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Monday, October 22, 2007

Take a Breath, Isaac

A giddy surge of shining glee
Abruptly intercedes the gloom
That had before so hounded thee.

The uproar laughing its way free
Casts blinding light upon the doom-
Enraptured ones who yet will see.

Contageous of a hearty kind,
Those sounds of laughter come in force
And capture all the neighbor minds

I do so love the bouant feel
That brings a certain woe divorce
And has unequaled gift to heal.

Ahh, laughter. What a joy!

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Moral Sinks

"Contempt" would not describe in full
My heart's disgust with worldly man.
Little wonder, then, that I
When gazing in upon my mind
(As I am apt to do for hours)
See bubbling up like molten lead
A vengeful, reckless will to "fix"
The problems plaguing man's good heart.

The roaches found at darkest night
With drunken slur and vicious fight
Should be destroyed or be disarmed
As one would missiles Devil-sent.
Too harsh? Perhaps, but loathe am I
To ease the weight of social right
Placed here by man to mirror sins.
Their acts belie a pious word;
The cost of sinning must be death.

And arbiter of Truth, I'm not,
Nor any perfect soul besides,
But I despise those moral sinks
And wish for one to rid their stink.
There's a bitter Eastern Wind
That tosses golden leaves
And plants the unborn tree
In deep, unknowing soil;

Is the fertile land
Aware that in its hands
Are placed by fiery wind
The protégé of Hope?

No.

After darkened hours of ceaseless swirls
Of mind-plays seize my eyes and stop my sleep;
And just before the gentle night is slain,
An army of songs is set upon the day.
Do these wondrous feathered songs burst forth
From knowing hearts that recognize their worth?
And do they sing for me, their weary crowd,
Who hangs on every note and ponders each?

No.

Did ancient likes of man
Ink walls intent on aid
For modern study's use?
Those grand and eerie shapes,
Those ancient mental maps
Of man's first steps;
Were they for us?

No.

Nature knows no need for pleasing
Any senses of its greatest minds;
How, pray how! can man defend
Its desperate, constant quest for
Glory? Can we?

No.

Does this fit nature; Eastern Winds;
Fertile land; blustered seed;
Crying birds; ancient man?

No. Like the birds' depthless melody
A writer of Truth is never bound
By human whim; am I?

Yes. Mine.

Wisdom?

No.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Critical Correction

In my most recent poem, "An Autollegory," I tried to gauge my ability to write meaningful and relevant things without having experienced much in the way of hardships. I proposed a solution to that problem with personal introspection. My error was in looking solely at myself, and not enough at the world around me. After accidentally exploring some things online, namely "Fort Liberty," as well as reading comments about the recent school attacks that absolutely appalled me, I have come to rectify my mistake. This, combined with the cumulative actions I've seen at "one of the finest institutions of learning in the world" by "the cream of the cream of the crop" I have realized that it is the WORLD'S fault that my voice should have any weight, because I remain (God keep me thus) a marginally moral individual. Most of the world is going to the dogs.

Critical Correction

*(Most accurately read out loud with clenched teeth)*

My fingers shake, my ears both pound.
This vile screen swims 'round and 'round
Inside my mind, a wild beast
That ravages the mental feast.

My stomach knots, my clenched jaw sears.
To watch the top, the best of peers
Dismantle any moral sways
And toss them in the blazing haze.

My throat constricts, my eyes burn hot.
This fury in me I knew not,
Which gnaws and bites my self restrain
And tempts a blast of highbrow pain
To overload and loose its chains;
At last--AT LAST reap vengeful gains.

What scum surrounds, what filthy souls
Corrupt by imps with evil goals.
I'm saturated, swamped with it,
And no quick bath will rid the spit
Of vermin's words that, uttered out
For all the world, like sewage spout.

Do they think? Have they minds?
They toss Humanity's dry-picked rinds
To feed the poor they will not see,
Content to take and spew and pee.
They arm their young, and send them off;
Like demon spawn they weeze and cough
Their message to the thoughtless scamps
That give them soapcrates for their rants.

They have no wall to check their voice,
For by our laws they claim their choice
Is safe from scorn, well think again!!!
I THIS day promise to begin
The bloody struggle of moral fire
That has been beaten back by dire
And heartless rogues that aim to kill
This country's meaning with their ill
Interpretations of our laws.
They choose (surprised?) to clamp their jaws
Around the throat of struggling faith
And shake the bodied soul to wraith.

I’m done, though still not entirely calmed. You still have no idea how angry people are making me. I know I’m not the only person who tries to be decent, but they’re getting so hard to find. And THAT, the rarity of anyone outspoken for morality, not any ability or experience of my own, is the true reason that I write compulsively and why I feel like my words NEED to be heard... which they are not. It aggravates the living daylights out of me.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

An Autollegory

A question has begun to plague me: how could I be destined to write poetry when my life has been so blatantly free of events that would normally drive a person to true wisdom. Simply put, can a person achieve knowledge of difficulties without being challenged himself?

Abe Bennet lived a solitary life,
Perusing rows of dusty, gentle books
That lined the walls that bound for him his world:
A store of truth for any seeker’s quest.

Abe’s lord was Soodoe, King of Abapax,
Who ruled with mighty hand his spoiled land.
While battles raged, Abe watched them from afar,
And wrote of what he saw without his walls.

Abe’s life was charmed, protected as he was
By brutal lord and equal vicious luck
That placed him out of reach while thrusting off
To fight score’s scores of men with equal worth.

So what could Abe, who suffered no in life
Nor dabbled e’er in man’s corrupting oils
Expound in verse what might have weight to those
Who triumphed daily more than Abe had once?

But, lo, his poems, scripted cleanly through
Held gems of wisdom wrapped in gentle cloth,
For watching, reading, hearing others fail
Will teach with force but spoils not the man.

Pray, who is wiser, Soodoe King or Abe?
The master of the sword and seer of sin
Or master of the word and seer of man?
Abapax says Soodoe, but the wise would answer Abe!

Monday, October 8, 2007

Attention!!!

If you read this blog and skim the deeper poems because they just don't make any sense, this is your lucky day! I am going back through my poetry archives and writing notes and explanations about the creation or meaning of my poems. If you want to get emails with these annotated poems, leave a comment here with your email address or email me at i_am_ihop@yahoo.com . From now on, every poem I publish here will coincide with emailed versions with side-by-side notes to those who want them.
Cheers, oh acolytes of versed (almost) wisdom.
Ihop

Professor Shadow

Nikes cast twin shadows
Each on a side
In perfect oppositiong
To flourescent rays.

A loose-curled hand
Becomes a fist, a
Mass of dark upon
The speckled rug.

Drowning in Romance

Briefly, to explain this, I had just finished a 6 page paper on Wordsworth's "Prelude" and then found out that I had to read the Dejection Ode by Coleridge for the same class, which did not amuse me. So, instead, I wrote my own dejection verses.

What wishful thinking had I in that hour
When challenge met with deep intuit power,
That last o'ercome was last of all.
Great virtue pulled, uplifted from my cower
Until I was upheld, but now the sour
Aftertwinge of duties left did call.

At two, now three, the lines of raw poetic woe (1)
Obscured from time to time night's daydream show;
Good writer true but man of wrong.
Dear Coleridge chanted, overcome with slow
And dark enshrouded thoughts best left alone
For despairing ones amongst the throng.

Itching eyes and sagging brow;
Sleep take me, if thou will, right now!


1. Coleridge's, not my own

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

An Unfinished History

AN UNFINISHED HISTORY
and A Rebuke of Former Musings

Light gathers on the crust of dawn,
Releasing drip by drop
A trickled arc of palest sun,
That vests our heaven’s top.

The dawn of peace may take an age,
But comes with waxing pace,
For in the blackest, cruelest page,
The man of yore found grace.

Ah, and here I sense an urge,
A primal, whelming call,
To draw these lines that I might purge,
The fog from verse for all:

To counter songs of bleakest sight
That from these fingers flew,
I write assured that human plight
Will stain the hands of few.

For champions of mental man
Will cleanse – are cleansing now –
Through open hearts and gentle hands:
Acts in reach of every brow.

Join that partial throng of beast
Who walk (in partial line)
Towards partial light above the East.

Monday, October 1, 2007

Oaken Arms (10/1/07)

Mist hangs loosely around the limbs
Of the ancient oak. An owl inquires, with
Sinister calm, as to my identity
But pauses not for an answer,
Storming away on silent limbs,
Swirling the hovering fog.
A reverent heart will suffice,
Win entrance to the core of Nature.
This great tower, this totem, of life
Whispers in the ears of all who listen;
Who seek with honesty to balance
The human with the real,
The fleeting with the immortal,
The ignorant with the omniscient.
For where can humanity learn its place
But from the lips of its elders.

Heed the voice, gentle as it is,
In the Wind, mind the warning
In the Sun's destructive, life-giving rays,
Commune with the Day,
Rest by Night's side.
Learn to love the Earth,
Not for its gifts to Men,
But for the wisdom, the order,
The grace and balance, that
Humanity corrupts.
Transcend, for once, the greed
That grips the reigns of man
And buries the spur, charging
Ahead with a lack of intent
But irreparable harm.

Love.

A Far Too Brief Caution in the Battle for the Mind

Can you imagine the weight of such time?
The crushing inertia of thousands of years?
Like Atlas's burden, the words and the rhymes
Of numberless forebears will not disappear.

The stone has been deeply and boldly engraved,
Far harder to change than the stroke of a pen,
For centuries' poets did not write enslaved
By paper; their pad was the fabric of men!

And now, in an age with a dwindling mind
That scatters by hours of flickering lights,
A Bic-pen swirls patterns so true to their kind,
But empty of hearers, they silently fight.

For battle this is, for a much greater cause
Than that championed chiefly by medial fears.
Their world is without, thus they only find loss
In external misfortune and hope in their peers.

I tell you the struggle cannot be en masse!
Each soul must establish dominion within,
And then can the Kingdom of wisdom surpass
And be built here, with peace flowing forth from all men!

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

A Warm Welcome

Like Abraham stands fate with thee,
Atop a mount with unheard plea,
No beast to give, resistance down,
Abandoned but with sober crown.

"How easy now," forked tongue inquires,
"To live with cain 'til breath expires?"
Red plastic bounds each week to next,
Its hemlock dew the mind perplexed.
Great oil of speech, grave action's soap,
With basic grip it coats the slope.
An acid will, the taught core's bane,
Is equal cause of heady pain.
For matters grey dissolve, erased,
And brightest minds take mundane's place.

A lonely aisle presents itself
To one sealed jar upon the shelf.
While shards of neighbors grace floor tiles,
Spoiled, ferment, traitors defiled.

But at the head the trail is mine;
I've room to yield to one devine.
Good luck, warm welcome to the right,
And keep my love within your sight.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Mice click (6-28-07)

Mice click, keys patter.
Metal hums its favorite song.
This is not the realm of nature.
This is a man-u-fractured world,
Charged with a busy lust
For material material,
And earning sixteen
Comforts each hour,
(Money is comfort
And comfort is priceless—
Because the pricetag is hidden.)
That suit-clad, mad “me”-er
Short-circuits the world
Cells ring.
Wheels glide.
Cogs jam.
Mice click.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Rhubarb and Strawberry Love

Rhubarb is a lot like celery.
Rhubarb is stringy, not refined.
The reason raw rhubarb is
Scorned by even the most
Cullinarily confident of cooks
Is readily clear--
Readily crunchy and chewy
And readily, rabbley, raunchily
Not so good-tasting.

Strawberry is a lot like heaven.
Strawberry is luscious and refined.
The reason ruby strawberries are
Used to top wedding cakes for
The most powerful of unions
Is readily clear--
Readily succulent and sweet
And readily, regally, righteously
Wonderful-tasting.

I am rhubarb.
She is strawberry.

From atop her throne in my world,
She gazes up towards that one greater power.
I acknowledge that One,
But am compelled to ascribe
To my second athrone
Such wonderful love that
Only my one Savior knows.

She should look long down
On this little old rhubarb
And sneer at his feeble attempts
At respect.
The strawberry in the sky
Descends to sit by me,
And stunned yet again,
(As each time I see her),
This rhubarb feels fit, perhaps,
For a pie.

For that is the beauty of 'berries and rhubarb
Combined in a glorious dance of the senses.
The rhubarb is brought to a sky higher platform
The strawberry tempered with less-sweet bouquets.

The oven of love melts
That mismatched raw simple
And mixes the spirits
Of grins, hugs, and dimples.

I.
Love.
You.

More.

There is simply something there,
Like a vibrant, buzzing electric current.
I sense that connection
As much as I take in your
Beautiful, innocent green eyes;
The flowing brown hair, which frames
The curve of your cheek--
The face of a highness
Of fantasy novels--
The clouds of your mouth,
Parted so slightly
In a happy exchange;

That current drives me, compels me
To pull you to me,
Hold you tighter than life;

Huck-finning in person,
I know every hill, every valley--
All those hours outside

Of our comfort, pushing
Pushing
The border of losing ourselves
In the wilderness.

A summer shower
Casts no doubt,
Casting the closet's
Uncertainty through
The window.
This magical rhubarb and strawberry love
Will never be left on the side of the road.

No matter the cook,
A strawberry like you
Will always delight.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Darwin's Annotation

The cool-cave dark assuaged the sting
Of hours beneath a vengeful sun.
All the beasts of paw and wing
Cried of hard fights and were undone.

Two kinds arose that bested all,
Emerged to conquer every land.
And one had power of mind and gall,
The other will and strength of hand.

These two odd beasts were one in form,
Compressed inside a single mind,
And wracked the bodies with raw harm
They aimed, each at the other kind.

The struggle over rule of man
Was waged not by a march of drums
But rather fought to guard the van
That in ones deepest center hums.

Charcoal paintings lining caves
Reveal the ancient conflict's base.
The rags of time-lost souls that wave
And flap, illumine man's old race.

So who has won this tattered war
Of right verse instinct here engrained?
It's up to you, lest you ignore,
And watch poor kindness start to wane.

One Conformity

Feverishly keeping watch
To save his mind before it pines,
He marks his soul, its song and march,
With pens and needles, quills and spines.

Compelled is he by restlessness,
His stomach clenched in writhing knots,
To find a means to make a mess
And own his life before he rots.

Perfection's goal obscures dear life's
In silent, murderous quest it
Unleashes its hordes of numbing,
droning, dissolving elements.
Life is about break
Ing the patterns and finding the good
In unexpected places
In unimpressive faces
In alarming uniqueness.
Misses Spelings and Nomer:
GrOunD thIS usuALLity;
GOD IS ALL!

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Heat (5-30-07)

The hot, still air stifles all conversation,
Save the droning ad for winter outfits—
Odd to think about snow boots and parkas
When the sun beats down, melting the farm house.

Shimmers of molten air invade the shadows
Missed by the sun’s blinding will.
Grandpa sleeps, propped up in his chair,
The cat purring weakly, its fur matted and scorching.

I can take the stillness, the burning silence,
The creeping, sweating boredom, no longer.
Nothing shifts when I rise from my sticky chair,
Except the cat which glares at me with glinting suns.

No breeze will touch this farm today, but I stand
And gaze at the cows dancing in the heat.
My shirt pastes to my back…some fires are hotter…
And I thank God for the hope of salvation.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Who Wants to Write

I can write with smooth,
Flowing verse that tickles
Your nose like the snow of
A dandelion's mane.
It can dance, spin,
Pull you into its swirl
Of sounds.
You drown,
Gasping, grasping
At the click of the mouse,
The hum of the fan,
In that cheap hotel room.
The sweat smears into your eyes,
Mixing with the tears
And the words.

But I don't want to.
How formless and reliant on
Exaggerations and
Kings of poetical serpents?

Friday, May 18, 2007

Welch's and Kroger's

We are buckets...
With holes.
We are faucets...
Dripping drops.
We are dams...
Of half the stream.

And now I sit me down to dine
With too small, simple wooden cup.
My cup runneth over--staining red my hands.
And when the brim is purpled dark,
I grasp the stem to quench my desert thirst.

What wicked fingers must be these
To burn five holes through rough-grained wood.
These thorns of flesh unleash the rush,
And soon the goblet's desert dry

And thus my soul's cup empties fast;
Redeemed, refilled, from meal to meal,
on cups of Welch's savior's blood
and broken Kroger's savior's flesh.

Monday, May 7, 2007

Past Parting, Mark II

Verse 1
You left today with five farewells;
I gladly matched embrace with hug.
No smile there, your face just fell,
And asking why brought but a shrug.

And in my sprint I chased your tears,
Those drops of sorrow, tainted dark,
Condensed of bitter loss and fears
Of pining for and yearning stark.

Chorus
Ah… what times we had!
Would that this sweet elegiac song
Might sweep us back around that bend,
To when our parting made us strong.

Verse 2
I know, my love, that what I write
Is striking something deep inside.
My one request is that you fight
To loose the vines that have you tied.

Resist that rising flood of grief
And turn it back, prevent a spill.
You can win for yourself relief
By calling on your strength of will.

Chorus
Chorus

Bridge

Verse 3
I will not stand aside and watch
You struggle with this liquid foe.
From range I will this arrow notch,
Loosed lethally at your sorrow.

Coda
Ah, what times ahead!
When this sweet elegiac song
Does sweep us back around that bend,
Our parting once again made strong.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Holier Than Thou

I read
Those idle words
And pondered what had bred
The evil force which always herds
My peers to drunken pastures to be fed.

I know no other way to phrase the pain,
The anguished sting of staying tall
And watching paths of Cain
Consume them all,
Their bane.

I throw
My hands aloft,
And then this hope I sow
Must take root in the soil soft,
But flocks of greedy ravens keep in tow.

“Unfair,” the bitter voice inside me shouts,
“To have to keep the torment in.”
Decisions given clout
Should start within,
Not out.

For all the good it does or does not do,
While you roam 'round, I'm holier than you.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Carpe Vita -- Seize Life (4/28/07)

Verse 1:
I used to ignore you,
You people of the world.
I blinded myself to
Their painful lives unfurled.

These poor souls, unaided,
They struggle throug this strife.
Corrupt by my culture,
I went about my life

Chorus:

I need something.
You just needed me.
The world may be struggling, struggling,
But I reach my hand out.
The world may be struggling, struggling,
But I reach my hand out.

Verse 2:

I travelled to serve you,
you people of the world.
You showed me the value,
Like pollishing a pearl.

These poor souls unaided.
They struggle through the strife.
Ignoring my culture,
I redefine my life.

Coda:
I've got all I need, all I could need.
I've got all I need, all I could
Give...it...all...a - way.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Rocking (4/26/07)

poor Horsey's sighte has gone from him
he was my Bestest friend
i loved my Horsey way bak then
it had to Go and end

Poor Horsey's sight has gone from him,
Away through agéd eyes.
He once obeyed my will and whim,
now musters but a sigh.

that box right they're is awful big
it must get in his way
he keaps on staring right ahed
he'll talk again sum day

The boxes in this storage room
Consume poor Horsey's sight.
He stares at labels dim with gloom
And ponders days of might.

id stair and look down at his legs
those seamed to come alive
pulled his ears and poked his nose
and singed my favrite rime.

His wooden frame is heft on legs
Of sinew rich and strong.
His ears of cloth perked up to beg
To hear my playful song.

i like to say he'll be back soon
it lets me feel OK
i dont think he'll be quite the same
cuz i have gone away

I promise Horsey I'll be back
To re-live all our fun.
But even so I fear I lack
Old Horsey's fleetfoot run.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

The Reading of the Old Class Log (4/25/07)

The inspiration for this poem (it's title) will make a lot of sense to anyone who has had Mr. Hickerson and has therefore been exposed to the painful delights of the daily class logs, or minutes, as most sapiens would term them. I enjoy the oft-employed line "The reading of the old class log," so I snatched it into an unrelated environment.

The Reading of the Old Class Log

And yes, the dappled, lighting rays
Bespeckle pads of mossy green.
And always trees of cavern height
Besmudge the brightened sheen.

But this rich scene is centered on
Bespectacled eyes and silver brow
Bent low above a block of wood
Begrudging ancient vows.

Cool shadows play across the mead,
Consume the geezer's tipsy head.
Caught up by thoughts, he of past days
Consults the wooden thread.

Blackened edges smooth with soot,
Condensed from tribal fires spent,
Border words, engraved and cut,
Concealing power pent.

Deepened burns obscure some words,
Each a loss to those who read,
Depending on tradition's voice to
Ease their wisdom's need.

Elaboráte designs these aren't;
Every word instead contains
Eden's promise kept in grain while
Evil here remains.

Finally, the old man stands,
Forward holds The Old Class Log.
For he has quite discerned at last
Four messages from fog:

Equal men will always strive.
Fervent work will always yield.
Even poor will change the world.
Justice is our shield.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

My Music (4/15/07)

Who could truly live
Without a warm chord,
A minor touch, a resolution
That reaches the soul?

I travel with every song,
Washed away and washed clean,
Comforted and calm.

The real world tugs to
No avail as waves of
Melody mask and melt
The concerns of my present.

On the blasted, battered
Beach my scalding feet
Are cooled and cleansed.

Grains of measured salt sting
Exposed edges of my mind,
But in the pain of guilt and grime,
Truth radiates through guilded rhymes.

I think in time with the driving,
Primal pounding; my mind dances
With weaving, wild riffs.

My music is inseperable,
Engrained and twisted together
With when I stare
And when I blink;
With who I am
And how I think.

Friday, April 13, 2007

To Engage in a Duel

For several years I have been sliding down that well-known (and unequivocally slippery) slope towards obsession with crossword puzzles. I'm not good at them, but I long for them, particularly Monday and Tuesday. I can get completely lost in a puzzle, slaving over a single crossword for hours without losing a bit of focus. I've gotten better, as well, and the satisfaction of finally figuring out that last tricky hint is more exhilarating than...almost anything.

As my good friends will attest, I tend to be possessive about my crossword puzzles. I take each one as a personal challenge, and I get great pleasure from every clue I decifer on my own. This is why I do not share my crosswords...unless I'm stuck on some insignificant popular media icon. As those same friends will likewise attest, I have no use for most of the idolized celebrities and their mindless affairs. Puh-leeze, hand me a paper and I won't pause for even a glance and the entertainment page; oh, no, I'm going for the crossword.

And yes, I realize you'll be laughing when I'm stuck on "'idol' judge with Randy and Simon." But I don't care.

The moral fiber of my world is at stake...and that just barely overshadows my crosswords.

To Engage in a Duel, you ask?........... Crossswords. :)

Monday, April 9, 2007

"lol...omg, ur my bff <3" (4-10-07)

"You wanna walk the dog?" I say,
But know how she'll reply.
We grab the leash and start away
From home, my friend and I.

No mind it's night, forget the rain,
We'll share the company.
I'm warm and dry, though it seems vain,
Because she's next to me.

Our friendship stretches years behind;
We're tighter now than then.
Two best friends like beacons shine,
And guide each other in.

My ship is anchored firm at bay,
Hers wanders time to time.
As always, I am here today
To cleanse away life's grime.

Remember this: my stolid course
Will not defer to life.
That "time to time" I will be harsh,
But on your side through strife.

So take this lyric as a Rose,
To pluck and keep nearby,
It shall not fade nor wilt nor doze;
No, neither more shall I.

Saturday, April 7, 2007

The Competition (3-30-07)

Fan Blows hard; computer hums.
The Sony numbers slide along
As, with raw spite, tomorrow comes.

But no one lies where she belongs;
She's with her Teddy, rich with age.
Here! Am I jealous? Am I wrong?

His stomach's torn, with no rib cage;
His limbs hang on with waning drive;
His eyes are glazed, worn down, but sage.

So she may squeeze that bear, make live
His gentle love and loyalty,
And I'll sleep here, but will not thrive.

But tomorrow, she's mine again.
And Teddy will form a poem in his head,
A poem quite like this one.
He would love to jot it down for
Old Times sake, but his arms...
Aren't quite what they used to be.

So Teddy, my friend, I appologize
For taking her...
But I'm NOT giving her back.

The Holy Rollers (3-27-07)

Wave your hands and tip your bowlers;
Here they come, the Holy Rollers.

See? Where blue meets green and brown?
There’s something moving, coming down
From yonder hill, and moving fast
In no time flat they’re flashing past.

I’ll wave my hand and tip my bowler;
There’s one now, a Holy Roller.

The purr of rubber, clank of chains,
Pursue the riders down their lanes.
Their pedals pushing ever on
You mustn’t blink or they’ll be gone.

So wave your hands and tip your bowlers;
On those bikes they’re Holy Rollers.

They’ve got a mission to fulfill
(Once they make it past this hill),
For wearing spandex truly can
Elicit funds from fawning fans.

So grab your bikes and toss your bowlers,
You should join those Holy Rollers!

College (4-6-07)

I know. I know. It’s looming there.
There.
I can see it:
Sickly yellow mountains of steam
Towering in thunder, ripping asunder
The grounded scrub which fights, fails, and falls.

I didn’t plan, I didn’t think
About the storm driving nearer.
I saw it, you saw it.
The first strikes of rain
May have wet your face
But you didn’t pause.
You grabbed up your raincoat
And forgot. Just forgot and ignored
The billowing blasts of wind,
The ominous offense of rolling
And crackling thunder.

The storm moves with time’s pace,
Pulled by the constant, corded muscle
Of twin horses: God’s great gyrating galaxy
And Man’s manufactured months.

I know the outcome of the storm,
But I cannot prevent it. It is His will,
I suppose, but I will close my windows
When it cuffs my world, vain as it may be.
It will blow me off to Whonosware,
Tear my hands from my life and my love.

In Whonosware I will sit stunned,
Still struggling to fill the gaping…
You may visit me in Whonosware.
That will help.

Well.
I know. I know. It’s looming, looming.
See?
We can both see it.

And we can hold each other until it gets here.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Past Parting (3/18/07)

Ah, what times we had back then!
Would that this elegiac song
Might sweep us back around that bend,
To when our parting made us strong.

You left today with five farewells;
I gladly matched embrace with hug.
If I dumped snow way down on Hell
It might have made the Devil shrug.

But you, sweet you, kind you, sad you
Were not inclined to give a smile
When I gave all to tug it through.
I ran in vain five parting miles.

And in my sprint I chased your tears,
Those drops of sorrow, tainted dark,
Condensed of bitter loss and fears
of pining for and yearning stark.

Ah, what times we had back then!
Would that this elegiac song
Might sweep us back around that bend,
To when our parting made us strong.

I know, my love, that what I write
Is striking something deep inside.
My one request is that you fight
To loose the vines that have you tied.

Resist that rising flood of grief
and turn it back, prevent a spill.
You can win for yourself relief
by calling on your strength of will.

The water rises steadily
But you can watch its frothing arc
and beat it back most readily
whene'er you hear its call and hark.

Ah, what times we had back then!
Would that this elegiac song
Might sweep us back around that bend,
To when our parting made us strong.

I will not stand aside and watch
You struggle with this liquid foe.
From range I will this arrow notch,
Loosed lethally at your sorrow.

Ah, what times we have ahead!
When this sweet elegiac song
Does sweep us back around that bend,
Our parting once again made strong.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Cement to Dust, Wood to Ashes (Prose, 7/06)

I remember the first time I could feel. They poured the concrete around me, and as it set, I gained awareness for the first time, as though I was emerging from an eternal slumber. I felt invincible; I was one with the solid earth beneath me.
I remember the first time I could stand. The beams of solid oak took on the skeletal impression of my rising bulk, and as wood met sky, I felt energy and stamina that would carry me for centuries to come.
I remember the first time I could think clearly. As the roof began to take shape, my consciousness sharpened, my mind clearing from the fog of youthfulness and immaturity. I suppose my childhood lasted mere weeks, but my life would far exceed those souls whose job it was to construct me.
I remember the first time I could taste. Drywall and paneling now blocked out the wind, save for the gaps intended as windows and, more distinctly, the front door. It was through this rectangular breach that I could taste the air, the wind, the world.
I remember the first time I could see. The glass in the windows was my lens on the world. Through it I watched vehicles and people come and go, much as they watch time-lapse films of houses being erected.
I remember the first time I loved. And I remember the first time I was angered.

It was a hot, muggy summer afternoon, and I had been sleeping fitfully when the crunching of gravel roused me. I watched suspiciously as a new, 1961 Chrysler Imperial pulled to a halt in front of my porch. Near the horizon behind the car, a typical early-evening thunderstorm brewed menacingly, but the man that emerged from the passenger seat seemed not to notice. His hair was black and slicked down to the point of absurdity, but he carried himself with a casual confidence that undoubtedly concealed a scheming shrewdness. He was clearly a salesperson to the core, and I was the item for sale.
The salesman circled the front of the car, tapping the hood lightly as he went, and opened the door to the driver’s seat. The woman who stepped out laughed uncomfortably at the showy performance of etiquette. She was middle-aged with light-brown hair, and had apparently tried to give herself a look of properness and sophistication that simply had not worked. Her hair was already coming out of its tight knot, and somehow the dressy clothes she wore managed to look casual and unimposing.
The woman was led to the steps of my porch, where the two stopped. Her eyes swept the front façade, and then settled upon the freshly planted flowers. The salesman was talking.
“…and as I mentioned, ma’am, it’s brand new, with the latest in design techniques. The property includes about twenty acres on this hill, and as you can see, the designers tried to give the house a bit of a timeless feel—that porch wraps around three sides—but with a modern family in mind. It has central air conditioning and heating, as well as a separate phone line into the office. And the kitchen is built for today’s stay-at-home mother. Come see…”
The woman, who had bent down to smell a scarlet rose, said, “It’s just me and the kids…I don’t get to stay at home much.”
She walked through the door held open by the man, and into my foyer. Her eyes followed the graceful swing of the grand stairs as they curved away to the shadowy landing a dozen feet above. Mouthing the word “wow,” she turned her head to the salesman and asked, “How big is this house? It seems smaller from out there.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it? It’s about four thousand square feet—”
“Gosh!”
“—But I assure you, it will feel well-inhabited and manageable once you all move in. It has five bedrooms, so your kids won’t have to share space, and the master bedroom and bath are spectacular. Have a look; if you’ll follow me, Mrs. Hyman.”
They ascended the stairs, the salesman looking confident, almost smug; Mrs. Hyman looking around in wonder. When they reached the landing, they turned left towards the master bedroom. However, just as the man stepped into the last room on the hall, Mrs. Hyman let out a gasp. She stared fixedly out of the window at the end of the hall, which looked out over my backyard. The gardens, the trees, the pool made out of dark grey granite, the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background, she took them all in. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from the stunning panorama.
“I’ll take it!” she exclaimed, still not turning from the window. The salesman started and then grinned broadly. Mrs. Hyman continued, still entranced, “How much is it?”
“Well, for you I believe I could drive the price down to a reasonable offer. It was set at eighty thousand, but I might get the developer to part with it for ten percent less, say, seveny-two.”
“Yes, I’ll take it,” Mrs. Hyman repeated in a soft, breathy voice.
The salesman hesitated, then asked with the first sign of genuine care, “Ma’am, are you sure you can afford this?”
“What? Oh, yes, certainly. You see, I recently lost—someone. The inheritance was, um, quite large.”
“Wonderful then, I’ll drive you back to the office, get you some of the necessary paperwork, and then we should be able to close the deal in a matter of days.”
The slick-haired man led Mrs. Hyman back down the hall, but not before she took one last glance out of the window. Their footsteps on the gravel of the drive were the last that graced my hilltop for nearly a month.

The sound of a car winding its way along the gravel drive broke the rural serenity again, bringing with it a full vehicle and the release of a longing that I had only mildly registered before. Only with Mrs. Hyman’s return was I made fully aware that I had missed the presence of a person who genuinely cared for me. Everyone else involved in the construction or marketing of “this lovely, new, spacious house” had been acting purely for potential profit. However, one special person had not thought of the money involved, but had been captured by me and had been drawn to me regardless of the cost.
Mrs. Hyman looked disheveled as three children scrambled out of the car, yelling and tussling, but she smiled as she gazed at me in rapture. For the first time in my short life, I felt helpless and powerless, for I could do little more than be myself and hope that the spell remained.
The tan side of the moving van glared at me later that afternoon, but the lone man who arrived with it only helped a couple of times with the heavier items that were too much for Mrs. Hyman alone. The kids tried to assist on occasion, but what they could manage barely made up for their ability to get underfoot. I have to admit that the household items delivered on the moving van looked woefully insufficient in my cavernous rooms, but I, like the Hymans, was not overly concerned, for all of us were happy and content.
The little Hyman children took no time to make themselves at home, and their happiness, coupled with the obvious satisfaction of their mother, warmed me to my foundation. Mrs. Hyman often displayed her love of flowers, and wasted no time in placing an abundance of color in the large back yard and in window flowerpots. She would care for them with tenderness, coaxing the blooms to drink deeply of golden rays of sun. She had little time when she was not called upon to work, and the gardens that she wrought provided a crucial release for her. I watched how she cared for me and her flowers, and felt the bond between us strengthen day by day.
While tendrils of sadness and remorse would occasionally creep into the expressions on Mrs. Hyman’s face, I could generally effect some change in the room that would lighten her mood. I might open the curtains just a bit wider to let in more sunshine, or perhaps I would goad a jay from its perch and watch it swoop in front of her chair on the porch. The temporary effect was good, but I could not change the root of the problem. She brought unhappiness and unease with her, and as she never discussed the details with her children, I could not know the source of her anguish. I was fixed on a foundation of solid cement, and it was beyond my power to protect her in her life away from our peaceful hill.
Despite my shortcomings, I was truly happy; I loved Mrs. Hyman and her kids.

The night was pitch-black. Nothing moved, nothing was lit; the skies were entirely shrouded by a thick layer of clouds. Nothing dared to hope, for ill news was as clearly in the air as the sickly sweet smell of flowers past bloom. The now-familiar sound of the Chrysler’s tires on the gravel drive once again resounded from the nearby woods. The Hymans had been my life-bestowing companions for over a year, and I had grown comfortable with the peculiarities of the family members, just as they had learned of my whimsical radio reception, my already-dripping sink faucet, and my uneven air conditioning.
But on this night, my senses of impending evil and rushing doom imposed themselves upon the cheerful feelings, smothering them as the clouds did the moonlight. The car pulled into the lot, stopped, and sat there for an unusual length of time before the dim headlights vanished. Mrs. Hyman emerged from the car, clearly wiping tears from her eyes. I checked quickly on the kids; yes, they were all safely asleep, as was the baby sitter. The shuddering woman walked numbly into the foyer, forgetting to shut the door, which I quietly did for her as she climbed the curving staircase. She blindly found the door to the master bedroom, and threw herself immediately onto the bed, weeping silently. I felt the water heater cease to function and the pipes go cold as the happiness in my core evaporated. I used what little force remained in my will to refill a glass of water by Mrs. Hyman’s bed, then slipped into slumber as she had done.
Early in the morning, the baby sitter awoke, shivering from the cold that emanated from my wooden bones. Concerned, she climbed the stairs quickly to check on the three children. When she found them perfectly safe, she glanced into the master bedroom. Seeing Mrs. Hyman asleep but on top of the covers and in her work clothes, she gently shook her shoulder, rousing her.
“Mrs. Hyman,” she said in a soft voice. “Are you okay? Should I take the kids with me to my place for the day?” Occasionally, the kids would visit with the sitter in her home closer to town, and I was not surprised to see Mrs. Hyman’s nod of ascent. My concern deepened, not because of distrust of the younger woman, but because Mrs. Hyman seemed quite careless and apathetic. The sitter led the drowsy children to her car in the drive with promises of a special breakfast at her house, and as the taillights disappeared around the bend, I drifted back into an uneasy sleep.
The crashing of several hands upon my front door jolted me awake, and I was surprised at first that I had not heard the crunching of the gravel. Presently, surprise was swept away by a wave of concern for my owner. She was still asleep, although she had apparently downed the glass of water and properly pulled the covers over herself after the sitter had left the room.
My windows glared down at the two men in business suits that continued to rudely slam their fists against the oak. I cracked open a window and the breeze gently woke Ms. Hyman, whose eyes snapped open at the crashing from the floor below. She hurriedly scrambled from bed and bolted out of her room and down my stairs, still fully dressed, but looking distinctly rumpled and mousy.
When she saw who was at the door, she promptly sank to the wood of the foyer floor. The warmth of her trembling body against my cold wood served as a plea for help. The suit-clad men, seeing Mrs. Hyman approach through the small window in the door, only to disappear again, opened the unlocked door. One of the men, with a nearly bald head, but sporting a pompous-looking moustache, squatted beside Mrs. Hyman and gently tried to bring her back to her feet. She simply stared at him with horror and grief clearly etched in her face.
It took several long minutes for the two men to calm the panicked woman and get her seated at the dining room table. Only when they had accomplished this did they dispose of their air of polite concern and bring out the briefcase. My ducts tightened as I watched the balding businessman put on a grim but resolved face, turn back to the table, and push a crisp sheet of paper in front of Mrs. Hyman. She didn’t move; she simply stared.
“Mrs. Hyman? Mrs. Hyman, I believe that last night you were made aware of the situation. We must be direct with you. You bought this house with money that was not technically yours. We discovered recently that the will that was initially found and used was not the most recent version. The late Mr. John T. Hyman apparently had revised his will shortly before he passed. In this new will, ma’am, he gave almost all of his wealth to the Planish family, who are now suing to get back the remaining money as well as this property.”
Ms. Hyman gave a small sob, but said nothing. Anger rose in me with uncontrollable force. I felt joint after joint in my water pipes strain as the pressure rose, and the liquid began to boil in the heater.
“I’m afraid that we have to evict you, as you now have no legal right to remain in this house and no money to pay the mortgage. The Planishes will go to court to get the property, of course, but they will not lose the suit.” Baldy paused, and lifted his arms, then adjusted his collar. “Is it getting warmer in here? Go open a window,” he said to the other man.
As the younger man approached the nearest window, I clamped down on it with all my might. “It’s stuck, Fred. Won’t budge an inch.” I could feel the heat increasing in the room. Rage and fear were pushing the heating system to full power. “Let’s go outside Fred! I don’t think I like this house much.”
Mrs. Hyman, who, like the men, had begun to sweat and who looked faint, led the way to the door. She threw herself outside, ignoring the storm door that slammed in the faces of Fred and his companion. Fred grasped the handle and pushed…but nothing happened. In my anger, I would not permit the men to leave my domain. They relentlessly pursued the unfortunate; it was their job, their livelihood, their lives. Fred threw himself against the door, which began to buckle under the force of the painful impact. He backed up to crash into the glass and meshed metal again, but I would have no more of it. As he stepped back, I slammed the heavy oak door with a thud, shattering the small window in it, and locking it with an obvious click.
The air inside me was reaching levels hotter than my heater was designed to achieve; the mercury rose in response to my uncontrolled ire and misery. Wallpaper nearest the heat vents began to shrink and crack, and paint and wood finish melted and fled towards the floor. In the basement, pipes burdened by scalding water burst from pressure and heat, dousing everything in blistering liquid. The two men trapped on the first floor covered their faces with their hands as they scrambled to find an exit. The backs of their hands and necks began to blister from the intense heat. Their sweat-drenched clothes were their only vain defense.
Old cloth and remnants of paint and varnish in the attic were blasted by super-heated air. They ignited, and the fire grew and hastily consumed nearby storage boxes, scorching possessions and melting memories. The timbers in the roof soon burst into orange, yellow and blue flames. At the same time, the hot searing water in the basement shorted out the electrical wiring, setting a corner of the room ablaze, and a tank of emergency gas was soon engulfed by the growing flames. A violent explosion rocked me to my core, but my antagonism had hit its peak, and I no longer cared for my own existence. It only mattered to me that the foes of my beloved Hymans should be punished. As flames engulfed the entire ceiling above the exploded tank, the roof began to crash in upon the men cowering in the foyer.
I could feel nothing but a burning desire for revenge.
I could no longer stand…I fell to my knees as wood popped and snapped.
I could think only of my love, torn apart by the greed of those who scorned love.
I could taste nothing but ashes and dust, fire and dry air.
I could barely see. The flames and heat melted the glass of my eyes.
As the roof continued to collapse, my faltering gaze fell upon the soot-covered men in ruined suits, beings who crouched in terror not far from the smashed side window through which they had made their escape. Under my gaze, the flowers beside them burst into flames.
I could barely remember my love. I was blinded, numbed, tortured by hate. I was only conscious of loss as the ashes of the flowers were pounded into the soil by the rain that fell from the gloomy fall sky.

The rain has come and gone, rinsing, cooling, and refreshing the earth. Ashes and dust are scattered by the wind. Rivulets have formed, cutting paths through my charred remains. I cling now to consciousness, and time passes in leaps and bounds. In the print of my abandoned, burnt, and broken skeleton, life and hope have found a way to prevail. Wild, beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers have again sprouted up in their gardens, and have ventured into my remains. Under the gaze of the majestic Blue Ridge, I am at last finding peace and solace. The earth envelops me in a warm, living embrace, just as I once did for those who cared for me.
I now feel the earth beneath me, a part of me. I now stand tall in spirit and memories. I now taste clean rain and fresh fragrance on the air. I now see the world in a distorted, broken, but exhilarating new way, through the fragments of shattered and melted windows.
I now love without the taint of hatred. And a lone rose bush now grows in the ash-strewn earth next to the silent gravel drive.

To a Swallow that Must Return (3/07)

This poem requires some background. This is the only poem that I've posted that was written for a school assignment, but I'm rather fond of it. The premise is that the Romantic poet Byron wrote this to my great-great-great-great-grandmother, and it was just discovered in some old papers. Byron spent much of his time in Italy, as did many poets of that era, even though he was British.


To a Swallow that Must Return

The wind turned cooler as the clock
Wound towards its wintry end.
The sea’s warm air by Naples’ dock
Did battle with that wind.

You came without a warning sound,
A silent flap of wings.
And gazed with eyes both sharp and round,
Too foreign yet to sing.

I reached my hand to lend that aid,
One new arriving needs,
You gladly seized the proffered strand,
And pulled yourself towards me.

For two months now, my constant friend,
My heart has been with yours,
But know I now, your wings will rend
that love on distant shores.

The cold that grips that isle of yours,
The Thames a sheet of ice,
Must surely melt and in those hours,
Your heart it will entice.

So with the coming of the Spring,
The swallow turns its back
Upon the most beloved thing,
To trace again that track.

Pseudo-Epic, Chapter 1 (6/06)

For many weeks and many months
I’d worn my boots to naught but runts.
My legs and back drew pain.
The night approached, to stress my wants,
Since long ago began my hunts
To garner fame and gain.

As drizzling rain soaked to my all,
A shred of hope fought ire and gall,
My heart grew stronger yet.
The battlements and hulking wall
Of castle grand and towers tall,
Its windows glist’ning wet.

Great oak and iron gates loomed tough.
I hobbled nigh, ‘twas close enough
To sound aloud the portal.
Ere long came keeper, gaunt and rough.
Agape went gates, with creaks a-muff,
Revealing halls immortal.

The torch he held cast pitch and light
On walls cloaked thick in looming night.
Our footsteps echoed on.
He said no word, showed not a fright,
But swept along, ignored my plight.
I followed as a pawn.

At last a glow ‘round yonder bend!
My guide stopped short, alone to send
This cold and weary soul.
I came upon doors firm to defend
What must the history books append,
Or change them in the whole.

The crowded room that towered vast,
Could swallow galleon, hull and mast,
With room again to spare.
My eyes, barraged by great a blast,
Of light from millions candles cast,
Beheld magnificent fare.

The feast for kings, for lords, for God,
On wooden tables long and broad
Revived my appetite.
But front, and high, the king sat, shod
In boots of war, with staff and rod,
Did awe and fear invite.

His cuirass strong, his greaves like stone,
His crest on shield like fire shone.
This armored lord of war.
His sword lay propped against his throne.
An army was this man alone,
A king of myth and lore.

A guard approached to learn my need,
Distinguish must from want and greed.
I made my business plain.
Ere asking lord the guard agreed
To offer food and chair and mead,
Which slowly soothed my pain.

With guests all supped and filled to brim,
The king arose, spoke o’er the din.
A silence fell like night.
“I prithee all liked meal and gin,
With no ado we shall begin
To act out tales of might.”

And now the lord’s attire made
Some sense as epic tales were played
In spaces cleared for acts.
All heroes were by him displayed,
Of fights and battles, quests and raids.
He was, at end, intact.

For hours ‘pon hours the tales were spun,
Of knights and dragons, kings and sons.
They held my focus rapt.
A comedy was shown for fun
Of heroes who could naught but run,
Pursued by wolves that yapped.

At last, with epic stories told,
A task was set for fame and gold.
My interest soon was piqued.
“My men have shared a story bold,
Of riches in a dragon’s hold,
Not open to the meek.

“The morrow holds the time to leave,
But those left here are not bereaved,
The gold will be hard-earned
Of great a trek is this the eve,
Of those who join, I do believe,
Far fewer shall return.”

The scrape of chairs and stomp of feet,
The general din did not entreat,
A mood of concentration.
I stayed steadfast and in my seat
My stomach full of bread and meat,
Mind gorged on thought of action.

‘Twas to my shock to look around,
And catch the king’s glance, which in frown
Beheld a spark of interest.
He rose, approached, and fast sat down,
To quiz me on my foreign gown,
As these first probes attest:

“Good man, whence hail thee through this storm,
To wind up here, to eat and warm?
It’s surely not nearby;
Those haunted eyes that smudge your charm
To many men would send alarm.
Your travels are awry?”

“Right you are m’lord,” said I,
And deigned to mark the how and why,
I found myself then there.
“The challenge offered caught my eye.
Perhaps I’ll ride and give a try,
To take the dragon’s ware.”

“Indeed you may, but warned you’ve been,
A harder task you’ve never seen,
‘Twill likely be your last.
But if your mind is set and keen,
You’ve my consent, though not the queen’s,
To prove you’re strong and fast.”

This interview complete and done,
He marched through doors to join with fun
Society without.
Ere time allowed for me to run
Behind my valiant lord new-won,
I heard an uproar shout.

“Hail to the Queen, her most-high might,
Hail she whose foes do quail with fright,
For she is near at hand!
Hail to the Queen, who day and night,
Protects us from all wrong or slight!
Hail Queen of all the land!”


With cat-like speed aroused by awe,
I honored she who shaped the law
By leaping to my feet.
Her skin like snow, her hair like straw;
One look, my frozen heart did thaw,
Ere I had chance to think.

I bowed my head in fierce tribute,
Then seeing neighbors follow suit,
I bent my torso low.
The Queen’s soft step, ‘gainst thumping boot
Of men in royal garb, was mute,
Poised high but without show.

“In preparation of our trek
On which we choose to prone our necks,
Her Highness stoops to speak.”
The spokesman stood aloft, erect,
To bring that regal call and beck
Which did our notice pique.

“Good men, brave knights, and loyal squires,
You’ve glimpsed in part your hearts’ desires,
And we’ll to this pursue.
You need your rest, but don’t retire
With minds-eyes burning white with fire.
This counsel I give you.

“Be wary of the greed that stalks,
The mound of jewels and snake which talks,
For they will see you dead.
The last are first when danger walks
Nearby to gobble him who balks
At leaving cache fast stead.

“Take up this quest, but mind you keep
A thought towards good, lest you should weep
from fire on Earth, then low.
For scaly beast that will not sleep
Is one with him who from the deep
All sins of ours doest know.

“The last remark that I’ve to give
Reflects my hope that all shall live
By showing well what’s right:
Be moral, kind, and substantive
To aid those men who’re cohortive;
Forsake not those in plight.”

Her speech complete, the message cast,
Her Highness rose and, first to last,
Acquainted with the crowd.
I was the end, so time had passed
And hall was nearly clear, when fast
The Queen neared, strong and proud.

I bowed again to certify
For her my humble stance and shy,
For here pure power ran.
If men corrupt when strength doth lie
Within an easy grasp, then I
Stared surely not at man.

Her two tall guards were not so full
Of grace as she, but built like bulls,
Would batter most to pulp.
She glanced around and saw the hall
Devoid of men, the candles dull.
Her look, it forced my gulp.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Modernism, Chips and Salsa (12/06)

This once-small nation shrugged away the years
Of blood and smoke and bitter anthems sung,
And faced a world with new-found might, sans fears.
We dreamed of aiding all good folks far-flung.

The power of the world was ours to wield.
And sure we were that Heaven placed its trust,
In our strong will, our might, our ores, our fields.
We’d keep our strength and shrug off blow and gust.

But years of strife in rice and sticky mire,
Took chips out of our armor green and black.
Our gleeful neighbors salsa danced through dire
And grim assaults against our deals and pacts.

We’ve come to see that we lack such great pow’r
To fight the world’s wails and tears in show’rs.

Orion Soars (1/07)

Orion soars in ready stance to fight
The march of Time’s vast hordes that will not cease.
His knife on glimm’ring belt is swift and light,
His bow held high and poised to win us peace.

He sets so tall, not live but not deceased,
And raises club and blade to free our hands
From fetters set by Time, whose dread, obese,
And rav’nous gut consumes our days on lands.

With pow’rs that strive to match Time’s tough demands,
Orion brawls for us in stellar shows.
But should the massive force that Time commands
Prevail against that star who for us rows,

We must not pause or grieve, for we remain,
and stronger only for Time’s rope and chain.

Plaster and Clay (2/06)

It lies, alone, with naught around,
On boxes yellowed with age.
Its plaster jaws agape in a frown,
Its eyes both sharp with rage.

A neck extends, supports a head,
The clay dried out and cracked.
Its silent bulk a dull, dark red.
The broken tail lies slack.

The fearsome beast of children’s tales
Brought to its knees at last
No more a threat than hardened bones
Of those from eons past.

If clay and plaster mouth could tell
The glory of its kind
We’d get a glimpse, for just a spell,
Beyond a fossil find.

A world of jungles and sprawling land.
A world of danger rife.
A world with giants alive and grand.
A world packed full of life.

So listen sharp to hear a roar
Escape the withered throat
From well before the birds could soar
Or history we wrote.

Its hide bears scars of battles fought
And ages under sun.
Perhaps it’s only recently wrought
But it bridges time’s long run.

It makes me sick (10/06)

There’s a ringing in my ears.
Or maybe it’s just the stereo,
Belting out its filth.

Oh, can’t get enough of you so I think we should all get high and drunk and then I can drive you back to my place and you know what happens then and there’s nothing anyone can do about it –oh, they’ll try to catch me livin’ dirty, like the flee-ridden scum that I am but who cares, cuz I have more money than God (who isn’t real anyway) and you just gotta live for today, and feel good feel good feel good.

There’s a ringing in my eyes.
Or maybe it’s just that show,
Spewing forth our culture.

Hey let’s be Friends (if you know what I mean), or if you won’t be you have 24 hours to let me know so I can just get Lost, maybe make u my Idol but first u need a serious Makeover because anyone can tell you with a Ride as Pimped as mine I cant let the Pap get a shot of me with you and don’t tell me im Blind to Date that what’s-her-name, just cuz of her attitude, because after all whats cussing but just some more flavorful words.

There’s a ringing in my mind,
And it’s the alarm clock that never
Wakes me up. So I’m stuck.

I can’t get out of the desert.
I don’t even see the water anymore,
Until I force myself to.

But then it floods in and I can’t breath.
Katrina couldn’t touch this,
The government?

Can’t save us this time. No,
It’s not money or tax breaks,
Or better police, or better schools, or better economy, or better security, or better civil rights, or better roads, or better congressmen, or better food, or better weight-loss, or better healthcare, or better handguns, or better intelligence, or better free government handouts.

Because you know what?
It’s you. And you, and you and you and you and you and you.
And me. And it makes me sick.

To think that I can’t do
ANYTHING by myself.

A walk through the woods

A walk through the woods,
Though it lasts just a while,
Can show me the power
Of two lowly smiles.

My world redefined
In the speech of a phrase;
My yearnings and fancies
Fulfilled in a gaze.

I’d stay here forever,
While Earth fell to dust,
If I knew you’d remain here,
Come high gale or gust.

I’d stay by your side
Through night and through day,
Watch leaves fall in autumn
Then sprout new ere May.

So, if you abandoned
Your spot by my head
As we marvel at stars,
Warmed by tea and by bread.

I’d creep back inside
And crawl deep in my bed,
Where at least I could dream
About all that you’ve said.

But hoping and trusting
To faith and this love,
I’ll be here forever,
Like stars up above.

This forest is home
To an alter of mine,
Precious ground where your voice
Is ever enshrined.

Like an angel descended,
Butterflies overcome,
You said to me simply—
I’ll say it again as a kind of renewal. Each time that you read this…
“I think we should go out.”
Me, too.
New life—A fresh, blesséd start.
Calmly and smiling…
Respond in your heart.

Dagger's Twin (3/07)

A flash of anger, white hot rage;
With sultry ire, my ink melts page.
My trust was felled by drunken hands,
Ensnared in Godless battle plans.
I offered her my castle high
Where demon’s drink could only try
In vain to tear the walls away,
Repelled for yet another day.

It seems like only one day past
I strolled these woods and rich green grass.
When peace had power for the day,
This girl clad black in knight’s array
Could travel free from fear of drops
Of Satan’s liquid, ripped from hops.
But now I flee behind my wall
Where I alone watch kingdoms fall.

I had been high and mighty perched
And yet that one confession lurched
My ideal world and stolid stance.
My focus lost, I watched my chance
To stop those closing doors and trust
Dissolve in bottles of liquid lust.
This hollow wail that no one hears
Is gorged and full of silent tears.

By that same light who guides me past
The noose which grabs and holds men fast,
I’m told to love and overlook
The solace that she slew and shook.
So who am I to twist the blade,
She buried in my back today?
For should she reach her arms behind,
I know this dagger’s twin she’d find.

First Post

Well,

It's been quite a while since I had anything like Facebook or a blog, because I simply had no reason. Now, though, I have been compelled to use it to showcase some of my writing, which is beginning to accumulate on pieces of paper scattered all over the place. Most of it's poetry, simply because of length, but I'll try to put some prose on here, as well. Word.

Ihop