Pages From John

Tag: poem

  • The Torches Being Handed Down

    I can see a series of torches that have been lit across the world.

    I can see the high flag of love and freedom being unfurled.

    Unsure if we created love or if love created us…

    Or are we just confused love turned treacherous? 

    The echo is heard across every country and creed and time.

    But similarities are confused in each attempt at the elusive rhyme.

    Oh what mystery is beheld in the imagination of the soul.

    A fraction of infinity, not apart but the entire whole.

    The torch means nothing without the cold, surrounding dark.

    Dark is our challenging friend and wants to walk us through the park.

    The legacy protects itself through the voices of the broken hearted.

    All of the brave ones that looked at love and decided to get started.

    For love is the only work that makes you truly you.

    The personal uniqueness of our love is reality’s clue.

  • Another Boring, Old Fuck

    I hear the sound of the age old whine,

    The one we all said, “it wouldn’t be mine!”

    The complaint that is heard in every generation,

    “But this time for real!” Says this iteration.

    “Kids these days!” Cries some of my peers,

    “It’s a disaster!” Shouts the echoing fears.

    “Have you seen online? It’s the end of our luck!”

    Or maybe you’ve just become another boring, old fuck.

  • a circus

    when a circus ends some say the clown dies

    many say it is the lion tamer that holds the prize

    the animals sit in cages backstage

    and the box office counts the page

    do clowns really die when the show is done

    or is there just a new act bringing some fun

    from a clown show to a strange mime show

    the honking horns lost their power to blow

    the producer makes it part of the plot

    the ring leader decides to give it a shot

    yet the crowd is unsure and at first isn’t amused

    the clown sits on the side a bit hurt and bruised

    he tries to sabotage but the fire drummers won’t have it

    the people are totally distracted by the ring leader’s outfit

    the children love it and the grown-ups are all upset and leaving

    cemented statues near the entrance don’t have a way of perceiving

  • The Necromancer

    Did you know there is a sorcerer there?

    One you befriended a long time ago.

    One that cracks the whip with regret to scare.

    Conjuring ghosts and monsters from below.

    The Necromancer promises power.

    Yet brings nothing but despair in his hour.

    You felt the motivating force at first.

    Everyone thought he was some great ole friend.

    But he was bringing out the complete worst.

    How will this quest of yours come to an end?

    Stay a sad slave to the Necromancer?

    Or will you find a more loving answer?