Poetry

I wrote some poetry while in Peru. There are three poems and one short essay here for your enjoyment. For your convenience, I'm using scroll box technology which is one of the few things I know in html. Enjoy.
This first one doesn't make a whole lot of sense even to me. It just popped into my head, like a kind of waking dream, (it was late at night on the plane). If anyone has any ideas, I would appreciate your comments.

Mercy

As I walk down the street,
the people I meet,
Each one that I greet,
The cop on his beat,
The firm sound of feet,
All alone in the street.

The sunshine is warm,
As I reach out my arm,
There's no cause for alarm,
For I mean you no harm,
Come in, where it's warm.

A small child will cry,
A strange man pass by,
All this I spy,
With My own little eye,
I let out a sigh,
And then I,
Start to cry.

This next one is a short essay I wrote about The Story (with capital letters *shivers*)

The Power in the Story

They're just words you know, written down on a piece of paper, in a standard 9.75x7.5 inch composition notebook. There's nothing really special about them; they're only ink and paper, marks on a page. To the uninitiated, the illiterate, or someone from a foriegn country, they mean nothing, simply an odd collection of lines and shapes.
And yet, these...words, take on a life of thier own. Via thes 'marks' great stories are told. Mighty warriors fight fearsome battles. Brilliant tacticians wage terrible wars. Bold heroes undertake perilous quests. Powerful wizards cast mystical spells. Intrepid explorer's travel to far worlds, or alternate realities. Dynasties rise and fall. Leaders are born. The world is saved by an unimportant child. These are our legends, our epics, our fairy tales, our tall tales, our science fiction, our hard fiction, our histories, our stories.
Just words, and yet it is through these words that stories live. Whether told to eager young children by a wise old man, or written by an author for the masses to read, The Story holds power.
Sometimes pictures are used: in movies, live theater, comic books, or graphic novels. Sometimes no words are necessary and the picture is enough. Whether it's a mime on a street corner or a beautiful painting on a museum wall, The Story is told.
A story can be told in music also, either with the words of a song, the graceful movements of a dancer, or even the mere rythm, melody, and harmony of well crafted or rough hewn instruments. In music The Story lives.
In hardship, The Story tells of a better time; in prosperity It tells of the courage with which adversity was faced. During war we tell of peacful utopias; in peace we describe fierce battles. The Story endures good and ill alike.
Everyday we go to school, or to work, or to play. Every man's small, individual actions and reactions are amalgamated into society, into a world of actions and reactions, a world of life, a world of stories. Everything we do, every person we talk to, every word we say, every hand we shake, every breth we breathe, adds to The Story.
Transferred by words, pictures, actions, or music, through pain and sorrow, through pleasure and joy, The Story lives, not on the page or the screen, or in the sounds, but in our hearts, in our thoughts, in our minds, in our souls. It is here that the story thrives.

Well, it's not the best thing I've ever written, but I think I got my point across.

I dont think I'll tell you what thoughts prompted this one, although the general mood is fairly obvious.

Fire Dance

Missed opportunities
Untried chances
Flicker by
The fire dances

Long lost loves
And old romances
Rekindle flames
The fire dances

I hadn't known
Or understood
Until too late
And you were gone for good

Oh for the things you never knew
I never said that I love you
I must have had a thousand chances
And all the while the fire dances

The fire flickers in my soul
It quickly flares out of control
The agony I'm going through
Could it be all from losing you

I sit and wonder
While I wait
Is it all over
Am I too late

Or will there be another chance
To reignite a failed romance
The question pierces like a lance
I sit and watch the fire dance.

Only one left, this one refers to the fact that I always use rhyme and meter in my poetry hence the title, but it has philosofical ramifications as well, if you can find them.

Living In Rhyme (Obsession, Part I)

Am I living in rhyme
Is that why all the time
everything that I say
Has to rhyme in some way

All the things that I do
Some without meaning to
The things that happen each day
They all rhyme in some way

I could run, I could hide
I could defend my pride
It matters not where I stay
The rhyme won't go away

Well, that's all for now, I have an unfinished poem waiting for attention, and hopefully there will be others later.
Cy'all