JMP'S Page

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The Demon Seed is growing now.

Shall I allow this evil breed?


Shall I intervene somehow?

Cut it out and watch it bleed?


A mother, blind, expects the best:

alone, undressed, she hopes to find


a comfort in her swollen breast,

a warm maternal peace of mind.


But still I know far more than she:

the family tree, its constant woe;


brothers are forced to oversee

their siblings, bellied, slowly grow.


So yet I ask myself again:

shall I allow such dangerous kin?

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Ars Poetica


I often stall.  Sometimes Iím stuck.

I wonder about Lady Luck

and how the fortune which she wills

sometimes inspires, sometimes kills

the good first line stamped in my mind.

Sometimes through all the words I find

a way to push the music on

and play the tune until itís done;

yet other times I hit a wall

and cannot seem to write at all.

So Iím convinced that Fortune hands

each man her arbitrary plans

and doesnít give a cuss for those

who hope somewhere a talent grows

which feed their precious, unique art.

Yes, Iím convinced that I should start

to gamble in the streets for cash

instead of writing rhyming trash.



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