Non-Cat Poetry

The Scribe

A Poet who can’t write

A Warrior who won’t fight

A Constitution with no might

And a Ruler without a throne


For those who scale the mountain’s peak

There’s sacred knowledge one must seek

A journey meant not for the weak

Or of sundered heart be known


There’s victory on the horizon

For those who know the Wise One

Whom recognize the guide stone

Thereby the poet’s words be penned


Tis now that all must take up arms

Be it pen or sword to belay harms

Do not be fooled by deceiver’s charms

As the warrior picks up and fights again


The spirit of the Law be formed

From the hearts of battles we have learned

Abandoned Old Ways not t’be mourned

With ghosts we walk primordial trails


The Poet’s pen thus transcribes

Upon the throne the Word is scribed

The Warrior’s might protects the tribe

And the Word as Law is what prevails


the pieces they are

put together with flimsy tape


and not put on straight

like a child crafting a stage play

using tools of no use;

the proscenium arch is lit

framing a worldview

with shadows dancing on a primitive wall


but the bulbs they grow hot

the curtains part

the stage is revealed

to be made of wax

as it melts….


With Icarus falling


Soma lies

And tricks the eyes

We are the sullied

Sick and beaten


By our kin

We are feared and

Dirty heathens


The cult has spoken

Which can’t be broken

As the ringleaders

Spin the lies


And hypnotized

Soma works to dull the wise


But the wise they know

That it’s all a show

Put on for glassy-eyed


For when it’s time

The lights will dim

To break the nation

From their fever

Strange Lands


one can never know

what lies

below the ether set

if what is known

is not foregoing

knowing only


and deep regret

how could we know?

if not for knowing

if the known

is meant to be unknown,

for knowing such

that’s nought for showing

is meant to shelter us

from knowing

        too much

Empty, In Waiting

Life ending,

Never beginning

My days a hollowed womb

Barren, lifeless,


My future but a tomb


Existence meets

Its Final Breath

Time besieges its dying prey

A body still

And unforgiven

With all its prospects in decay


All hope is sunk

In starving soils

A wasteland it became

Nothing growing

Sterile Earth

As I will never know their name

Little Seeds

Come on little seed, grow;

We planted you so long ago


Are the soils barren?

Bereft of life;

Are you rotting in the ground?

Is your little seed soul,

Lost in Ether,

And having troubles being found?


We are right here waiting!

The soil is warm;

The sun is beating

It’s brilliant heart.

We are protectress, we are patron

And vow to shelter you from the start.


But the ground is silent,


It is a devoid and a hollow mound,

Is our bond already broken?

Are our lives to be bound?


Little Seed, Little Seed

The soil is ready, we have you sown;

Little Seed,  

What’s the matter?

Why won’t you bear,

Why won’t you grow?


The Crone scratches

At my throat

Upon the evening’s


Darkened skies

Fading stars

I watch another

Waning show

Her grip digs deeper

As vitals seep

Hearts beat slow

The lovers weep

A lifeless life

‘neath waning glow

Upon cold stone crags

And the violent seas below