An ethereal collage of bold strokes in perpetuity.
A seascape at night; a mountain range from below,
The enormity of such vastness is difficult to behold.
One splash of color that perceives many shades
Enriching our souls with the revelation it conveys
To frame this moment and place it upon an altar
Would be to capture the sea, like a pet in a jar.
Our spirit is limitless and cannot be confined;
Dreams become reality in the subconscious mind.
To seek the finite for that which is interpretation;
Search no further, than your heart’s own verification.
Timeless and boundless conforming not to sensibilities,
Instinctively reaching us beyond our inscrutabilities.
We have truly been touched to the core. And what’s more?
We have become one with a moment of creative release;
And it is this passion that becomes our masterpiece . . .
The pain I felt inside the day you were laid to rest
The most beautiful part of my world was taken away
And has remained an empty place since that rainy August day
How fortunate the whole world shared in my grief;
It was a universal mourning beyond belief
Those unbearable days have become unending years;
Which is far too long for you not to hear our cheers.The love that is offered to the heavens in your name;
The millions who have stood and cried at your grave;
Offers proof your childhood dream came true---
There has never been another that comes close to you.
The mystery train that departed that long ago depot;
Still rides the rails no other artist can go.
So deep and abiding remains your fandom
That it is difficult for outsiders to fathom.
We have learned to forgive what they say about us;
How sad it is for those who don’t love Elvis.You left us once before when they sent you to Wiesbaden;
You were gone then too, but never forgotten.
How many times they have conspired to end our love
Ed Sullivan, the Army, Albert Goldman; what were they thinking of?
Nobody has ever come between "The King" and his royal subjects
Through every vicious, slanderous attack, we have coalesced.
The smile, the concerts, the books, the movies, the songs;
Are what gets us through this tragedy, and keeps us strong.
We have brought about your resurrection; you’ve been born again;
There will be plenty of love for you in the generations ahead.
Out there in the dawn there’s a beckoning candle--- your eternal flame
That burns brightly in our hearts each time we chant your name . . .
ELVIS! ELVIS! ELVIS!
You were John-John, or JFK Junior, but never Mr. Kennedy.
Only in death were you ennobled and granted your own identity;
By being the next link in your family’s long tradition of tragedy.
Word spread that another member of America’s monarchy,
Had been downed from the sky and was now lost at sea.
In our album of your family’s photos we saw it vividly again;
You with your fathers and uncles sailing off into the wind.
The mischievous First Son, under his father's desk at play;
Even as a man, thus in our hearts you remained;
The little soldier saluting his father who had been taken away;
As millions saluted back to you, on your third birthday.
One brief shining moment that in a thousand days, was gone;
Followed by ten thousand days we waited for you to carry on.
A nation that had been assured of your rendezvous with destiny;
Wept bitterly as it was fulfilled, by the curse of being a Kennedy.
A vibrant life that had only just begun to unfold was lost to the ages;
Reduced to grist for the mill by tabloid pundits and bar room sages.
Those final spiraling moments, were all you had that were your own;
On the very waters you had sailed and could see from your home.
Like the idealized dream of America, Camelot was a fictitious place;
But now even the dream to go there had vanished without a trace.
You had been the touchstone of the last American fairy tale;
When the White House was a Castle where lived a King we hailed.
We wanted that for you John. So much and so selfishly at times,
that we never gave you the chance to tell us what was on your mind.
From the last note of taps in’63, what you represented was clear;
Your place was to lead us across the horizons, back to the New Frontier;
With the eternal flame from your father’s grave you’d enlighten us all ;
That a nation bereft of compassion would become divided and fall ;
We would rally around your name with restored hope and belief ;
Instead we bound together over your death, with anguish and grief.
Excalibur sunk beneath the waves and upon them you were laid to rest;
With your ashes our idealized future sunk and away they were swept
Time to finally ask what together we could do for our country now;
But whom would we believe in as much again, that would tell us how?
When the present becomes bleak and the future holds for us no lore;
We weep for our unrequited hopes and remember days of yore.
We can see again Lancer and Lace and our lost innocence is found,
We gather to cheer touch football games, played in the compound;
Watching Buttons ride on Macaroni across the White House lawn
Like home movies these images bring back memories that spawn
And there is Jack holding the buttercup under the chin of his tot
Who lives in our hearts as the eternally effervescent Prince of Camelot . . .
I reach for your body beneath satin and lace.
As a tear wells in my eye, then rolls down my face.
Each kiss becomes more passionate than before .
Tantalizingly enticing each other to do even more . . . When another tear fell
Ecstasy and naked passion unbridled abound;
As our darkest fantasies are expressed aloud . . . And another tear fell
Hungry mouths feverishly seek kisses for sustenance;
Eyes drink in the ambrosia of a lover’s countenance.
An out of body experience occurs--- both real and spiritual
Bringing new meaning to so ancient a ritual . . . Then another tear fell
Tender nuzzling, primal probing on the edge of control;
Fantasiacally arousing us to the depths of our soul
Maniacally engulfed, we writhe in an anarchy of desire.
The kindled, subdued sparks have become a roaring fire.
Our hedonism drives us to euphorically undulate
With flesh and spirit we have entwined our fate . . And another tear fell
Fanning the flames of desire through the night, we burn on;
Till all that remains are the glowing embers in the dawn.
Though still driven to consume, our mortality intervenes;
With our last gasp we climax and ecstasiacally heave . . . Still, another tear fell
And I wondered through such elation why my tears fell,
Until I awoke and found that I was still in my cell . . .
nature out of control;
When called upon they need not ask;
"For whom the bell tolls"
From the howling bowels of fear
and unrelenting terror
You could not conjure up the horror
of this real-life nightmare
An evil soulless enemy mercilessly
stalking prey.
No matter how great the danger;
they cannot run away.
Only one will emerge victorious;
the other vanquished;
The battle wont be over till one,
or both, are extinguished.
Courage, honor and valor against:
explosion, smoke and flame
And though they are longtime foes;
the battle is never the same.
Heroic firemen stand tall against
the unholy trinity
At the center of the flaming chaos
they reach their destiny
Each will commit their last gasp to
the other’s destruction
Thus the battle to the death of the
fiery insurrection
Firefighters engage the beast
like an avenging angel
Risking their life for yours whenever
Earth is visited by Hell . . .
“Thorne, so
impressed were we with your entry that our Selection Committee unanimously
voted to include your poem in a compilation that promises to be the most sought
after anthology of poetry ever published. Under A Quicksilver Moon (Library
of Congress*ISBN-0-7951-5065-2) scheduled for publication in early 2002, has
been three years in the making and showcases the contemporary poets we believe
to be the most important of our era. We feel that your unique poetic vision,
so artistically expressed, will add importance and appeal to this edition
and therefore our Selection Committee has made a special consideration to
include your poem, several months after our original cut off date.
The International Society of Poets celebrate your talent, Thorne, and value the emergence of so gifted a poet . . .” — Howard Ely, International Library of Poetry.
