“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give the right to eat from the tree of life, which is in the paradise of God.” – Revelation 2:7 (NIV)
Demons, When They're Not Concealed
by Michael Doyle
Creatures of the night, they dare
To truly live; knowing life is rare
Having taken enough of it to know
They are here to enjoy death's show
It's important to know saints have a past
And every sinner has potential to outlast
The wrongs they once lived their lives for
Until they become saints to even the score
Demons, when they're not concealed
Are, only, to their kind revealed
At best, most of us merely exist
But their kind have managed to persist
Demons argue against the social enormity
Of being unimaginative enough for conformity
As they approach life without hesitation
And the rest of us are guessing the questions
The drunkard slips out of one more of the bars
As he lies in the gutter staring at the stars
Our experience is the name we call our mistakes
As we clutch at straws through our heartbreaks
Demons, when they're not concealed
Are, only, to their kind revealed
At best, most of us merely exist
But their kind have managed to persist
Stunned by the art of the daily conversation
I find the words heard are my intoxication
Watching the talking heads and mind say nothing
And being pretentious enough about that something
We, and our demons, live for a life that is wonderful
Not in fear, but in spite of, death that is beautiful
Then we will forget time - no yesterday or tomorrow
And having said goodbye to romance, escape our sorrow
(c) October 26, 2024 Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved
“Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.” – George Washington (1748)
“You have reached the pinnacle of success as soon as you become uninterested in money, compliments, or publicity.” – Thomas Wolfe
It Hardly Counted
by Michael Doyle
In all my time in the dreadful war
I felt certain of something more
A lot of horrible things occurred
Looking back they've all blurred
These horrors handled with grace
Are the worst, most of us face
To know that man's inhumanity to man
Is worse than most ever can
Endure or manage to live through
Without the cost being overdue
These troubles that we inflict
Are the truth of every conflict
It came to be needed, some kind of shell
Necessary to me or to live in infernal Hell
To treat others as if it never amounted
Or truth be told, it hardly counted
It was enough horror to last a lifetime
The sort of thing that kills every rhyme
Leaving a hurt full of empty hero
Most of whom ended feeling less than zero
There in the mirror and inside my eyes
Were the memories too easy to recognize
Of how despite our efforts our friends die
And in the end we didn't really know why
(c) October 25, 2024 Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved
“The first transactions of a nation, like those of an individual upon his first entrance into life make the deepest impression, and are to form the leading traits in its character.” – George Washington (1788)
“Things which do not grow and change are dead things.” – Louise Erdrich, Pulitzer Prize-winning author and member of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians of North Dakota
Danza Pieta
by Michael Doyle
Noisome crypts jangle the bones of innocence
Where evil lingers knowing no pretense
Organ music begins to play in its tonal range
Something wicked and something strange
Paranoia, whispered fears, and shades of doubt
Echo like unfriendly notes raised into a shout
The night swirls, cycling into insensibility
Falling under the cause of its own impenetrability
Momento mori reminds me of our fragility
There is the sacred and the sensuality
How vain are the glories of the earthly
Black death marks us in its imagery
The terror creeps in between the strings
A carnival of souls knows Satan's stings
The Reaper rouses himself into a dance of death
As Halloween quietly takes our last breath
The end of life arrives without any glory
But there are whispers of an inevitable ghost story
Only to find that the ghost of you knows no rest
And you have failed to pass life's final test
Momento mori reminds me of our fragility
There is the sacred and the sensuality
How vain are the glories of the earthly
Black death marks us in its imagery
The cultural impact of mass death is contemporary
No longer just a thing of the past and literary
It is not in any sense fleeting or temporary
There is nowhere to turn for sanctuary
This death etches deep into culture and society
Causing youth to lose confidence for anxiety
Sudden painful death is an omnipresent possibility
It demands penance in its dance-with-death allegory
Momento mori reminds me of our fragility
There is the sacred and the sensuality
How vain are the glories of the earthly
Black death marks us in its imagery
(c) October 24, 2024 Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved
“It is in the interest of tyrants to reduce the people to ignorance and vice. For they cannot live in any country where virtue and knowledge prevail.“ – Samuel Adams
“No fathers or mothers think their own children ugly; and this self-deceit is yet stronger with respect to the offspring of the mind.” – Miguel de Cervantes, novelist (29 Sep 1547-1616)
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