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…

…ever growing
…ever growing
…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 
companions. 

The short, slippy speech of soldiers. 
The smooth, lengthy stories of veterans. 
       It is warm among the honorable, 
       their fires so tempting to touch.

I’m tired, 
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 
or she
chooses to do with his 
or her 
life. 

See it is theirs, not ours 
nor theirs 
to decide, or judge, or concern
ourselves with because 
this is 
individuality. 

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,
abandoned together.

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.

Sincerely,
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 
under neath
and call it love