Question the questioning fervor and a fever attached to the brain
by a length of string of words and phrases, simply swooping across
a passionate page, a pent up rage kind of page. Rages:
Rage of love lifted upon the wings of a hawk, rage of anger, split
up the middle to show back bone, xylophoning the timber of truth
one hard knuckle at a time, a rap, sharp as a brass knuckle
on the bone of a head in need of knowing.
Rage of notes jangling from the high tree, a noose, drooping
on the jawbone of dishonesty, disloyalty and disjointed
rings of smoke blown from a duck’s ass, half submerged
in the slime of a man made pond.
Rage of righteous indignation and humility, mingling
like guests at a late night stag party, after the girls
and the gregarious song, sung by a husky voice
to deep in its beer and too soft in it sorrow.
A Questor, for lick of sense, and a stamp of sensibility,
or furor, or some small minute movement other than drudge
that shows there is a dim, slim, son of a bitchin’ chance
some will waken to feel. Yes, to feel rather than smother in sodden sadness.
Brow bent on the belief that it matters. All of it matters.
a disjointed phrase to patch a broken heart,
a swift scalping of seductive sloth, litter lying in state,
politicians pushing the coffee beans and well-aged wine
through the palsied fingers of flawed fate. It matters.
Slicked back hair and a club of oak, sharpened spear thrusts
of times and poems, and truth quietening the riotous wreck
when a warrior takes his place on the highest pinnacle
of a painted mountain to shout at the sky. I need to know.
They need to know what windmill needs tapping next.
Such rage as this is holy. The harrowing heckle and Jeckle
of some last brave raging so the syrupy skies remember his fist
full of fond remembrances and radiating resurgence to truth; as he knows it;
as he pens it; as he pins it on the night skies with Truth in his head.
Author notes
I have long admired Rob (Pinhead. For a ride down his raging river of poems see allpoetry.com/poet/Pinhead
Written May 16th, 2006
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Aw shucks maam. I wish I could write like this, or deserved the praise. I do, however wear out many a soapbox.lol. What a well written and largely undeserved gift this is. Before I slink away I will offer the two most inadequate words in the language. THANK YOU!
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"Rage of love lifted upon the wings of a hawk, rage of anger, split
up the middle to show back bone, xylophoning the timber of truth
one hard knuckle at a time, a rap, sharp as a brass knuckle
on the bone of a head in need of knowing."
"Slicked back hair and a club of oak, sharpened spear thrusts
of times and poems, and truth quiet the riotous wreck
when a warrior takes his place on the highest pinnacle
of a painted mountain to shout at the sky. I need to know.
They need to know what windmill needs tapping next.
Such rage as this is holy."
Ohhh...my...God...my...sista...what an incredible penning for Rob, one of the sweetest Scribes to ever vroom his way into my Heart...He will absolutely love it, my Friend...even whilst turnin' the loveliest shades of red...He is a humble Soul, after all...Yes, he rages...on the side of righteous indignation...on the side of terribly important Truth...on the side of the weak, weary & downtrodden...on the side of women who lust for him & children who adore him...on the side of the Artisan, who hears his subtle smoke calling their names...Completely brilliant, Dear Lady...Good luck in the contest...I often ask Pinhead just how many angels he's got dancin' up there, anyway??? 
Brava, my sista!!! 
Wanda
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Very nice write that you did for your friend good luck in my contest
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