Loneliness. The salt of Love:
   Bringing out the richer flavor;
      Preserving it in every clime;
   Sweet and bitter both to savor.
For in longing, Man comes thronging 
      Even through cold, fetid grime
In trenches, or old benches
      Eaten by the glutton Time
      For a chance to hear a rhyme 
In the voice of gentle dove;
For that glimpse of star above;
For that glove that's like his glove;
For a morsel of True Love.

      How long will his rations last?
Shall the sailor break his teeth
      On his tack; or tack his mast,
   Turn into a port of thieves—
   Alligators on shore leaves,
   Alley cats, and cheap "achieves"—
Toss a coin to get a snack?
   He knows full that never sates him.
   He knows that a feast awaits him
      If he'd stay his course and fast;
      If he told his heart "Avast!"
And focused on that bold attack.

He must steel himself. He must
Never let his honor rust.

White silk lays across the land 
Held aloft by unseen hand
Grey the sky and grey the day 
Streaked with faintest pinkest ray
Mirror wavers and reflects 
Graceful ships, their sail-wrapped necks
Up the hill and up the street 
Past glittering shops that greet
The spire of law half-hidden in cloud
Rush hour, but little is said aloud

“How can there be a God?”
      They laugh, they mock, they sneer,
“How can there be a God
   “When science brought Him to His knees,
   “When preachers preach hypocrisies,
      “When all devils are here?”

“How can there be a God?”
      They snap, they snarl, they spit
“How can there be a God
   “When bad hurts good forevermore,
   “When pain is born from clever war,
      “When we’re but apes with wit?”

“How can there be a God?”
      They posit, argue, muse
“How can there be a God
   “When the gods that we have made
   “Are much more fun! They do not fade
      “And what if Faith’s a ruse?”

“How can there be a God?”
      They sob, they weep, they scream
“How can there be a God
   “When meaning’s nowhere to be found
   “When one day we will make no sound
      “And find it’s all dream?”

And yet despite all that they say
      In murmured, whispered civil war 
Yet despite the roaring fray
   Of half-truths and of outright lies
   Of blankets pulled over the eyes
      A query lingers at one’s core:

“If 'God is love, is real, is good'
      One wonders why He’d let us kill?
If God is omnipotent, could 
   He not stop all the evils here?”
   But this question does not see clear:
      How can one love without free will?

Canto II - A Response

To love, to live, to laugh, to give—
   Our acts, when freely done,
Are done in lovely narrative
   And not like clocks that run.

To give, to love, to live, to laugh— 
   Are these still real if forced?
Smiles mean as much as chaff
   If they aren't truly coursed.

To live, to laugh, to love, forgive—
   You’ve heard it, seen it all 
On kitchen walls, declarative 
   Of “goodness” quite banal.
      But that's the artist’s treason
      So here is a real reason
      That in the proper season
   You’ll see why those signs fall.

God is good, is real, is love—
   But what is love? No, really.
What is good? Surely not a shove 
      Into a pit of gnashing strife?
      He’s "the Way, the Truth, the Life"— 
   But is He cold and steely?

Nay! Think: If God, by us defined
   As Truth itself, most real,
Then that would mean, to be refined, 
   He's the best that one can feel.

To cut ourselves right off from Him
   Is not an act of liberation
But suicidal harm most dim
   Like self-forced asphyxiation.

He'd hate to see us choke to death
   He'd hate to see us atomize.
For since He is love, life, and breath
   He yearns for us to magnetize.

He hates to see our hearts deform
   But still gave us a voice— 
For Love, in His quite truest form,
   Cannot be a forced choice.

Sincere truth, good, beauty— these
   All fractalize. Each day
      A chance to choose, to heal, grow whole.
The prideful "I" sees only trees
   Thus dooms itself to stay
      In that dark forest of its soul—
In love with its own disease.

Canto III - A Call to Arms

Here and now I rest my case.
   Perhaps none hear my speech
(My rhyming's that debase);
   A silly quatrain will not reach
      Down to the iceberg's bottom. Mind,
         This eternal question turns
      Upon the mind of all mankind.
         Each of us for answers yearns.

But speak aloud, if you have stayed!
   Use your voice to challenge mine!
In my battles I have prayed
   For like-strugglers with a spine.

The only surefire way to lose 
   This war for Truth, is not to ask,
Listen, even outright accuse. 
   Converse with me! This is the task. 

What do you think? What do you feel?
   Come on— write with spontaneity!
How did God hurt you, or heal?
   What is your idea of "Deity"? 

This was just a model of mine
   Rendered into a rhyming sketch
But I await the words of thine 
   Own mouth. Come! Your arrows, fletch! 

Giants bang on iron doors 
Roaring, grumbling, bashing
Battles fought on woolen floors
Warring, rumbling, crashing
Blood is spilt, blue blood, not red
Soaring, fumbling, lashing
Light and blood fall on your head!
Pouring, tumbling, flashing!

Note: The Hobbit was what got me into writing. First it was the maps, which made me draw my own and make up stories set in them; then it was singing the dwarves’ songs, and the riddles Bilbo and Gollum played at, and writing my own. That was when I was ten or under, maybe, but the old love of it was resurrected when I read Heaney’s Beowulf in high school. Imagine my little hobbit grin when I was assigned to write 3 riddles for homework. Of those three, this is my favorite.

I've heard, I've read, "The Truth will set you free,"
   Yet still, until confession left my lips 
I could not breathe for fear. In agony 
   I held back. Devils held me in their grips.

Their names were Shame, Embarrassment, and Doubt. 
   Their aim: to maim my courage; to lay claim
To me. Broken within, gilded without,
   My gorgeous act was a lie all the same. 

But then amidst my shadow-puppetry
A light broke through my strutting character!
Not like that limelight I had so long chased;
Nay, 'twas the illumination of Dawn 
Steadily unveiling before my eyes—
Crowded with empty seats, with silence loud—
A vale of red velvet, that I soon scale
To reach that ajar door into the World
That gleams a rosy gold, heavy and soft.
A sign burns green over this golden gate 
Which reads: "Regain your hope, ye who exit."

The devils clutch at shabby costume-rags 
Left in my wake, and howl as I run
Out, laughing, into Terra Incognita. 

Ex tenebris! How good it is to be
Free from Limbo; to just live honestly. 

Locked out in the cold— the library's door
Adamantly shut for the Saturday
Night that presses, tightens its grip around
My legs— my glove gently knuckles old wood,
My forehead weighs against its cool surface,
And my soul heaves a cloud into the black
Illuminated shadows of the trees
(A cloud of soft grey shade and shape, it was
Nonetheless a curse of ugly sound: "Shit...")

Where shall I go at this bewitching hour
That will grant me the modern xenia?
A chair— a place to sit, to warm my hands,
To slowly coax sensations back into 
My stiff legs— and furthermore, a free pulse
Of data, given out of Charity; 
A ley-line by which I can work a spell.
This is what I seek— but deeper still 
In my bone marrow, deeper than the chill, 
I yearn for Fellowship. Yearn for the thrills
And Romances. Adventures! Surely, found
Amidst this town on such a Satyr-Night 
In spades... and yet, I cannot hear a sound. 
Such nights are celebrations, spent with friends!
I am kept from resting, working even. 

Tugged by the fishing-line of the Fates, with-
Out the knowledge that their hook had caught me,
I meander uphill, casting faith in
To that same depth, those waters I swam once—
To those wavering airs scented by loves,
Labors, and losses possible for one 
Who, foolishly and bravely, hoists his sail—
On those most liberated, boundless nights
In Edinburgh. Beneath serrated spires
And leaning lampposts, I had picked the way
Most tortuous, most pleasing to the heart-
Strings. They pulled taught with each crossroads I'd faced
Toward the wynd, the close, the stair, the cave
That led most steeply upwards. They slackened 
Now or then, to permit breathless smiling
Uncertainty— a whispered "Come what may"—
Before I doubled-down. Commit once more
To my intrepid quest to God-Knows-Where. 
Yes, I have chased this white rabbit before!
The interims between each hunt can stretch
Till they are worn threadbare and I forget
That I am part of greater Tapestries!
What if it takes a little project spoilt,
Some smaller scripts torn up, to write anew?
An epic improvised is better than
An exact formula, perfect but dead. 
Once shock subsides, and Reason settles down
Into his proper place— bedrock of Faith—
Then she can stand or leap where e'er she wont!
All this unfolds within my heart and mind 
In twenty seconds, maybe, as I take 
Tentative steps up to the college Quad—
That square arena where I'd face my Fates. 

(Still primordial dilemma tosses 
Back and forth betwixt the two conclusions: 
"Do we pull at Fates'  thread, or are we pulled?"
Yet few wonder if both at once are true.)

In thirty seconds, or three dozen steps, 
I am recalled to life, remembering 
The feel and thrill of swimming with the tide. 
My expectations unravel to strands 
That good nocturnal angels will take hold 
And card and spin into a worthy yarn
That I in turn can tell you as a tale. 

Another cloud escapes my smirking lips
To climb into the night, named, "Come what may."

I long to knead the clay of this old world—
Feel it, see it under my fingernails—
Into a story that none could tell but I. 
Sculpt it into sentences of prose
Reminding you and I of revelries
Sorrows bittersweet, higher contrasts,
Technicolors bold and gilded glad
Or realms blue-grey, rain-thick, and liminal
Dreary but not drab— twilights of soul
Lost in melancholic evergreens
Aching hearts laying fallow but not dead
Not without feeling. For desiring Life—
Acknowledging a bitter cold, a wet,
A hunger— and seeing Death, his footprint
In the slurring mud of January—
Jolts us into waking. Our chosen path
Trails behind us: steps taken in a stupor
Downward from those silvered dragon-spines,
High ridges, Gothic peaks on which we sat
Like mice on Heaven's floor, to gaze at stars
(Still, or shooting round in solemn spiral). 
Our whispered acclamations froze midair
Transmuting to a pearly mist that leapt
Skyward, to join the silent throng above
Of saturated black and streak of cloud. 
What nights of ecstasy did we enjoy
Up there! A wonder we came down at all!
Alas, descent we needed. Onward, Road,
To the next season of this wild Life!

The danger lies not in this deep dark valley
But in our stupor: that dementia drab,
That disassociation from oneself,
That dumb distraction, numbing feet 
(Till we no longer feel the stab of stones 
Nor kiss of dewy grass) and blunting minds
(The ends of nerves, which lose their static spark,
Their drive to righteous ends, their means of wit)
Till horrors cease to frighten or to test;
And tragedies, to move a kindly hand.
So occupied are we by questions dim, 
Threats to come, hidden sins left to fester
(All made vague by Devil's disenchantment),
The mind wanders far from our weary feet. 
Forgetting the peak and the valley both 
Abandoning home and destination
Ignorant of the compass in our hand 
We stumble to and fro, unknowing, lost.

On tripping on a root I did not see,
On stubbing my toe, a pulse of smarting pain 
Shocks me into sane if painful presence 
If but for an instant, the fog thins. 
A wind low and frigid cracks the doldrums.
I hear a lament rustle dripping boughs.
I smell the green pricks of pine needle-work. 
I know that Apathy can't navigate.

My compass-needle scratches at my hand,
Quivers, points like a hound on a scent 
Of mythic birds and squirrels most elusive. 
I bite my lip. Can I pick up the trail?
It's been so long... What if I've lost the spark?
Is the current dead or merely dormant?
Must I relinquish? Follow beaten paths
Made by better makers long ago?

I long to knead the Truth with my own hands!
To sculpt such tales that honor those before;
To shock the catatonic Man to Life
And web his flesh with gorgeous lightning-scars;
To turn my Sons' and Daughters' eyes to stars
That score across the blueblack gown of Night;
To woo the Woman and frame her in light
That saturates her Life as she does mine;
To emulate that Hero, First and Last,
Who sculpts the world with three words— "Let There Be"—
And we, with just a breath! Then, saves from Death
And drab Inferno, us, on Cavalry. 
If that Poet who composed my Life
Can write Himself into it, and court Death,
And laugh and cry and hurt Himself like me
Without once hiding in such Apathy—
Than perhaps this poet has a chance. 

My Life unrolls before me as a plain
Of battle, over which clouds thunder, build,
Burn, boil, blunder, bearing down. 
But you devil-storm, recoil! Beware!
See! my Sword burns red, my Pen gleams black
And my Brush crackles with color—
Acrylic electricity gathered
From your one thousand volleyed javelins!
A panoply of Truths and Purposes
Arrayed against the Dragon of the Pit,
Ouroboric nemesis of substance. 

Your spell on me is shattered utterly.
Art is Beauty bound to Agony. 

Note: This was written in one sitting of ~3 hours, after weeks of creative stagnation. I thought returning and resting from my travels would ignite poetry. The rest was much needed— the home much desired— poetry was sure to come— but the home I had returned to was not like the one I left. A loved one had changed in his character beyond recognition. It was a horrid shock. I quickly became enveloped in a thick fog of the soul, scarily like his, and not unlike the one I described in Humdrum and Senioritis. I sought refuge in consumption and in daily responsibility. Avoided the pain of higher creation. I couldn’t write anything for fear that it would not be good enough, show too much of me or not enough, etc. etc.

Part of this was reflecting on the highs and lows of traveling, and of weather. There are sublime moments. There are moments of gripping despair. But despair is better than apathy. I’d much rather sit in rain-soaked melancholy (which has a pleasantness to it) than be stuck in a stale room-temperature lacking any light, shadow, heat, or cold. If it is winter, let it snow. If it is overcast, let it rain. True fog is a gift, wasted on those who cannot poke our heads out of their windows. Grey is a lovely color in Gods’ hands, but not in Mans’. I adore the dreary. I cannot stand the drab.

The strongest art springs out of honest truth. Out of felt pain. God in His grace showed me the wound I had ignored. This Reminder is a scalpel.

The night presses close and cold 
My legs and back are weary, my feet sore 
(In the well-used way, not in pain)
The black car rolls up beside me 
I clamber inside
Sighing as I sit down
Lay the burdens of the day
For a little while
On the car floor

The bright mirror in my hand beckons
But something in me pushes back
So I recline to breathe
To take in a moment 
To listen to my thoughts, and to the town's 
To watch the town pass by outside the window
On the ride home, brief as that ride is

Halfway home
The sweet tobacco-thick dark of the car
The tired quietude of a long night's labor
Is broken by a question in broken English:
"Your name Ransom?"

His voice is low and careful, his accent thick
But he has learned our local language well
I smile softly in the dark, and say,
"Yes, it is."

The driver nods his head 
The lamplights shine through the windshield at shifting angles
Catching him as they sweep past 
I can see his wavy black hair, a little silver in the light, and tawny skin
Signs of ancient desert lineage
"Great name," the driver says

"Thank you. I like yours too— Muhammad. 
Where are you from?"

"Pakistan." 

Our dialogue lasts perhaps two minutes
But it makes all the difference to me 
He came from Pakistan three years ago
Learned English— good and well, I'd say—
And he was 
Shocked 
Elated
By the sight and sound and smell
Of all the opportunities in America
To make money, to live, to be free

"I am so grateful," he said,
"Hundreds of jobs available—
"If you want money, it is easy
"You just have to work hard—
"I work two: 
"I drive
"And I work a tobacco store in Shady Side
"I work a fourteen hour day
"I make money, and I live well."

The driver cocks his head to the side
Evidently baffled
"But I look around,
"And I do not see a lot of Americans born in this country working so hard."

I grimace
"Yes, that is a shame 
"So many nowadays take it for granted
"Born here, raised here, all their lives
"Blessed in ways they do not know." 

The driver shakes his head 
"If they were to go
"And live in another country for a few years
"And then come back here— then they would realize
"This is like Heaven."

I nod my head
"It has its problems here, we have them, yes
"All places that aren't Heaven do 
"But I'm grateful too that I live here
"And that I get to talk with you
"And work beside you to make it 
"Make it a bit more like Heaven." 

"Yes," he nods, solemnly,
His tawny, wave-haired head
"Yes, we are so lucky."

His words fan a smoldering fire in my soul
"I do not want to take it all for granted...
"I want to work hard."
We roll around the bend 
Into my neighborhood
"I want to build a life," I say
"For me and for my family
"And I bless you, brother, 
"As you do the same."

His smile is heard and felt, not seen 
"Bless you, and good night."
His hand is firm and rough as I shake it

A thought occurs to me, as 
My other hand rests on the door handle 
"My dad and I like cigars 
"From time to time," I muse, "Perhaps
"We shall meet again in your tobacco store."

"I pray for you," he murmurs. "I pray we do.
"God bless you, and good night."

Out into the cold and pressing night 
Back into the comforts of home 
Back to the grind of school and work
But I thank Christ for this chance meeting
A little taste of Heaven's freedom here 
A little glimpse of blessed liberty 

I bless him and his family and his dream
Not just through prayer
But through extra green
This is, after all, an American scene

Happy Fourth of July, everybody!

—Mosnar

Rivers of light flow
Across a black heath
Golden motes aglow
Scattered far beneath 

All the world below 
Softly falls asleep
But the boatmen row
They have vows to keep

Countless tiny souls
Living, perishing 
On this turning sphere 
Giving, cherishing 

Till our time there end
We descend, my friend

—Mosnar

Staggered step
All but we will hear it
Haggard step
Only we can hear it
Dagger stab 
From magnetic spirit 
To the heart
Of prince’s turmoil

Gift of gab
Onward our tongue races
Till pale slab 
Slides over our faces
Curtain falls
No one left but traces
Now apart
Kings still turn to soil

On the walls
Our ghosts wander, seething
In the halls 
Scorning sonder, breathing
Mournful calls 
“Do not ponder sheathing!
“Do not squander chances!
“Do not stow your lances!”
Fear around us wreathing 

Indecision 
Raising dagger high
Double vision
Roads less traveled by?
Imprecision
Is it all a lie?
Why do we live? Why?

Our script rips
Now our questions pour
From trembling lips
More, more, all the more 

Steps, we take
Haggard, doomed to die 
Meters break
In entropic rhyme 
Staggers, shakes,
Stuck, strains for more time—

“Havoc,” the remainders cry. 
Now offstage, we breathe a sigh.

—Mosnar

The wisest man is oft the fool
Of smarter men who seem to rule. 

The wise fool says, “Joy is a glimpse
“Beyond that wall we cannot see. 
“Three walls surround us, but the fourth
“Is fathomless like bluest sea. 

“Invisible to clouded eyes;
“Inconstant— for the gales
“And rains of life, and rippling skies 
“Have ways of ripping sails.

“Such moods are a brief endeavor. 
“We laugh or rage or cry
“Thinking each will last forever
“Till the day we die.

“Makes it easy to forget
“That the world offstage is real! 
“Caught up in our act of life—
“We eat menu, not the meal!

“To say that bones of coral made
“Or silver lining of the clouds
“Cannot be real if they aren’t seen
“Is convenient for the crowds.”

Whilst those laughing crowds down drinks
The wise fool turns to us, and winks. 

—Mosnar

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History's a conversation 
Across time and space
A living, breathing story told 
By all the human race 
Souls unnumbered speak and listen
Comment and critique
Draw from wells of words that glisten
Brimming with mystique 
Inspired, they inspire others
Souls they’ll never meet
But have somehow spoken to
Through wars, fires, and sleet
Just through making choices as 
They live out their lives
Just through their decisions, even 
Ones not in archives

—Mosnar

The Reading Room—
With its dark wood and high arched ceiling and rainbow-stained glass
The faint smell of coffee and chatter of scholars wafting in from the other hall
And the hundred thousand books shelved here, row upon row,
Some of which were russet with age when the first slab of white marble was laid here—
Holds a certain gravity. 

Like a cathedral you are compelled to whisper when you enter it
Lest your voice carry and disturb the other readers
And yet just think! You are in the presence of a hundred thousand more voices
All talking at once without saying a word. 

What is a Book
But a little piece of life, a human soul?
A human life
With the help of a cow's and a tree's 
Expressed, printed, pressed into a wafer 
A hundred more such wafers then compound 
Now bound into a brick of weighty matter

What is a Library 
But two or more such lives, gathered, condensed?
A gang of rival-friends that rhyme and ridicule another 
Elbow to elbow crowding the benches that groan with their weight 
Excitedly chattering to each other, and to the thousand other 
Voices diving into the Greatest Conversation

What is History? 
The Greatest Conversation
One spanning countless human lives
Each with something new to say
One that plays across a cosmic stage
Each prop of which has meaning 
One we enter when our mothers conceive us 
Nay, the moment our idea winks into her eye
One into which our words ripple and echo
Long after we cross the bar... 

—Mosnar

History is a great conversation across time and space
Souls unnumbered speaking, listening, asking, replying,
Drawing inspiration from each other 
From people they have never met in person
But have somehow spoken to
Just through the choices in their own lives
Their actions— recorded or unrecorded
Their personal decisions 
To do this and not that
To say this and not that
To make, to write
To break, to fight
To be or not to be
To see or not to see the humanity in each 
Character on this stage, this day, this age in history. To teach
What we have learned to younger souls. To reach
Onwards and up toward those lofty goals— or leech 
From our outrageous fortunes till we spiral into Hell—
Where shall this rhyming discourse lead?
What leather destinies shall our children read?
What shall we talk of next?
Only we will tell…

—Mosnar

The Murderer rots in his cell 
Trapped in his personal Hell
Locked up and chained
By spite sustained
Waits for the toll of the bell

Hears the mob jeer through the ceiling—
Spite breaks like glass. He starts kneeling
Pleading to Him that he had betrayed 
Kneading flagstones like dough as he prayed 
Knuckles now bleeding, skin peeling 

The beating of drums, the pounding of feet
Resound through his brittle shards— once elite
Standing on clay feet, but tall
As if none could make him fall—
Nothing but his dust remains, in defeat

Gasps for breath— his fever mounts—
Cold as death— and still he counts
Counts the seconds till his doom
Stifled by the fetid gloom
Strangled by his own accounts

"Eloi, eloi," the Murderer cries
"I have done wrong! I have cut ties
"With you. From you, I have run.
"For me, nothing can be done!"
At that moment, the sound dies

With bated breath, with thrumming heart, 
With red eyes and with limbs that smart
The Murderer looks up on high 
Hears them scream, "HIM! CRUCIFY!"
And— utterly— he comes apart

—Mosnar

Humdrum mumbling all around me...
Humdrum bumbling thoughts in my head...
Humdrum stumbling ahead, I cannot see—
Oh, how I wish I could just go to bed! 

Humdrum rumbling, did not break my fast...
Humdrum crumbling, brown bland luncheon...
Humdrum grumbling, hoping I'll last—
Oh, how I long to escape this dungeon!

Humdrum humbling, much to thank Him for
Humdrum grumbling does no good!
Humdrum stumbling days still numb me,
Weigh my shoulders down like wood...

There's a hole in me
In us all, really
We all try to fill it
We all fail to kill it
It gapes, it sucks
It gasps, it heaves
We seek our own blindness
While it begs for kindness 
Some kind of relief— but right now
I can give it none. I ask, "How?"

How long, Lord, till I am free?
How long, Lord, till I can see 
Through this fog of monotony?
And how, 
When it breaks, 
When my whole world shakes, 
Shall I serve you? 
Do I have what it takes?

Beyond the walls, beyond the doors, 
There lie capes! There lie moors—
Mist-webbed, snow-capped, high in clouds 
Far from the jeering dreary crowds
And pointless noise— there lies You
I've seen it, felt it, drank it, too—

Before returning to such places,
To such headaches, heartaches, faces 
Who, behind the eyes, seem dumb 
Who to feeling have turned numb—

Shall I break free from this drab mass?
Or shall I break like glass? Not pass?

Minutes slip past. Oxygen stifling
I run out of air bothering, trifling 
With man-made marks on a dead-eyed screen
The meaning of which I cannot glean
I stress over lines, arrows, and graphite numbers 
While the smartest fool snaps at queries
The fog of monotony weighs on my mind
Weighs on my back, on my spine 
Pressing and stretching and twisting and turning
I cannot shake it, I cannot escape it

Humdrum choking my black lungs 
Humdrum climbing ladder rungs 
Toward the hole in the dungeon wall
From which... cracks form? Start to crawl—!

Humdrum trials are still nigh
But I, in tribulation, cry
Why am I still here? To die?
I long, I long for some quest high
And epic, threatening my life!

For at least at the edge of the knife
I know what is good from what is strife

I leap from the ladder! I fall through the air!
My nails scrape down the bricks— called care 
And doubt, held by the mortar called fear—
My feet dance for purchase on the wall sheer—

My fingers catch on the crumbling lip! 
My arms strain, stretch, for a skyward grip!
My dry tongue tastes the petrichor!
My yearning spirit, still, to soar—
I climb! I break! In grime, I take
Great handfuls of that dewy grass—
I will escape through this crevasse! 

Lord, give me strength in my doldrums.
My heart beats on. My soul still hums.

—Mosnar

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My grandparents' house, Thanksgiving Day, November, 2024

Gold breaks through silver-lined tatters borne on a cold whistle that builds to a howl
Curled-up canvas bobs beneath it, whipped now and again
But, clinging to the mast, it is not torn
Gold gilds the icy expanse as light sinks past those masts on the farther shore
The ones that do not bob with the crawling tide
The howling, whistling, murmuring, 
Whips the clinking halyards
Tugs taught the hempen lines
Then slackens them
Grazes skin and leaves it a little more rosy, a little more sharp
Lashes little white-brown waves which wash the shore
Bends the golden rushes praying there
Rushes on past, on business
To God knows where

The wind goes where He wishes
As do all the ocean's birds, beasts, fishes
Save for one, that lady bobbing patiently
Beside the dock, her hair wrapped close around her head
(Save some errant strands of weathered white)
She beckons me to take her, and let down 
 Her glorious hair, for so long curled up
  And set out past the map, the edge, the pale
He beckons me to take her across the vast and rolling waters
 Out of brown brack, into the blue-black brine 
  Joining the wind on business, sleet or hail
Sea beckons me to take up the oars
Wind sharpens me as if for unseen wars
The height and depth and breadth of land and sea 
All this was made for me to see
Explore, experience myself
All of this 

Yes, to drink from such lifegiving waters is a must 
And so the fire burns
The static builds, only conducted by the salt borne on the wind-chills
Ineffable thrills arise
My eyes seize on this enterprise
No longer bound by the lies
Of the Enemy
He who seeks to snuff me out—
The Utter Lout!
I am free now
And to One only do I bow
To drink from His cup is a must
From Him comes my
Wanderlust 

—Mosnar

The drone of box fans overhead...
The slow drip of water, smelling like lead...
The murmurs of numbers, reduced to embers
Of formulas useless that no one remembers...
The hum-buzz of unchanging fluorescent lights...
The windowless walls with their plastered off-whites...
The clock ticks away, seconds march on forever.
Doldrums, heavy, sway over my soul, to sever
All feeling, from my fingertips to my toes,
All memory of rich green grass, or the blows
Of a clear cold March breeze, washed clean by rain—
Replaced by a gradual numbing. A pain
Crawls down my spine and presses on my chest.
My eyes droop, weighed down by their famine of rest.
My lungs tighten, choked for a breath of fresh air.
My uncalloused hands ache from clenching. The glare
Of red mirror and of white parched scroll
Sanitizes my staring eyes as they roll
Upwards to dungeon's mottled ceiling.
Hold out, oh my heart, through this dull dark feeling!
My life ebbs away... but soon I'll be healing. 

—Mosnar

Far and away the lavender sky takes me
Out beyond my doldrums to the ethereal reality 
Ecstatic sparks shift in my stomach—
Butterflies emerge from their cocoons there
And take flight, molting, shedding stubborn shells
Behind— and I am awestruck and swept far under 
That flowing roiling tapestry of clouds 
Rippling, ripped and torn, but still it wraps
Around my quivering form. Not on my maps
Is this feeling found! Its name is Joy. 
With metals beautiful it makes alloy.
As I stare, my storms crumble away
My God, you are here! And so I shall stay. 

—Mosnar

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Thick flakes float down
From a white sky
Thick flake floats down
Into my eye—
ACK

—Mosnar