The Poetry of Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

Back in the late 70's, after overhearing two young people conversing about Narcissus, and how looking at his own reflection was considered bad, I wrote the following:

Youth

I lift my eyes to the mirror

And see the bright goodness of life;

I touch my body and spirit

With thoughts that are free of strife;

I acknowledge that I am my reason

For asking myself to do,

That my aim may be rare----hard struggle to There----

Yet entirely mine to pursue.

I set my goal with my whole brain,

I plan each step about me;

I know that in me I've all the strength

To be what I want to be.

I swing out a door in the sunlight,

The mountains up high I scan;

Over them all I'm climbing,

The future within me----"I can!"

I know that not one hill is promised

(There's no guarantee of free height),

But that effort, and effort, and effort,

At least may help set me up right.

I work for the triumphs of working,

Of stamping new roadways, "Done!"

Of knowing my sharpness, my energy, my skill,

Are many joys pressed into one.

I stride the night skies of near-parted,

I mark where new pass-lanes belong;

Yes, I mirror the stars with more color

To celebrate life so strong!

Then I pause, at last, on Completion,

At least, till I newly begin;

For my dreams are still singing,

Thought's wake-bells tingling,

And gleams of new angles are in!

Brian Faulkner

[AMERICONORMAN]

About twelve years ago, after reading OPAR for the first time, I spent a very happy week writing happy songs.  Here's one:

Leap Champaigne

I think I must be happy

To dance my life away.

Okay, okay, I'm happy!

Happy every day!

I have no time for common things;

The average, it can wait.

My dancing light is on all night,

The only thing to rate.

My Love and I are going,

Like every night before,

Where melodies are flowing

Ceiling to the floor.

The band is heating up, now,

The violins I hear;

There is a time for everything

And everything is here.

We tap, we twirl, we swing, we whirl,

And now we tap again;

We spin around and turn a---way

Then sway on back again.

And smoothly slow, and graceful, oh,

While she is smiling more,

She is the best, she is the most,

The finest I adore!

I think I must be happy

To dance my life away.

Okay, okay, I'm happy!

Happy every day!

I have no time for common things;

The average, it can wait.

My dancing light is on all night,

The only thing to rate.

We take a flame of Leap Champaigne

And lightly toast our love.

We say to each "You are the lofty

Thing I'm thinking of".

And when we toss away the glass

It tinkles, crashing so;

She is the best, she is the most,

The finest that I know.

The chandeliers are sparkling,

And eyes are sparkling, too;

The confidence of dancers

Flashes every hue.

And when a song is over

The Crashing Wall is there

To take a throw---oh don't you know

How often we are there!

I think I must be happy

To dance my life away.

Okay, okay, I'm happy!

Happy every day!

Brian Faulkner

Brian:

I must say that I love this poem. If I can write something that I think is as good as this, I will post it hear in payment to the experience you have provided me. Truly wonderful, sir.

Americo.

[B. Royce]

About seven years ago I worked in the rolling hills of Aston, Pennsylvania, for a small company which manufactured plastic water pipes for chickenhouses. One inch holes are cut into the pipe about every five inches and plastic nipples are inserted and welded into place. In the chickenhouses the chicken reaches up his beak, pecks the metal stem in the nipples' center, and gets his clean drink. The old way was a dirty trough on the floor.

One of the most competent people I ever worked with was Rose. She inspired the following two poems. When I gave her copies I was rewarded with the most brilliantly happy smile I've ever seen---and then hard hugs and kisses.

The Hands Of Rose

The hands of Rose

Open, close,

Twist and snap,

Count, put back,

Seal, restack,

Slap that strap,

Tip, weigh, ship,

Wave! Clap!

Rest on hips.

Slender, dark brown outside,

Pink brown in the palms,

Tender, nails purple, gold, or silver,

Gold-ringed----bright-haloed grasp!

The hands of Rose are:

Swift as birds,

Light as snowflakes,

Gentle as joy.

And competent and sure and sharp they are,

Turning the saddles,

Pushing the buttons,

Dancing all day.

Tapering long fingers go toe to toe,

Bend, kick, straighten, stride just so;

Leap for a pencil, write down a lot,

Bags all ripe bulging, none forgot.

The hands of Rose are:

Graceful as wind,

Soft as sunbeams,

Cool as night.

And gathering, setting, filling the bodies,

Dropping the pins in, pounding the caps,

Or pulling the pipe down, welding the plastic,

Repeating it evenly, expert, fantastic,

The hands of Rose are:

Gladder than sparrows,

Pure as her eyebrows,

Calm as her lips are----

Atop of their time.

They touched me once in laughing cheer;

Smile of beauty led them, eyes light, clear.

No wasted motion there, for I, too,

Felt put together exactly right.

The Touch passes, moves on to other things to do,

Make true, instill Rose' spirit into;

Fill up boxes, load up trucks,

Cram, jam, sail the highway!

Vessel the world!

Sell it goods,

Buy some back;

Count up dough,

Stack on stack;

Fold it in,

Press with lips;

Hold it firm,

Rest on hips.

Nothing better anyone knows than:

A day's work done,

Man's thoughts in close,

The hands of Rose.

------------------------------------

(These poems were first published by David Gulbraa in a slender volume entitled "Conscious, Unbound", 1999.)

The Rose I Know

The Rose I know is not a flower,

But she's more sweet to me

Than all the blossoms all around

On every bush and tree.

And this whole valley, bright with dews,

Like a chandelier laid down,

Has most intense of sparkling views

When Rose comes into town.

Sometimes the wind is soft and free,

And sometimes hard and strong.

Or is it Rose that's walking by,

Or running up with song?

And when machines begin their humming,

And builders start to pound,

I know that Rose is doing something

To make the world go 'round.

The flowers we have are only flowers;

The wind, a something that somehow goes;

At work we have the measure-notes of beauty----

The steady, singing competence of Rose.

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

Here is another dancing song written after reading OPAR

The Doorway Of "Be"

At the gateway of grace, when I glance at your face,

I can see, I can feel, I can sway,

Peerless spirit free,

Palm to palm with me,

With lips aglow

And eyes that show

The might of ecstacy.

In the garden of "Found", when I whirl you 'round,

I do curl, I do bend, I do send,

Flowers hailing light,

Circling 'bout the night;

And while you draw

I stand in awe----

There is no star so right.

At the doorway of "Be", when you spin back to me,

I can say (I could sing, I could shout!),

"Joy is mine, I know!

A door of light does grow.

I hold the key----

It's you and me;

We lead each other----so!"

In the hallway of "Near", when we've locked in the cheer,

I do kiss, I do clasp, I do kiss,

Gold and silver free,

Breath to breath with me;

With eyes aglow

And arms that know

The rites of ecstacy!

When the music is past, and night doesn't last,

They will turn, they will smile, they will rise,

Rise in you and I,

Starry gazes nigh;

We'll step along

And sing this song,

"Together you and I".

We'll step along

And sing this song,

"Together you and I".

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

A new day! What shall i sing? Something philosophical.

I

I, firm, I, solid, I,

I am touch and sight and thought.

The stars, the earth, the universe,

They know nothing.

Only I know things known.

I, flesh, I, blood, I mortal, I,

I am invention, I am desire, I am joy.

Trees, clouds, waves, the wind,

They are hopeless.

Only I choose what I want;

Only I choose what I do.

I, lifting, I, standing, I, flying, I, ecstatic, I,

I am will, I am direction, I am closer, I am right.

Far islands, deep fountainheads, high vallies, galaxies, deeds,

They are something,

But only I know what they are,

And I'm myself, I am solid, I'm an entity.

This I am that moment I first separately began;

This I am every moment; sovereign, moral, rational----man.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The Mind Of Man (originally a song)

I stand on the earth and I work out a plan

To have all I desire.

I know what to do, and I shall go through;

I am the mind of man.

I test every place, I see what is here,

Buried in deep, half-hidden.

I know what to do, and I shall go through;

I am the mind of man.

I dare all the earth to keep what it has,

"Hold tight! long as you can!

No giant rock will turn me aside;

I am the mind of man".

I blast, and I drill, I drive endless still;

It gives me nothing easy.

I laugh and I sing for this very thing;

I am the mind of man.

Pry I, and pull, till my hands are too full!

I have all I desire!

I stand on the earth with all I am worth;

I am the mind of man.

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

Ayn Rand has meant more to me, to my development as a person, to ennabling me to preserve a positive spirit, than anyone. My poem, "Conscious, Unbound", while being in the way of a tribute to the heroes of Tiananmen Square, is even more a tribute to Ayn Rand. Here is roughly the first third of it.

Conscious, Unbound

'Round Altruist Square in Say-We, the Red city,

Half bent down in prayer a grey crowd of half pity.

So hungry, so helpless, yet aimless and still,

They waited Mao's spirit to bow to his will.

For far below ground there He turned His dark wheel

To grind up their grain, as His flesh, for their meal.

And with eyes swerving inward and hands against breasts

They beat down the doubtings of He-Who-Knows-Best.

Up on a low wall hung the image of Mao,

With face of loose rubber, rough plastic His brow.

His eyes were deep shallows, His limp lips intent;

"I am what you make me"---that's what it meant.

And bound underground there, on knees and on hands,

Around and around men plowed through the sands.

They were weighted with chains of the chant of "Deny!"

They were bitted with guilt for the ill of an "I";

They were drilled into drudges to do without dreams

And tear, while Hope trudges, smiles above screams.

From first step to last step, all night and all day,

Mao's message rolled through them to "save" and to slay.

"Your dreams", He admonished, "breed violence, hate,

And only the ignorant dare to beat fate.

And song", He commanded, "must only be sung

To pound into union the souls of the young.

"Now virtue", He told them, "is duty to need,

And the first ones must hold them the last ones to feed.

And height of attainment", this ruler extolled,

"Is sigh in contentment whenever you're told.

"But vice of all vices and lie of all lies

Is to do your own thinking or ask any whys.

For thought is a jungle you cannot control;

Much safer one leader to thrust up the soul.

"Close eyes and breathe deeply, then tone down your mind;

Tranquillity waits you when thought's far behind.

Those 'beasts' are not wiser, nor happy, nor free,

Who think that they're thinking or dream that they see.

"So give up, good people, these urges to know,

For I will be with you wherever you go".

From first step to last step, all night and all day,

Mao's "message' slid through them to slave and to slay.

The wheel ground slowly, it groaned through the wall;

The plastic and rubber seemed laughing at all.

The whole crowd of pity half-lowered their eyes,

A half-blank within them and no strength to rise.

But to lift up light eyelids and to trust that first sight;

To shake off the shamebelt of the rust-reign of fright;

To lash back with tethers of cowing now done,

Swear life to Sharp Focus and rise as the sun;

To grasp a sound vision of meaning so rare

One boasts, in defiance, "I'm blind to the Square!"

To turn on false places, false faces, false ways,

And follow one's logic straight through the maze;

To break through the wall there of "damned till you die"

And know that its "iron" was always a lie;

To pry out the sin-wire they stuck 'round your birth

That not one desire could climb to bright worth;

To reach down inside you, reach deeper, attain,

And rip out the sentence "Life is but pain";

To level right Anger's pure curse on Mao men

And vow not to ever know "nothing" again;

To walk with eyes open, one's self as one's guide,

And claim, as a master, the hard ground of pride;

To switch on the sacred high beam of man's light

Till all that seemed sunken soars into sight;

To clasp, in grave rapture, grand sign of Ayn Rand

And squeeze out the essence of all that was banned;

To drink in completeness, in sweetness, in youth,

Of choice that is reason and life that is truth;

Then raise, with rare measure, thine egoist tone,

And, glad-mouthed with treasure, set out-----alone.

This is man's promise---- conscious, unbound;

His sure staff--- existence, his clear brow his crown.

No fist can take it, no laws thereof bind;

The claws of the ages cannot change the mind.

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

A light-hearted way to end the day:

The Revolutionary Bee

Off in the roses

The rose-bee dozes;

Oh, what a shirker, he.

Asleep in the lily,

The lily-bee, silly,

Yawns so languidly.

Down in the daisy

The daisy-bee, lazy,

Dreams of a honey-bee sweet.

Up in the honey-comb,

Buzzing with Boston,

Dumping the honey, he!

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

After having heard my neice complain about having to practice every morning I wrote this for her:

Practice

Grand piano for hands that take command,

Speaking keys and rods and hammers,

Striking new, softly, felt on steel strings,

Felt of the soul dreaming, laughing,

Ringing, as it vibes into the wood

The do-able dong! of indelible swellable song,

The fusable ding! of how thinly and fragible thing,

The beautiful beat of repeatable needable gain----

The phrase that skips in the sky----

"Undefeated too, am I!"

Ringing, hammering, playing,

Again and again and again!

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

Living in a small old town in which little happens can keep one alert to the seemingly smallest improvements.

Telephone Pole

I sit like that pole that is standing outside,

Firm and purposeful, whole.

It bears up the wires of worldly desires;

Like me it is strong with soul.

One simple thing touched with Man's thought,

It stands up tall for good;

One happy thing for all who'd out-sing,

An always-at-work man-of-wood.

Brown in the sun, black in the rain,

Straight in a wild storm's run,

It carries supreme each "I-will-do" dream

Till east/west ride into one.

Birds skip around as though to catch sound,

As happy light bells were their feet.

An in-house "brrr!"----the whole flock whirr!

Swaying the wires sweet!

I look at that pole that is standing outside,

Bold and purposeful, whole.

"Wave"-thoughts intersect, desires connect;

Speech has a sailing soul.

Now a man climbs, steady and fast;

Straight up the sky he goes!

He's got to the top----no tool can drop----

And expertly does what he knows.

(Shirt red, pants blue;

Face, hands, dust gold;

White-capped in blue sky,

Light, ready, bold!)

Around one shoulder loops the line,

To a slope, down-sweeping away.

But up, the end, he clamps right in,

Deft handling all the way.

Quick in the sun, grim in the rain,

Strong in a wild storm's run,

He's got to be there to anchor a pair

Of "I-will-do" dreams to come!

In front, each side, runs a squared-off spar,

Where tell-waves peak up to cross.

He keys a device for splice-beauty, nice----

"Nice work, sky-way boss!"

It's done. He looks. Far about him.

He sees where the young town will grow.

Now climbs to the earth. All 'round him

The sun just brightens it so.

Now off, to a new one, to anchor and climb,

Then a new, and a new, and a new.

He'll stand and he'll ply at the top of the sky

For a dream sailing east/west due.

Up through the dawn, on through today,

Week, month and year he is good.

He throws 'cross the land each hear-a-bit strand;

He's clearly the god of that wood.

It waits. Birds wait. And I stand up,

Glad, attentive, light.

The sky is so near and the tree-tops so clear

I feel like that tall pole's height.

Now it's easy to see it once was a tree,

And maybe a pretty one, too;

But I strongly avow, "You're a handsomer, now,

Now you've got a more man-thing to do".

Handsomer, straighter, keen thought its creator,

Brrr! efficient-sky-topper for guide,

There's a pure million more as tall-standing, I'm sure,

But this one's my due again pride!

Brian Faulkner

There is a special delight in reading this one aloud, as all poetry should be read, and in a full voice, not a whisper---I've known people who have done this last one; they are amazed that they don't get anything more out of reading it aloud. I wonder, do they play their favorite music barely above mute? And don't read slowly, as if it were a new philosophical treatise. Be at ease, have fun.

[B. Royce]

In the Kinsey thread the issue of hedonistic sex has arisen. What about teenagers who only like each other very much, yet want to discover the pleasure-possibilities of their bodies? Cannot this be an innocent endeavor? Two poems from my youth(after breaking free from a Baptist upbringing, and the guilt I was taught I should feel):

Thou Art God

Thou art God,

O Naked Girl,

And all of Thee be fine.

I, too, God,

With air for wearing,

And all of Me be Thine.

Come! Let's roll upon the bed

And set the springs asinging;

Two into One,

God unto God,

Our virginity far-flinging!

------------------------------------

Two, as one, we go,

Walking in the shadowed rain.

The grass softens,

The long green branches reach.

Thick as raindrops fall

Kisses fall, and fall again.

Hands grow heavy,

Pulses bound;

And Oh, the heavenly motion,

And Oh, the joyful sound!

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

A new day! Again! Time to get to work!

Self-Employed

Star-dash cars now zip along the street,

Wink into the town,

Swerving like party-colored leaves

Surfing the wind.

Everyone's going going going SOMEwhere!

Gone. Here? "Yes!

Straight to the top!

Another perfect day

For another perfect dollar!"

Mine! I have made it!

Now send up flowers

And sky-hearted piano players!

I want clouds to break,

And stars to take,

With craft ever true up-soaring!

Sky, sun, time----won!

Won for the president

Of company Me!

Am I too bold, too free, too loud?

Just wait till I'm more proud!

No, I can't be quiet.

Love, come now, with me, all night!

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

Here is another of my own. Published in "Conscious, Unbound", 1999.

"And I Will Stand" (with a touch of sci-fi)

" and I will stand on earth in selfish might

And shoot a meteor from its earth-bound flight.

I'll keep the towers of each wealthy street

As free from danger as their climb is right.

"Vain? I once levered steel right through the sky

And clasped the promise of a pagan day.

I saw the scattered jewels below me shine

Brighter than stars above, and knew the beauty

Of naked thought in hero-stance of truth.

Then flew to my lips surge of praising song,

And with the plane's motor grew mine more strong.

Our motor, our lasting flight, merged, soared, curled.

We landed, taxied; doors opened, winds swirled,

And then I saw the greatest city in the world.

And now I sing much prouder of man complete

When carved with joy I walk each tow'ring street.

And now I speak out loud for selfish kind,

'Man is good, life his all, sure his mind!'

And I will stand on earth in selfish might

And shoot a meteor from its earth-bound flight."

Brian Faulkner

And shoot a meteor from its earth-bound flight."

[B. Royce]

Then, back 400 years out of the city, which most Elizabethans regarded as not a fit background for the expression of ideal life, to the centuries popular

The Passionate Shepherd To His Love

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That valleys. groves, hills, and fields,

Woods or steepy mountains, yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks

By shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair-lin-ed slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Come live with me and be my love.

By Christopher Marlowe (1600)

A fine poem, with a simplicity and smoothness which had rarely existed in English before. It served as the inspiration for the following song by me, here without music.

Come My Love (after Marlowe)

I have many many notes to sing,

And I have many melodies.

Come, come, come, oh come, my Love,

I'll sing you anything you please.

Sing you any rapture, sing you any try,

Sing you any power right;

Sing you anything you love to buy

In daytime or in night.

Sing you of the flowing breezes

Swirling in your perfumed hair;

Sing you of your eyes so steady

And showing evermore, "I dare!"

I can sing of any thing that passes through the sky;

Every city on the earth is just a note of "I".

Roaring and soaring, engines a-driving,

Bridges and towers and all;

Bells that are ringing, hammers a-pounding,

Girders connecting, sing "I".

Quiet time alone,

Thinking what you'll do;

Seeing what you've done so far,

Where you're going to.

This I sing inside of me,

Singing all the time;

I will sing you everything

If you will be mine.

I have many many many many notes to sing,

And I have many melodies;

Come, come, come, oh come! my Love,

I'll sing you anything you please!

Brian Faulkner (1979)

[B. Royce]

Another song without music to end another day.

Serenity

My Love, my Love, I love her sight;

She loves to see right through the night.

Of mystery and shadow far

She sees the very why they are.

Sealed things start opening,

Secrets all are known;

She gives a piercing look at them

And makes them all her own.

And when she looks at me-------

Serenity.

My Love, my Love, I love her face;

Of purest "I" it shows the place.

The smile of her is fine to know;

She's always got a place to go.

And somewhere there's a Far Away

That has no guarantee,

But wants the heart of every day

To beat integrity.

And when she looks at me-------

Serenity.

My Love, my Love, I love her love;

She is the very splendor of;

She fills my life with melody

And we arise in harmony.

And step by step we walk along,

And step by step we sing,

Till suddenly we're marching on

For one ideal thing.

And when she looks at me------

And when she looks at me------

Serenity!

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

One way definitely not to begin the day is to turn on the radio and hear someone spouting the "glories" of self-sacrifice.

I Do

"The pure man plies not for himself one day".

No! that is a bad bad moral! False!

And also, in each soul-suck Ed'nish fiber, damned!

Heed it not, O People; waste not life!

Curious, examine out its root

With star-blade logic and laser-beam sight.

Now morning-glories of manhood scale the sky;

Up, ye builders, lift! and ledges, shine!

Sun, wind, feathers, hail together!

See the Master soaring over worn-out night-----

Truth-Master, Right-Climber, Self-Maker, Man!

He loves to cry his immortal song, "I Can!"

Day one, day two, and every day all through

I work for me and what I love, I do!

"The pure man plies not for himself one day?"

Nay, then he is a weedy man,

A faded, used up, baseless man.

O trowels, flowers, towers, what say?

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

A few years ago, while working at a motel in Springfield, Pa., a darkly handsome middle-aged woman from the tiny country of Belize took on the job of front desk clerk; on her way to something better, she said. The motel had turned over three clerks in the last three weeks; she, Alice, was a magnificent departure from the trend.

Alice

Alice, working at dawn,

Adding figures, answering calls;

Double-checking, checking out;

Working, working, working.

Alice, talking on the phone,

Alice, thoughtfully alone,

Alice, gazing in space,

Alice, Alice, Alice.

Face so beautifully unique,

Honest sincerity there does speak;

Eyes dark as midnight specked with light----

Harmonies of music changed to sight.

Voice low and calm

With bits of laughter, clear;

She can quickly frown

Down irrelevant cheer.

She's fast on her feet;

Zoom! quicker than quick!

Here, there, back, forth,

Stops! Sits down to write.

Alice, transcribing her soul;

Alice, totally self-responsible;

Alice, creating her life;

Alice, my friend without strife.

She'll find her a better job,

And do what she loves to do----

Give worth to every place

That has her face in view.

Her competent mind will learn

Each delicate thing it must

To earn her those quiet thrills

That are good and true and just.

Alice, alive on her own;

Alice, in love all day;

Alice, working the meaning

Of "doing it my own way".

There is no woman on earth

Who for all time is so right,

Who bears in her spirit more worth

Than a thousand stars shimm'ring with light.

Alice, a name without malice;

Alice, the jewel of life's chalice;

Alice, friend's heart's grand palace,

Alice, Alice, Alice.

Brian Faulkner 2000

[B. Royce]

Another week of earning, now time to spend.

Good Deal

I come to buy! I come to buy!

The better goods are here!

Regard me with a happy eye;

I come to buy! I'm here!

"Welcome then, New Customer;

We both shall profit, see!

Such perfect things I have for you,

If you have gold for me".

I've gold, indeed, and silver, too;

My wallet rings and rings!

And I will trade all that I've made

If you will trade those things.

"You have enough, you have enough;

I am so glad to sell".

And I to buy, to have the goods

That all my wants do tell.

"Shake hands, shake hands; you are my friend".

And you are mine, agreed.

I came to buy, you came to sell;

What better good, indeed!

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

A few weeks ago I wrote the following poem for my sister, who, after half a century of being a born-again-Christian divorced her minister husband, quit her church, and found herself a productive job. She loves tulips.

The Tulip Brigade

A hundred million tulips came marching in to town,

They strode above the weeds and threw their joy around.

They marched down every alley, they tramped down every street,

With a big bold chorus, "Ain't life sweet!"

A hundred million tulips went charging to the hills-----

They're better on the flats, but they said they wanted thrills.

They ran down little vallies that seemed to lie in wait,

With a big bold chorus, "Ain't life great!"

A hundred million tulips were gath'ring at a lake;

They leaned a bit and saw it, and yes, was no mistake-----

A hundred million tulips a-gath'ring in the sky,

With a big bold chorus, "My oh my!"

A hundred million tulips came marching back to town;

They set up guards at gardenplots and nodded love around.

They issued proclamations with a dandelion band

And a big bold chorus, "Ain't life grand!"

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

The following poem was originally a song I wrote as a tribute to Ayn Rand's most beneficial influence on my life. I actually read her two greatest novels in the opposite order as here represented.

Born To Win

When I was younger I was so happy;

My life was singing every day.

But I grew older thinking dimly

And couldn't see the straightaway.

I walked alone along the sea

And let the blues wash over me.

I covered up my happy song so long.

Then I found a sterling book

And I took a second look.

I knew I was not dead when I read The Fountainhead.

And the author wrote again

With a dauntless mighty pen.

She praised the mind of man----

Atlas Shrugged! Ayn Rand!

There's no more blues,

They've gone away;

A little blast

Puts in its say.

It's getting louder,

It's coming in,

"Read all about it!

I'm born to win!"

Never sad,

Never "Woe";

I am glad

Where'er I go!

I'm alive now;

I am Pride now;

The news is in----

"I'm born to win!"

When I was younger I was so starry,

A brighter dream for every day.

But I was distant from the practical

And never burned the mist away.

I walked alone along the sea

And let the blues wash over me.

I covered up my happy song so long.

But, I found that sterling book

And I took a second look.

I knew I was not dead

When I read The Fountainhead,

Again and again and again!

And that Great One wrote again

With a sacred sovereign pen.

She mapped the mind of man----

Atlas Shrugged! Ayn Rand!

There's no more blues;

They've gone away.

A little blast

Puts in its say.

It's getting louder,

It's coming in,

"Read all about it!

I'm born to win!"

Never sad,

Never "Woe",

I am glad

Where'er I go!

I'm alive now;

I am Pride now;

The news is in----

"I'm born to win!

A writer was up,

A writer was up,

A writer was up a way;

A singer is up,

A singer is up,

A singer is up to stay;

And we say, we say,

And we say,

"I'm born to win!

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

I walked outside and heard and saw a crow flying from tree to tree, and, having been thinking about a "God" problem in another thread, I made up

Crow Song

Crow in the palm,

What is your psalm?

"Caw! Caw! Caw!

To God I do not belong."

Crow in the evergreen,

What do you mean?

"Caw! Caw! Caw!

I'm really here,

I'm really seen."

Crow in the day,

What do you pray?

"Caw! Caw! Caw!

Get off my back,

I am okay!"

Crow in the night,

Where do you 'light?

"Caw! Caw! Caw!

Up in the palm

To sing my song.

Caw! Caw! Caw!"

[AMERICONORMAN]

Another song without music to end another day.

Serenity

My Love, my Love, I love her sight;

She loves to see right through the night.

Of mystery and shadow far

She sees the very why they are.

Sealed things start opening,

Secrets all are known;

She gives a piercing look at them

And makes them all her own.

And when she looks at me-------

Serenity.

My Love, my Love, I love her face;

Of purest "I" it shows the place.

The smile of her is fine to know;

She's always got a place to go.

And somewhere there's a Far Away

That has no guarantee,

But wants the heart of every day

To beat integrity.

And when she looks at me-------

Serenity.

My Love, my Love, I love her love;

She is the very splendor of;

She fills my life with melody

And we arise in harmony.

And step by step we walk along,

And step by step we sing,

Till suddenly we're marching on

For one ideal thing.

And when she looks at me------

And when she looks at me------

Serenity!

Brian Faulkner

This one is awesome too!

Americo.

P.S. If you are anything like Richard Halley then you will want more than my mere emotional reaction. But in time I hope to learn how to give my conceptual evaluation.

Americo.

[B. Royce]

Well, I'll begin Valentine's day with a poem I wrote years ago when reading a lot of Elizabethan poetry.

I Never Stop

My darling sweeting

No loving gives;

For my defeat

She gladly lives.

My heart half-breaking

She smiles to see;

And songs I make

Derideth she.

She broke the flowers,

The ones I bought;

I worked four hours,

And all for nought.

She cannot 'bide

My questing 'lorn,

And throws aside

My letters torn.

I begged her once

For a little kiss,

She called me "Dunce",

And threw a hiss.

And when her dress

I hap to touch,

I must confess

She sighs not much.

And yet she sees me

Every day;

She loves to tease,

She lives to play.

But though she plot

No heart to win,

I never stop

What I begin.

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

Two simple poems for Valentine's Day.

Song

From the glory of your eyes

To the story of your face

Steel wings arise,

Far-off lands have place.

Truth you bear within you;

Light goes shining forth;

Only love can win you,

Love of life on earth.

The joy of one sharp place,

The clean span of the skies----

In the story of your face,

And the glory of your eyes.

_____________________________

Profit

Sunlight is flowing golden

Over the rough ungiving ego-hands of love,

And all is happiness and justice

On the body reverential and the profit of.

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

And my finale, just finished yesterday.

The Anti-Valentine's Valentine

For one who loves not Valentine's

I break my bow in half,

Nor shoot an arrow from Love's heart

If she but mock and laugh.

I'll not be Cupid, no, not I,

For one whose sweet glance chills;

I'd rather look at frozen sky

Or die upon thorny hills.

For one who loves not Valentine's

All teddy bears I toss;

And I shall only catch a kiss

If it's shiny chocolate gloss.

I shall not waste, no no, not I,

A whole day's pay on roses,

For she who only counts this day

A thing of feints and poses.

And yet, when all is said and done,

And Valentine's is past,

At night I'll string a dreamy bow

And pierce her heart at last.

But no! It's not enough!

This airy nothing stuff.

It spin cannot the key

To engine her and me.

In place of charm,

A hand on arm,

A grasp, a pulling in!

Four lips that surge

To urge a merge,

More profiting to win!

We'll double be

Monopoly-----

Insidership divine!

Assert the real,

Consume the deal,

And buy up Valentine!

________________________

Happy Valentine's to all lovers of life!

Brian Faulkner

[B. Royce]

Almost a new day, with more work to be done.

My Own

Here from my waist, going sailing on for glowing flowing miles----

O beautiful waving gold, O giant Wheat,

My work of thought and hand and ringing dusty steel,

My ocean of sunlight under the blue sky,

O Wealthy Solitude, perfectioning of love,

My real world's self, promised, fulfilled.

Yes, O Wind, now lightly

Flare out your melodies on these yellow fields,

Earth staff and I bar.

Stir and sway along in holy song of soil and you,

And my great deed between.

O Royalest Song I see,

Whirling away like a hymn from me,

I made you possible, and you fill me,

All around me, waltzing of sweet heads o'er,

Hearing the great plain floor,

"Whispering wonder, glad to be under,

The world's good, this lover of Man."

Now soon to burn in long hours of thinking,

In the fueling of builders for uptowering towns,

Yes! and with grandest statues of heroic manhood----

Soon! O Wheat, soon!

And one a woman, looking up, proud, independent.

For rational ideas have been sown,

And very real people choose light,

And the glory of life is reknown,

And the wave of the world is bright.

O Song sailing at my waist,

Waiting my word of thought, my hand, my whirling machine,

My joy of triumph and my love of work,

O Life cresting at my waist,

My Own!

Brian Faulkner