Posts tagged Poetry
Posts tagged Poetry
These, then, are the scars I must bare
constant reminders of a sin that was not
mine to commit, wronged so long ago.
No, my act was not in defiance, a subtle
move from one to the next followed in
rapid succession by the force of creation.
But sullied was the deed, unfaithful, unfulfilled
neither god nor nature condoning such, together
results were against them.
A single punishment, what more need a sin of
such degree. More, a lingering effect when a simple
touch sends neurons flaring, firing ever which way.
To remedy, an easy bit, distance, keep two feet
more where half will do. Do not touch, a warning spread
not in defense of others but for the self.
And years more, waning in condition, perhaps the blight
has taken flight onward to some other form, but nay
only a dormant sleeper, where touch is okay…
…but not always, a straying stroke, a gentle hand gone
far or wide and rush comes feelings of intensity - breath short
stammering, hands tingle numb, face forgotten.
Running, hiding, what ever hole that is dark, private, cold
or warm, when human form has taken on the circle celestial
safety is abound. Close off the world, there is safety in shadows.
The shadows, where I now lie. A miserable wreck of an individual,
pride shattered, emotions sinking, and the need
to irrationally shut out the world…
…until there is no more
…and the world has gone
…and I am safe.
They sit talking of machine guns and
aero planes, war and command dripping into the stories,
new age warrior and acient hero - their lives buring
brightly with each other. Disbelief paints Youth’s face
Elder sage stroking the brush with practiced discipline,
“Every damn time, that’s the simplest damn thing,
they make lieutenants for that now,” but he does not
dare to defend, a question to feed the flames, oxygen
source growing brighter casting a deeper shadow,
not for long - another torch rises, smaller, quieter;
a wind carried with gusting new scent. Private
citizen now, Younger lives live many, the dedicated Aged
seasoned by cause: they are brothers, they are
The short, slippy speech of soldiers.
The smooth, lengthy stories of veterans.
It is warm among the honorable,
their fires so tempting to touch.
tired of lying to myself
that if I sit here long enough
things will eventually get better.
There is not momentum
no forward progression
in posting in the ground
watching the world grow by, no.
I must rise,
upon four pawed feet
from where so long I’ve laid,
the ground imprinted with my frame.
Weak, knees buckle at first
but again, the need, necessity
to create motion beyond labored breath
propelling me from dreams and fantasy.
Confidence in stride
with every step more, further
faster still growing steady in pace
the time has come, to run with the wolf pack.
Sweet nectar dripping finger tips, left over
remains from midnight passions strewn
waning sun to rising moon shine
settled memories soaking, basking within
fresh strewn dew covered grasses, the yester
of days, perfection nestled within retrospect
lips licking remnants, tongue savory reminder
sugar bliss, swallowing down - again forgotten.
The honey of a moment, gathered
poured satisfaction, gluttonous craving
dissipating, worn thin and gone.
Wet finger tips, empty of joy.
We are the trees that will always grow,
never touching the sky and always
touching the earth.
Sweet release from bitter tea
leaves soaked in morning due
reminding of a time.
Slow the roots move inching
forward progression aging
lower to the surface still.
Reach, and fall
grow and shrink
live and die…
There’s something to be said
about the boy who wakes up
wishing he were some one
just a bit taller,
just a bit leaner,
and possibly with longer hair.
There is something to be said
about the girl who is okay
with wearing pink dresses
and spending hours on her hair.
But there isn’t much to be said
about whether we should care
so much about what he
chooses to do with his
See it is theirs, not ours
to decide, or judge, or concern
ourselves with because
Because he is he
and she is she
and I am me
and you are you.
So I will tell him
wear your make-up
and feel proud and happy.
So I will tell her
smell like peaches
and be excited and safe.
We will accept you
and encourage you
and you explore your ways
never holding against
the need to discover
where you fit in the world.
So we grow,
from unconscious mass
to individual self.
As I lay to rest, these hollow words
sitting on their shelves collecting
particle dust and loose frayed string
what good they do now enveloped
in the darkness of slumber.
What sorrow there is in knowing
they will never have formed in connection
beautiful sentences, lined stanzas
or even a simple phrase - but pity not,
One day perhaps, in future time
to come and pass or linger a bit longer
some might come, searching, pining
for letters long forgotten, gone.
Shovel and pick in hand
they will scour this place finding
those words so hollow, fermented
filled with years of growing diction
sprouting leaves of connotation, empty
words sprouting full.
Dear Girl with the quill pen,
I hope you don’t think this too absurd but I find your choice of medium mesmerizing. I’ll take a bound of faith and mark myself as a writer, as I’m more than certain you are as well. I’ve used key boards and type writers but have never ventured anywhere close to the lands of calligraphy with such archaic tools. A modern day pen is the closest I could boast and I fear that holds little comparison.
From here I can’t see what you are writing, but I’m sure it matters little. With such eloquent pen strokes whatever ink finds itself onto that paper surely must be hinted with magic. To read the text is to watch lines and curves dance across the page, it is a literary ballet of sorts. Oh how lucky the recipient of that parchment – that is parchment you are writing on. Oh what a mystery you are that I have not seen or at least heard of you before. How could someone with such divine skills gone without my notice? But am I brave enough to close the distance between and ask a simple question such as what your name might be? I fear breaking the spell, or worse, creating a curse.
What if it is nothing but scribbles and tempted lines running across the page? I do not think I could bear with such a heart ache as that – a dream crushed in an instant, a fantasy doomed to nightmare. No, I think I shall stay put and leave you simply as the girl with the quill pen. Perhaps one day I will meet you in passing, or if Fate would have it better so, while you write some more. Then I will know. Until then write on dear angel of scripture. Set the dancers into motion, let the story unfold.
The Vagabond Poet
Do not go gentle into that good night
sweet lulled dreams absent of fright
but rage, rage against the dying of the light
fiery sun burn, magnificence ever so bright
and if sleep must be, no longer walking dreams
then let reality not sew upon its final seams,
keep with, as slumber takes hold, those visions
coming with Emotion’s touch. Oh decisions,
when baring chest open for mid night swarm
engulfing in mysticism and lacking form,
how now, the temptation holds, to be in dreams
where truth has no solid means.
Forever lost in the lies of joy
Night’s intricate plan of ploy.
No, do not go gentle in such arms,
rage against, they would do you harm.
Stay now, but a bit longer still
perched head watching sun on window sill
praying to dying light as it gleams
burning horizon as last seen.
light a fire
and call it love