Stranger than the homeless, racists, and the like.

An erratic, muddled manikin arises. Unwillingly after being ripped from fantasies of sleep encased in endless possibilities, he rises. A sickly man he seems, from years of perception on my part, as he stumbles to the mirror that seems to reflect the only slice of him that shall ere be noticed by kin and friends alike. Who is the masked man in reflection? This mind which bears no recollection of the years of change and pithy degradation of the shape and form and fitness too.

A body only, can I be? My thoughts more random than they seem? Who knows what lies around the endless bend of scientific theories. But this man, although at times I seem to understand his ploys, the rest he is a stranger. Stranger than the wildest of sorts, the homeless, racists, and the like. But how could I be in cohorts with this stranger who takes to lodging in my skin? I have no solid answer, only weak and simple claims of truth I think I once began to know.

Yet again I rise, every day. This "I" more hollow than the trees that run along the bay with rotten roots and stems. From far away it seems so grand and closer still it seems to climb the sky, but only when you look inside you'll see the truth of insect blights. A wee, maimed child that I am, the only truth I can expend. It's rather sorry my mind had sought to grow so tall in other's minuscule perceptions when a wretched troll runs levers, pulleys in this shell of flesh and bone.

A ha! But could there be the faintest hope that bodies will be full and grow as flowers in the softest spring? The one called Cody contests there is, but if thy soul cannot I ne'er could hold against thy lack of faith. This hope found me, and not I it, so pray I will it visits next the one to which I speak. As door to door I see it go, gifting randomly a hope which warms the hollow bones in homes it meets.

This "I", whatever that it means, it cannot build solely on thee. But efforts tried in Cody's name will ruin him, and wrinkle face. So look, you, to another playwright, the mirror cannot satisfy; that man one day will disappear and die. Then what? With what are humans left? An empty jar that shatters on the ground.

Written by C.

Under-where have you gone?

A cotton cape. Elastic gold. 
The boldest amidst dresser troves.
Acquainted with the utmost grief,
A trusted friend when all seems dreary.


Every rise the sun decides to wake
I place my pal upon my waist.
The time to start the day has come,
It's gone before it has begun.

Where have you gone my closest mate?
Retired to the pearly gates of clothing lost.
Say greetings to the socks and tossed fine linens too!

I s'pose a better place exists
Where polyester's free, what bliss!
I do not know, and ne'er will find
The mate who covered my behind.
(so many times through pithy rhymes)


Alas another you will do,
But mystery still shrouds a ruse.
Abandoned, helpless, left for nude,
Are adjectives ascribed me.

What more could taint this sour day,
But poems rich with friendships maimed.
One final query must remain,
"Under-where have you gone?"

Written in memoriam by C.

Poetry is underneath your soul-ish thing eternally.

Who am I?

These bones and flesh and teeth and hair,

Can there be more? A ghost inside?

Of proof there is but empty sighs

Beneath the cold exterior

Where am I?

A dream within a dream entrapped

The snare of sleepers silly naps

Reality and fantasy

Bliss and truth and travesty

Why am I?

Does God or gods take care of thee?

Aware above of creature's screams?

Engaging, raging, ignorance,

The character is what's in question

Who is he?

A master of fine carpentry?

A servant bound by scripture's claims?

A humble subsitute for thee?

A sorrowful son dying

Where is he?

Up in the clouds, under the sea?

Perhaps in distant galaxies,

Or not at all, the space we see

Could ne'er behold the densest glory

Why is he?

This inquiry, "how was he wrought?"

It troubles me, a god of birth

A maker born as you and I

could ne'er be praised, a mortal cursed

Who am I?

A soul, a heart, a son, a friend,

A lover, traitor, sinful, man

Attained by force from evil thieves,

Returned to rest, eternally

Written by C.

To whomever receives this letter.

Adrift amidst eternal seas, this borrowed body trembles. With desperate gasps and endless pleas I fear the ocean's won our soul; a tender babe, a fleshly thing, we never saw our own demise. And even now, beneath the deep lie bodies unidentified. Far off, a piece of solid ground perhaps is seen but never found, just stories, fables, tales of myth, there is no place other than here. Our town lives on these shifting waters, the tide to determine our fate. Thousands of souls with nowhere to go drives many to plunge to the deep. 


The dangers underneath our feet are trivial when one does think of sinful, ugly tendencies. The maidens beaten, children bruised, the men aboard are heartless brutes, when I lay down in hopes to sleep the pillow hardly muffles screams. Off this wretched plank of wood! Perhaps somewhere there is a "good" and "bad" and justice will prevail, O little faith I wish I had. When spoken are my deepest thoughts, flogged and mocked is their response, I see no end, where can I go? Only hope is not my foe. Can this heart be more than flesh and blood and sin? Are tears and cries an illusion from the reality that is? Forever to escape and see a sight other than sex and blood and children hurt, how can this much endure...


Across the water sound breaks forth, a deep and roaring angry voice. The words are distant in my ears while colors light the sky above my head. Stars descend and planets rage, the whole earth overcome by plague, I hardly see and stripped of breath I fall down on my face. I wait without a word to speak preparing for the death of me; the others speechless, faces white, their eyes speak endless words of fright. Around me men are taken up and thrown into the sun above while women, children, and the like are weeping, waiting turns to die.


The wait is short but not at all, what will the gods decide? Will we be burned or tortured still, will anyone survive? What happens next I don't expect the sky melts down to blue, a calming wave takes us across the ocean towards the moon. But what is this, a brownish dot, it seems to grow in size. How can this be? A solid thing, grows big before my eyes. Can myth be fact, is it a dream, I cannot seem to explain my feelings.

Oh! Along this solid shore are faces such as mine, disoriented understates my fragile state of mind. A celebration for our nation, they greet us with a kiss. We're wrapped in robes and fed some "fruit", and my, it's quite delicious. I've hardly time to think at all when I see Him arise. They call Him "Isa", humble king, I see it in his guise. Twas Him who rescued I from death, the ruthless prince of sin. And when alone a question thrown, "Why me? Why save my kin?" His answer wise, his voice so stern, he turned to see my face. A tired, weary, broken man whose only life was pain. He said, 

"Shalom my boy, shalom indeed. How could I watch my children bleed? You're home now child, your worries gone, now come embrace your Father, son."

I'll ne'er forget that lovely day, 800 years ago I came. The Island bears no hurt, no thorns; our Isa reigns, and we're adorned. Still once a day He leaves the land to save another hopeless clan. And now I end this letter friend, the party's starting, new lives begin.

With adoration,
Charis the Beloved