poem

I sing the song of the shepherd–
As evening shades the hill–
Though flock I’ve not nor even flute–
To play the peaceful stillness
That surges from the valley
And wanders from the sky–
That tells the starry self- the truth–
Yet questions never why.

More at http://www.firestonefeinberg.com and http://www.verse-virtual.com.

Unto the world a stranger I–
Who never did belong–
Too obvious my sacred lie–
Too odd my secret song.

But never did I so regret
My status as it be–
Nor do I now, nor will I yet–
Make apology.

More at http://www.firestonefeinberg.com and http://www.verse-virtual.com.

the New York boy
found his country falling in upon itself
like an earthquake stricken high rise

the empire state’s enigma
shaken to his core
as the mountains disappeared

and the water tasted stagnant
the Midwest called his name
as he spit out foul liquid
from his beleaguered brain
when pastures diluted themselves
and he deluded himself
that cows always come home
instinctively

but tremors keep happening
aftershocks of a young life
spent in concrete shoes
asphalt tension of sparse blades of grass
waiting to wither in oppressive pondering

thoughts rise higher than those buildings
he couldn’t climb
as his fear of heights impedes
those steps he couldn’t take

when he found the cows had gotten lost
in his mind
and the seismic deformity of his spirit
deflated the needle on his compass

until he disappeared within himself
never got to drink the potent
ale of growing old–

the New York boy
still without a country
but understanding doesn’t need a flag
to identify the experience that
will follow him to his grave.

Living without love
Is breathing minus oxygen.
Love your life and breathe.

More at http://lovevsolitude.wordpress.com.