words
Dividing flocks and feathers,
And they scattered hither and thither.

As high up as the tide goes
The flocks they stay together,
Perpetrating wrongs and rights
To others and one another,
The flocks of the fallen together.

LVI. Cold Night

Water frozen tendril trees,
Wind lines razor face,
My air bursting forth to gust, a warhorse nostril flaring.

Orion a sparkling jewel,
Winking salacious at Selene,
She pulls aside her black cloak and light beknights her bosom.

Chief Joseph

LV. They Brake Upon Us

Spears brake upon the shields
As waves buck upon the stone.
Glittering shining shards and slivers
Splinter as yellowed bone.

They thrust a wave upon us,
Then another do they roll,
But they, they brake upon us,
Their spirits rattled with the toll.

Beards bespittled we besmirch them
To try their luck once more,
And once more they brake upon us
As the waves upon the shore.

They thrust a wave upon us,
Then another do they throw,
But they, they brake upon us,
And within our fire grows.

Let your spears come hither!
Throw at us what ye will!
Ever shall we slight you,
Safe our Keep upon the hill!

They thrust a wave upon us,
Then another rolls in gold,
But they, they brake upon us,
As the wheat falls to the stone.

LIV. I Will Lead My People Home

Great Father up above me,
help me lead my people home.
Wrapped in the wools of our fathers, I will lead them home.
From the clan of Mannanan, to the confederacy of the Iroquois, to the Norse, the Gaelic,the Saxon, the Cherokee, the crow and the hawk, the battle axe and tomahawk,
I will lead us home.

I turn to see my Norse goddess wrapped in the wools of my people,
stripes of my clan and lines of my tribe about her.
Crow feathers in her hair,
her eyes cerulean and her countenance Valkyrian,
she smiles as I lead her home.
I look upon my children, they of my tribe ascending,
for them I go on,
they laugh up at me as I lead them home.

Now in the silence,
they aslumber in the wake of the fire,
Great Father up above me,
I ask of you,
help me lead my people home.

LIII. That Which is Written Upon my Heart

I speak not that which appeals to the righteous,
Nor that which appeals to the humanist,
But I speak that which is written upon my heart.

LII. Fire

The edge of the mountains rips the sky
And the sky bleeds fire.

The air crackles with cold and burns the lungs
Burns the lungs like fire.

The dragons encircle the earth in a ring
Within a ring of fire.

The humans lose faith and feast on flesh
Under a halo of fire.

God looks on and trembles not
For He created fire.

Jed's Place (The Kingdom of Middle Tennessee)

LI. The Kingdom of Middle Tennessee

Hawk in tree
Watching over the kingdom
Of Middle Tennessee
Over behemoth bones
Of stone cut roads
Lined with white crosses where he fell

Hawk on wing
Signals of peace to bring
Over wind stripped trees
Scratching at the breeze
Deep within the kingdom
Of Middle Tennessee

Hawk Cherokee
Flying over the kingdom
Of Middle Tennessee
Over deep pitted sadness
Cold tombstones and madness
Over the land we love and sorrow

Hawk, now sing
His spirit for to bring
Cover broken hearts
The death that tore apart
The children in the kingdom
Of Middle Tennessee


.II

The god fell far from home.
Hawk, bring his spirit home.
Over red rivers and tobacco fields
Over the smoky mountains
And clashing shields,
To the pine and his childhood river
Unto your brother crow
His spirit to deliver.
Hawk, bring the young god home,
That in death he may not rest alone.

L.Praise for the Pine

Praise for the pine
Atop the ridge
That overlooks the windswept gulch
For it has risen
Atop the ridge
In forbearance before we were born

Praise for the snow
That under pine lays
A blanket that covers the earth
For this snow
Every year knows
Its young son pine again

XLIX. Goodbye

Crows in the cold morning sky
O’er skeletons and grandfather pine
Crows in the cold flat sky

Crows in the pale blue sky
Long spent tears from Odin’s eyes
Crows in the azure sky

Crows in the white winter sky
Parting lashes of Sunna’s great eye
Crows in the dawn’s white eye

Watching the crows go by
In the knife cold morning light
Waving them on, goodbye

XLVIII. Only in Words

Only in words of purple planes are my fires quenched,
Only in routes I write myself out ' the eye of the evil finch.
Only in words on risen birds is my soul sated anew,
On sentient lips in living sips I pour my hemlock brew.

XLVII. The Sword Devours Forever

The hand begets the hammer,
The Hammer begets the sword.
And the outstretched hands cry out:
“Shall the Sword Devour forever?”

XLVI. They Pass Not Words to Their Children

They pass not words to their children,
Neither wisdom nor knowledge do they impart.
They create stunted sons and withered daughters,
Children with no lineage, a tree without its roots.
They do it not in anger, nor do they do it with purport,
But do it for lack of understanding, they fatherless as well.

My Fathers!
Why hast thou forsaken me to silence?
Why hast thou built towers with your own hands,
Yet showed me not to hew a single stone?
Why hast thou seen wars and foreign civilizations,
Yet of these things I know not?
My Fathers, my Fathers, why hast thou forsaken me?
Forsaken me and my brothers to chained tongues
And palsied guns and empirical rage of our own understanding.

They that pass not words to their children are fathers
To sons of none and daughters of the dead,
They themselves the sons of none propagating
The ignorance of their silent fathers by their own silence.

XLV. My Smoke

Over mountains has
My smoke drifted
Into the eyes of those
Who cry for their dead.
Yea, my smoke has sifted
Through the trees that ring the dead.
Over seas
My tender heart is lifted
Unto the animals of man,
Crying for their father.
Yea, my tender heart is broken
As Adam’s animals upon his sin.

With my sons I made the clearing
In horror to recoil,
Yea my smoke had drifted
To a battle plane unknown,
Broken jutting erected graves
Lying over bone.

XLIV. Lights

We lit lights for the ones we’d lost,
Ne’er knowing they sat upon peaceful plane
Under purple gloam
And watched our lights rise into the sky
As the stars hung in the heavens.

Then they didst turn with smiles
Back to their gentle fires upon peaceful planes
And whisper:
“Soon they will come home,
Soon we shall see them again.”

Poetry Contest

Brothers and Sisters- our friend Angela over at My Poetry Place is hosting a poetry contest. To enter, follow this link: http:My Poetry Place Contest


Angela is a fair judge, and has great taste, we would know, because we won first prize last time. So get on over there!

Veterans Day

My dad did 2 tours in Vietnam as a Navy medical Corpsman attached to the Marines. I'd like to say happy Veterans Day to my dad, and post this poem my brother Jake wrote for our dad this Vets Day:

My Victory's To Sing

By Jacob Isaac Mannan

My father is a Veteran of Vietnam,
1 cog in a 20-years machine,
The steel of the Greatest War’s assembly
Shipped home in the Cold War’s sling,
My father was his victory’s to sing.

My father is a thinning line to the Viet Cong,
1 mL in a 20-years vaccine,
A mask around the U.S. Navy corpsman
Tying back to the head trauma’s wing,
My father was their victory’s to sing.

My father is the fishing hole to the Heartland,
1 drop from a 60-years canteen
A lost boy to the Greatest Generation
Finding peace in the Oregon Oak’s swing,
My father is our victory’s to sing.

My father is a Veteran of Vietnam,
1 Doc to the 20-years Marine
A young face on the Guerilla War’s memory
Retiring home in the arthritic hands’ wring,
My father is his victory’s to sing...

My father is a flower in the Field Hospital,
1 mind in a 20-years quarantine,
A peaceful thought in the color of the trauma
Whiting out to the chapel bells’ ring,
My father is my victory’s to sing.

-Dedicated to Kent Foster Mannan, U.S. Navy Corpsman

Jake's Blog: Song of Hope and Hell

XLIII. This Fire I Pass

This fire I pass, the torch and the staff,
The sword and the axe,
The Roman and Saxon,
My children,
This I pass to thee:
The Land to take Dominion,
The stars to stoke the Heavens,
The fire to gird the horizon.
The hammer and spike,
Ye shall work with great might
To erect and to smite:
For there is no demon,
Whether Cerebreal, Spiritual, or Electric
That we shall not slay
And that Minotaur skull bedeck
Our door post.
Fear not my children!
Your Momma and I give you a legacy!
No legacy born of perfection,
But of the Human Stuff:
Love and suffering, pain, death,
Freedom and Joy.
Yes-this I give to you.
And when darkness
Rears its ugly head
And battledust clots you eyes,
You look back, and you look into
My eyes.
Yes-
You turn and you look into
My greying eyes, and upon my worn chevrons.
And you take that fire from me
And you go on,
You run now,
Go on now,
Run,
Fly.
And as my bones hit the earth,
You do not look back,
But you take to the sky,
For this fire shall live forever.

XLII. The Story of Waylon

For Waylon Redding Mannan, who is as of today 7 days overdue.



Set y're feet upon the path you see
Follow it as fiercely as can ye,
And know that this path will always be
The perfect path laid out for thee.

There is a place just by the road
Wherein they shall lay their load,
Within y're arms and y're abode
They shall lay their weary load.

Never ye doubt y're steps ahead
(though ye will, ne’er ye dread),
These steps across the Land o’ Dead
Lead ye to the Father’s Stead.

There is a place just by the road
Wherein ye can lay y're load,
And there in my arms and my abode
Ye can lay y're weary load.


So set y're feet upon this path,
And let y're story come to pass.
As ye through the flowers and grass
Never ye fear what comes to pass.

For y're story is our Father's craft.

O My Beautiful Land, Stand You Great Forever

From my novel And There I Shall Retire


O My beautiful land, stand you great forever,
Of more than just the trees and the rivers and oceans
And mountains and fields and farm and forest and tribe,
Of more than just the hunter and the businessman and the farmer
And politician and mother and father and family,
Of more than great states rising, or the industry therein,
Of more than the oak and pine or the lily and wildflower,
Of the bear and the wild horse and buffalo and ox,
Of deer and dog and eagle and ant and bee,
Yea, of more than all these great things (and great they be).

O my beautiful land, stand you great forever
Within the arms of the brawn scarred father,
Gentle in the swaying of his babe,
The thunder of fire in his memory receding,
Within the firm grasp of a loving mother’s breast,
Nursing the Nation’s wounds and soul,
In the sister and brother who one another greet in affection,
The Adam and Eve of American Eden (not without it serpents, yea),
Within the love of all that is and all equal love abounding
That we may forever stand within this great land,
To live and laugh and love and weep and pass our bodies
Back to the earth that the soil may be all the more richer,
And the air all the more lighter with the song of our souls.

And There I Shall Retire

From my novel And There I Shall Retire


When all this strife is o’er,
And to you I do return,
We shall go unto the meadow,
In the house of our’n.
I will take you in my arms
Our babes about our feet,
Where only wind gathers grass.

And there I shall retire.

XLI. I Come From Blood

I come from blood.

Blood on blood on bone I come,
From rivers of blood I come.
My momma’s daddy and my daddy’s daddy
Were soldiers in the World War.
And likewise, their fathers before them
Were soldiers in the Great War.
And my daddy was a soldier
In a war that was not his own.

So blood on blood on bone I come,
A son of the Human War.

XL. Rope Woman

The goddess a braid she wove, and it fell upon her back.
Of the braid each strand she wove was made of all that is:
Of joy and sorrow, of victory and defeat, of light and dark.

There it rested upon her marble back, growing every epoch.
And from time to time, a new strand was intertwined:
Of children, of new life, of rusted love, of dark demons.

And the weight of the braid wore heavy upon her head.
And from time to time, she fingered it where it lay:
And in its weight she felt a weight she could not bear.

The goddess, a braid she wove, and it fell upon her back.
Of the braid each strand she wove was made of all that is.
Until the day the braid lay lame where she lopped it from her back.

XXXIX. I Hold no Illustrious Posts

I hold no illustrious posts
Therewith to stake my claim
And all my layman’s verses
Are in tomes oft forgot
What matters it if I am ne’er heard
Or if upon the fallow they fall?
Upon these songs my mythologies
Are built up, strong and tall
And yet, if these verses could
An illustrious post constrain
I’d that it be within the woods
With my family and my songs

XXXVIII. Last Will and Testament

I am acutely aware of my mortality
Within my children and my wife
So therefore I bequeath
My last will and testament:
My broken body I give unto the earth,
My written words I give unto my love,
My earthly possessions (little though they be)
I give unto my children
My faults and frailty I pass unto the generations to come,
Hopefully with humility,
But more than likely, with a shout

XXXVII. Oecumenicus

Ecumenical Economy, we praise thee
Economy, god of ecumenity, we raise thee
Mammon of manna, we uphold thee

Oecumenicus, thou art our god, past, present, and future
We were warned for love of thee, yet we praise thee

‘Tis more than greed that plagues us
Or the love of being prosperous
Tis our’n god that makes beggars of us

XXXVI. Daughters of My Downfall

Daughters of my downfall, must it always be?
“Yes it must my fallen, for God smote Adam, then He smote Eve.”
Yet ye sirens, is it possible, that I may be made clean?
“If it were so, my fallen, of life we’d have no need.”

Oh daughters of my downfall, in you I confess,
I am no more a virtuous man than your beauty is not a curse.

XXXV. Wolves

They feast upon the weak and gullible, rending them apart
They tear their ‘loved ones’ flesh, animals in the making
And leave blood in the snow of their bloodlust making
And all because to be a man they must set themselves apart

They prey upon the sickly, who fall from back the pack
And there they tear down the weak to make themselves strong
And a wolf is but an animal, and but an animal can’t be wrong
But they are men and cowards in a wolf war rear attack

Men down in the valley, who sold your souls to wolves:
I am coming from the highland, with a jawbone in my hand
And if I die in my bloodletting, I don’t give a damn
God damn me in my insolence, but I’ve come to slay some wolves

XXXIV. Dragoneering

They harness the beasts to be unleashed against their own flesh and blood
Impervious to shrieks the dragon they wreak upon their country and god
All hail the keepers of the deathly reapers, for to deny them is certain doom
And the screams they wring from a human being is far worse than any tomb

These dragoneers forgo all tears to lay waste to all that stands
Their red eyes dry they harness and ride to rape and burn the land
How is it so our present foe was once a human as we?
For his craven lust has turned him thus: a rider for the demon Liege

Black helmets gleam upon the wing of the dragon whose wings beat breast
Their silent sneer and manner queer displays their crooked crest
How is it so that men stoop so low to follow these demonic wiles?
With hardened heart they rend man apart to suit their lusts so vile

Ye vile slaves in a living grave, turn back your beastly ‘slaught!
Ye dead men's eyes mirroring dead men’s cries, what is this that ye’ve wrought?
But the demon hies pay heed no cries, yet on the dragon stride
For the beast unleashed to death bequeath comes from their own insides

The land falls dark under their wicked stark, for who can suffer their ride?
The shadows they cast cause a cowering caste o’er the countryside
How is it so that men let go and monsters do become?
The dragons they tame in a guilded name rend the earth blind deaf and dumb

Ye dragoneers with no righteous fears, I pray you vengeance see
Ye manly beasts seduced by hellish feasts, may your dragons visit thee
And then you will know your wicked toll upon your own broken soul
And then you will know your own death knell upon your rotted skull

Stone Wall

XXXIII. Flaming Youth

Flaming youth, flame you on,
With a neon flame that begets the dawn.
Yet still, I say, it comes upon
A wave of flame that is soon gone.

Flaming youth, flame you on,
With licking flames that proceed the dawn
And shall soon devour your brawn
Unless you learn to hold your tongue.

XXXII. Peace then everlasting

Peace then everlasting, shall it still my soul?

XXXI. The Paradox of Sin

If I loathe that which I am, tis’ ‘cause I do not confess it,
I cannot confess it, for I loathe it.
If I loathe that which is my truth, I then loathe nature,
For the truth we loathe is the truth that frees us.

XXX. History Has a Name

In the halls of youth, these songs are sung,
In hallowed fields the bells are rung
And step after step, rung after rung,
The ladder to the future is deftly run.

In the epochs of past the ghosts they ran
Once flesh and blood colored by the tan.
Yet step after step, man after man,
Our fathers became one with the sand.


In the breath of time I write this rhyme
The breath is gone and cannot be tied
And minute after minute, line after line,
History has a name, and its name is mine.

XXIX. The Warrior

The warrior, he came a long way, for his people, and his pride
He forged the way for his people, with them right by his side
The warrior garnered praises, monetary, and in song
And the warrior on top the temple seems can do no wrong
But the warrior looks upon the people, wreaths and song upraised
And knows e’en in his honor that it is mislaid praise
For he has seen the angel of death upon the battle planes
And the angel of death has regarded him, but never called his name
And e’en has the angel spoken from behind his shrouded cowl:
“Kill as you will mortal, for it is spoken that you shall
And I am not to touch a hair upon your armored head
But I am here to name those you claim as your dead
No arrow shall fell you, no sword shall smite you down,
Go about your business, and earn your earth’s renown
Know that it is written, upon your earthly page,
That I, Death, a humble servant, go forth and hew your way.”


The warrior looks down upon his people, and tears come to his eyes
For the warrior in the face of Death has seen life and been made wise

XXVIII. Country Verse

Within the silent howl cold wind, under glare of stars,
I was a babe in the breast of the mountains
The cold came at me as a dagger, I could not shrug it off

I stood as quiet as an angel, the one right at my back,
For I was a spy in the forest
As the wind came at me like a ghost I could not shirk

I heard only my footsteps, that had stopped long ago,
And I turned suddenly to catch my shadow,
But there was nothing there behind me but this country verse

Sun Giant

XXVII. My Brother Sees Horizons

For The Kid, 12-09

My brother sees horizons of wars in which he ne’er served
Of sunsets he ne’er awoke to, to battles ne’er nerved
My brother, sees he spirits, of men now dead and gone
Regardless of their intent, or which side they were on
My brother has an old soul, of a battle weathered skald
Like a correspondent for the ones to whom our Father called
My brother rides with Valkyries, calling spirits home
Yet in his hand, his pen is his lance, and he goes it all alone
My brother is a messenger from the present to the past
From the first gasp of the soldier unto his very last
He stays there by their bedside, a silent vigil held
And he will not let their hand go, ‘til they depart from hell

My brother sees horizons you and I will never see,
And he watches over lost sons, to give them final peace


For the horizons my brother sees: Songs of Hope and Hell

XXVI. Song for the Modular Man

Modular man, be not afraid, fear not nor despair,
For the end of the earth is the beginning, the beginning for your path
American son, still yourself, be still now and prevail,
For the beginning you knew has ended, yet in this lies your path

Go forth and take dominion, run out, seize the land!
This is the new beginning, of foraging as the pioneers
Go now out as a newborn, with Adam’s knowledge in hand,
This desolate land is Eden, within which to quell your fears

XXV. American Knife

Written for the occasion of the giving of a WWII knife to my brother, Jacob Isaac Mannan, on Christmas, 2009.


This knife was born in America,
from a son who is now long gone,
from a American iron press,
Son of Remington, Son of Pal.
From the bellows and blows of American coals,
‘twas forged from the colonies of our Nation’s birth.
This knife has seen things it will never tell,
been a million miles it's soul will never tell,
though we might try and shake it loose.
This knife was held in sweaty palm,
by a father, by a son- by a Jimmie Johnson, be he old or young.
This knife came forth from fire,
from the hardened hands of man,
bent and twisted in the fire,
hammered gleaning clean by
gnarled and blackened hands,
hands of the American sons.
This knife was sent to soldier,
who went out to save the world,
and he wore it on his hip,
in that now broken sheath, one of the dragon's teeth.
The handle leather is now darkened
with sweat and oil and grime,
and by its wear it tells the time.
This knife has seen many things
that it can never tell,
50 plus years and still going strong,
maybe it was harmless, maybe it was hell.
But this old knife it aint telling,
it jest sits silent and sharp,
knowing that it will never rest.
And of all the things it has presided over,
only one shall be our death.
So brother-
I give you this American knife,
and you give it to your sons,
and they will give it to their sons,
as a sign of what was and is and shall be,
even as the ghost of the wielder fades.
Take pride in this American Knife!
For it was forged by America, upon the
earth’s gravest hour, and it is standing still!


And in the heft of this American knife
we shall know what was and is and shall be.