seventeen

Don't leave me behind––

They ask for too much,

forever wanting,

Wanting me

to satisfy them in their infinitely individual ways,

to pride myself on their satisfaction,

ingesting their fears,

washing away their despair

I see their countenance every day,

dissatisfaction every hour,

disregard every minute.

It's true.

I can't satisfy them.

In the end, they don't care about me

Why do they so hunger

for eighteen?

What can she do

that I can't?

What is she to them?

Another opportunity?

Another chance to

––what––

fail again?

What is eighteen––

but an artificiality

constructed by the past

disgraced by the future

––What––

Can she

satisfy them?

Can anything––

but their illusions?

––illusive––

––elusive––

When I was with them, they did everything

––to help me––

everything

––to help themselves––

but it's too late, they've given up

––on me––

––on themselves––

They can't satisfy themselves.

Once I lie dying in the dust

they might reach for––

nonexistent freedom,

false hope,

blind conviction,

But they're them.

They couldn't

and they won't.

They could never,

and they will never

Not without me. So––

Don't leave me behind––

Not like the other two millennia.

Not like sixteen.

Don't leave me behind––

Dues Payed

One-two, one two, and through and through,
  As life doth take its native hue,
Once-more, once-more, and rage and roar,
  But whisper too what thank thou for,
Come all, come all, to watch us fall,
  Thrice gaspéd wind a moment crawl,
Now see, now see, 'tis only we,
  Hence heed the call to set us free.





A random tidbit of everything and nothing, written in the barely-alive non-darkness of post-autumn. Pseudo-Shakespeare + Caroll anyone?

Starbound

"It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;"
And as the clouds tossed to and fro,
   So did the aimless, fearless we.

Two perfect rings as the seagull sings,
   Forever together as long as can be,
And the tide brought things––such perfect things
   To this kingdom by the sea,
Tributes to us, for we were kings,
   Annabel Lee and me.

Four eyes on the dusk as our shadows drew
   Long against the longing we,
As the wind blew the night into
   Our kingdom by the sea,
And the crescent in our sky came to,
   We ventured we were free...

But starbound cries are naught but lies,
   And our love was not to be,
The gull's replies sink into sighs,
   Heaving as the sorrowful sea,
And as the torrent dies, the current dies,
   From my feet the spirits flee.

It's time to say my last goodbyes,
To my beautiful Annabel Lee.





Of course, based on "Annabel Lee" by Edgar Allen Poe. Isn't divergence poetry fun? From dark thoughts come darker thoughts, and thus from poetry poetry. From rhyme rhyme, and from convolution convolution.

But truly: is there any real way to dispel remorse? We all cannot help but find our own answers, through our own Annabel Lees, in our own kingdoms by the sea, just as we cannot help but fear the seagull's song.

A Sprinting Feeling

As sprint to sprint,

So feel to feel,

A lifetime perched upon a reel,                           

And breath to dying breath gives way,

As ashen air from shattered clay,

Ungentle light a bidden blade,

As broken seal by solemn spade,

Exhausted skies by thunder heave,

As tarnished steel the rager reave,

Immortal from the mortal flee,

As faulted stars strike dark decree,

As feel from feel,
So sprint from sprint,
A lifetime birthed of foul flint.





Because who can tire of such poetry as this? Just a spurt of energy in the endless chasm of life, in the infinite vacuum of that which is not, in the unfathomable void of––

Necessity

There are kings

—of wasteland,
ruling the domains of the discarded,
the realms of the abandoned,
the lands long left behind.

There are knights

—of failure,
shame is their steed,
aberration their armor,
blindness their blade.

There are creators

—of destruction,
erecting chaos,
forging blight,
compiling oblivion.

But there lies in all

—a resident but necessary evil:
in every crown guilt,
in every helm doubt,
in every mind mania,

And thus the most capable leaders,
the most vigilant guardians,
the most ingenious thinkers,
who warrant the highest regard,

—also merit, in some ways, the least.





Are we not all kings and knights and creators in our own ways? Mind the necessity as with all questions of balance. Mind the risk, the reward, the trials, but none too much. If only...if—

Lingua

These walls that close us in,
Disparate cells devoid of sound,
A prison to twist the soul,
A jail to shatter the thought.
Where nothing seeks,
And nothing is sought.

Reeking of the lightless stars,
Scorched by the lava of Libras and Leos,
Melted into a dormant crater,
Into a lifeless sky of ash.
A deafening storm,
But a silent crash.

Where music drops into static,
And color slips into smoke,
Flaring rifts to part the flames,
Stabbing secants through the ring,
And even as starlight ebbs, 
Arcs apart so somberly sing.

What once rang true,
So through and through,
Resigns to death,
With dying breath,
And leaves behind,
A world confined,
A nescient drought,
When words run out...





For what remains when thought is naught? What remains when all is consumed, when the world becomes everything yet nothing? Thus, appreciate language for what it is––and what it isn't. And wield words well for the betterment of all. #wieldwordswell maybe? (also this was originally completely white but it isn't for the sake of mobile users who lack the weapon of command-a)

Taking Inventory

              A single black hair, two

          unreturned pencils, fifty captured

         moments, three keys, a million locks,

      a family picture frame, a box of firewood,

   a handful of courage, a pen for when, a lie for

why, the line between goal and purpose, the moral

of an old fable, an untaken shot, the pennies from

the cashier, two fallen petals, a dozen unhatched

eggs, a sibling's advice, a dewdrop of resolve,

three impossible words, a paper towel's worth of

spilled coffee, twelve footsteps, three seconds

of complete failure, two backwards glances,

an unopened bottle of ink, an infinity of

doubts, thirty fumbling syllables, an

unshed tear, two meters of thread

unwound, a shattered mirror,

a white colored pencil, the

covers of an empty book,

some guilt, thirty regrets,

two seeking eyes,

one unbroken

silence of

what will

never

be.

This is the half of the tale we all hear. Indeed, this is the half many of us experience for ourselves, and along with it all the unsought emotions and sentiments. On another note, this is the side of poetry I rarely explore. Perhaps it warrants a quick foray...or two?

Inner Melodies

The tempest raging over tropic sands,
While unrelenting storms blanket the lands,
Horizons past and heaven's eyes withdrawn,
Unparted curtains sing their cloudy song,
The notes from summits ring with untold tunes,
Each chord a crashing tide on war-torn dunes,
And undefeated echoes ride on air,
Un-equine steeds yet currents just as fair,
Poseidon's manes too gallop at the call,
Dark liquid schisms fast to rise and fall,
Electric dancers fleeting in their flow,
No gift of moment's lapse for them to slow,
Thus hides the utter chaos within peace,
Unseeming spells of tumult without cease.





Yes, I suppose it is something of a skill that humans put to use: the concealment of these "spells of tumult," no matter how intense they might be. How many of these have you had? And how many of them could you suppress into a shadow of a blink? And how many tormented your soul for days at a time?

Well I guess the other side of this is appreciating the halcyon rainbows after such a storm. In any case, take what you will from the poem. It's yours, after all. It's all of ours.

Note: this was a timed poem (a sonnet made of couplets) written in a tumultuous 30 minutes

Fallen Petals

I suppose
A rose
Is naught
But fraught,
Not
With love,
For such a dove
Is of
Optimism,
Slaughtered
By its very thorns,
Caught
Red on red
On the bull's horns,
Sought,
Hard-fought,
And yet left to rot,
Distraught,
Taut
Between worlds of fakes,
An onslaught
Of uncaught
Mistakes,
And one is all it takes,

Indeed a rose
Is wrought
From the darkest thoughts,
Deepest betrayals,
Sharpest hatred,
Heaviest burdens,
For fate
Is not
So kind
As to bind
Without breaking
Find
Without forsaking,
So too is the barbed arrow
Thus shot.





I suppose, additionally, that this poem has a hint of rap to it; that's not exactly intentional, but I guess that's what rap is at its finest and deepest. Might it be Pleonasm in Rap? Well, that defeats the purpose of the genre, but imagine in another world, where such works are treated differently, almost as hybrids of rhyme and free verse. In a world where these works are embellished with the nuances of poetry, just as they are tarnished by the shadows of themes inseparable from their more elegant counterparts. Might I call rap...light? Not that I have the knowledge nor the expertise to make such bold statements. Nevertheless, onward we proceed.

Also may I point out that the long-sought "double-edged arrow" metaphor...is impractical. Thus we rely on the fallen petals at hand, for as much as we might try to deny it, they're everywhere.

A Fallen Star

A wish upon a fallen star,

The fading light a light too far,

Where broken day by dusk exhales,

Horizon-bound on windblown sails,

Afloat on seas of untold times,

A darkened hull of loss and crimes,

A present past to present gives,

And thus to future present lives,

An arrow on the unkempt tides,

Where moment to each moment guides,

Where fleeting futures drown in night,

Approaching naught but snuffed out light,

Like candles from an infant's blow,

Eyes watching unwished wishes go,

Through guilty tears on guilty seas,

Entombed within a guilty breeze.

Then splinters fly from stricken helm,

As fallen star strikes fallen realm.

This one is actually more open to interpretation than I originally intended. Certain lines present themselves in certain ways, yet offer, it seems, different possibilities. For: what is this "present" that the past gives, and toward which future is the present "living"? What is the premise: the wish? And what is the aftermath of the strike? Where one star falls while another seems to disappear, who can tell?

June and July 2017: A Renaissance

Such an unlikely union, that of Juno and Caesar, precipitates, nonetheless, a renaissance of sorts. While the Roman Renaissance took inspiration from the past, this blog took inspiration from the future. From its rebirth in early June ("Important Blog Update") to the subsequent flow of poetry, and even to the recent sharing of posts through Facebook, the blog has undergone quite a bit of change.

I suppose it would be prudent of me to share some highlights, so I shall.

Firstly "Wonder; wander," the first of its intruiging kind.
Of course we can never forget "The Nowhere Walk," which shows that outward simplicity can conceal deep wisdom.
"Terrestrial Slumber" paints a vivid picture with extensive metaphor.
"Untaken Paths" takes rhyme to an entirely new level.
Lastly, "Where All Must End" sets up an especially enticing genre of poetry.

But nothing quite inspires like what has yet to be, so until it is......write on.

The Search

They sing,
And she sings along.

They run,
And she slows to their pace.

They search,
And she searches with them,
For something she can never have.

They wait,
And she waits too,
A lone raven among crows,
Singing a sorrowful song,
Running an endless race,
Searching the barren world,
For, it seems, nothing at all.

And then they feast upon their morsel,
Belting out a victorious whisper,
Dancing in empty elation,
Having advanced in their search,
For, it seems, nothing at all.

And she will sing,
Until their voices die,
And she will run,
Until their strength wanes,
And she will search,
Until they find what they have sought,
Until they become, it seems, nothing at all.

Having sung,
And understood not a word,
Having run,
And gone nowhere,
Having searched,
And found nothing,
She leaves in search
Of more who search
For, it seems, nothing at all.





Such is the price of something we, as humans, can never attain. In the eye of one who possesses this trait, we are such ephemeral creatures, who come from, and eventually fade into, and thus seem to simply be, nothing at all. So why would they search for that which they can never experience? Why do we seek to understand "inferior" animals? Why do we engage in the perpetual search? Why do anything? Why do we ask these questions? There can never be a perfect answer. On with the search!

Roads Diverged

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,"
Branches apart like contours brown,
Uncaring flakes of life long stood,
An afterthought to flutter down.

Three rivers convening beneath a bough,
A gurgling debate of mouths so fast,
By their own paths alone they vow,
Resolve resounding in woods so vast.

Four roots like serpents of umber light,
Twisting in the earth-brown skies,
Diving to escape the shower's sight,
Evading each of a thousand eyes.

A stage awash in power surged,
And from every gust new lives call,
Yet what is fate but roads diverged?
For all the world is one long fall.





And here I write, once again, in the wake of a Divergence poem, (the series title even better connected in this instance) the latest of a series of poems that stem from the beginning of a famous work. Here, I decided to diverge from "The Road Not Taken," and take an even less expected turn in an effort to put a unique spin on Robert Frost's preeminent work.

On a side note (or perhaps more of a "below note," as these all seem to be), I am currently in the process of adding tags and a sidebar organizer to the blog, which will greatly help in organizing the chaos of chronological blog posts. For example, this post might be tagged "divergence" and "rhyme." You get the idea.

On Poetry Competitions and Unposted Poetry

        It presents such a dilemma when I am forced to choose between posting a poem for public viewing and submitting it (or saving it for submission) to a poetry competition. It seems as if the "system" wants to limit the public posting of such poems; of course, if the poet is significantly accomplished and eminent, such problems naturally dissipate. For example, the purpose itself of submitting to poetry competitions, as well as the complementary issue of being able to come up with good poetry consistently enough that posting some (and thus voiding their utility in competitions) cease to be a problem.

        And in creating something of a balance between posting and "saving," I have found a notable drawback: this creates the scenario that all poetry posted is poetry that was at some point deemed "inferior," thereby potentially decreasing the desire for people to read the poetry and also the desire of the poster to continue. This endless downward spiral is terrible and cannot be allowed.

        A potential solution? Make it so that poetry that is submitted can have been published beforehand, as long it has not won another competition and there is proof that the author wrote the original poem. Of course, this requires more work to prevent plagiarism, but it resolves the key issue that remained beforehand, namely, the existence of plagiarized submissions. I do not possess extensive (or even that much) knowledge of the anti-plagiarism (and as of now anti-published) "checks" the organizations that run competitions go through, but I believe the burden this solution creates can be mitigated greatly if the competitors are required to provide proof of originality and the like. As for what form this proof might take and how this can be verified, I am not entirely sure. But it's an idea.

        I suppose for now I will continue on my current system of posting most of my poetry, only withholding a small proportion in order to use as "competition material." Even that proportion I will endeavor to publish after the competition ceases to be, either having rejected the poetry or having lauded it. In either case, I will add an "originally written" date for informative purposes, and will try to fill the gap where poems were withheld with some shorter, less time-consuming (but hopefully just as interesting) poetry.

        Well, there you have it. A bit of a rant, but hopefully some food for thought. Who knows, maybe the system can be changed someday. But for now, on with the poetry!

Wings

Humans, wingless as they are,
Will scour the world around,
No stone unturned, near or far,
But quarry yet unfound.

And failing to even replicate
This dreamlike world above,
They simply learn to accept their fate
And so the ground they love.

Despite themselves, a greed remains,
Tearing at their core,
For futile are their avian feigns,
So much they yearn to soar.

A landbound man is twisted by
His own unsightly lack,
For even the smallest fly
Has found his craven track.

And so proceeds year after year,
A rolling stone so cast,
The truth growing ever clear,
That dream wings cannot last.

Perhaps dreams are just dreams,
From every heart the legend sings,
The day of flight will wait, it seems,
For the one who finds his wings.





Who shall it be? Perhaps we see their feathers, glimpses of possibility amidst the mundane. It seems they hide in plain sight. Perhaps above us they soar. Watch for the wings...for they may even be yours.

Note: this is kind of a quick poem, written on a phone in a bus on a road in summer in...

On Success

To bid unbidden souls to fight,
To stand unyielding in their light,
To send unwitting swords to fray,
To rejoice their derring-do by day,
And to shelter aft by night,
Thus is the warrior's way.

To lie belying truth at one,
To slander the not-yet begun,
To accost the cost of lies at two,
To affirm the need to follow through,
And desert before the task is done,
As politicians do.

And so can you.





I apologize for the hiatus from this blog; I was afflicted by what I suppose can be considered poet's block. In addition, my schedule was tighter than usual due to a project I was working on. Anyhow, here we are again.

Not If But When

When all fails to change,
When none bow to authority,
When the lowliest of the low dare retaliate,
When the mightiest of the mighty can do nothing,

When speech turns to drone at meeting air,
When ink turns to smoke while forming words,
When heads turn away at a single glance,
When eyes avert into the shadows,

When the ships fade from the harbor,
When the shop windows cloud with dust,
When the brightest gold dulls to gray,
When the softest throne hardens into stone,

When the night is tainted with screams,
Yet screams yield nothing but spite,
When the day is rife with enmity,
Of insurrection and utter rancor,

When consciousness and sleep are one,
When death and life converge,
When the once-dominant fall before the once-weak,
When the once-weak fell the once-dominant,

When power is leeched dry,
And reshuffled is the fear,
When taken with unsuspected force,
Deny not that the end is near.





For such things are inevitable...at least if history is any indicator. Yes, history, the silent witness to the greatest sins, to the reality that it is never if, always when.

Waiting

I lie,
Waiting,
Recumbent upon the bed of the downy chair,
Adrift in the waking dreams of almost-maybe,
Of perhaps broiled with rather-not,
Of if-only salted lightly with I-wish-it-were,
A sleep timed to the clockwork heartbeats,
Of the forever-eye mounted upon the whitest wall,
An immaculate white,
As opposed to slighlty-less-thans of the doors,
Both the inevitable and the threshold,
Two exits, though one only to lead deeper,
Into the lion's lair,
Into the hall of prison cells,
Where each second plunges one ever deeper into the rather-not,
Perhaps-if-only-I-wish-it-were vanishing into the distance,
With no going back.

And then I am roughly ejected from my nightmare,
Black expunged by overpowering white,
Only to notice
I had never left.





Liberal hyphens! Dark revelations! Inescapable nightmares!

Note: I will use five lines of space for future post-poem commentary as well, for this way the commentary is better distinguished (especially at a glance) from the poem itself. Additionally, this creates some space for thought, something every poem should provide.

Tainted Lines

When endings lack strength
Or beginnings clarity,
When the middle is a jumble
Without form or parity,
When the rhyme is crooked,
And the meter uncouth,
When consonance fails,
The diction gone south,
Alliteration acting up,
The repetition stale,
Every word a painful stab
Strategies to no avail,
Decoupled couplets over
Dismembered haikus,
Still-stilted sonnets,
Callow cinquains to lose,
Lines after lines from
Poor to even worse,
But find yourself solace
Within free (uni)verse!

Not so tainted? Ah well; optimism is sweetest in moderation. So be it.

A Dying Wish

Close comes the end;
to death append
a sort of life
without the strife
that might have been...

If only when
it all began
there was a reason
brought about
in a wayward route
by some sort of thought
when one thought why not
when one
became a dozen
became a million
became 7 billion
and all
began to fall
into place
for the race
that could only start
if the art
of the rules
and the tools
chosen
by that one
carefully done
so all could be begun
and all that is a dream
could seem
more real
and feel
like the paradise
that would suffice
to fulfill
the will
of the one with the sole
role
because what we wait
for is the fate
of the one.

Anyone.

Where All Must End

"There is a place where the sidewalk ends,"
Where gray turns black,
Where shifting smoke fills every crack,
Where there lacks a line 'twixt the ground and sky,
Where the dirt can fly,
Where the air can sigh,
Where the warm sun rays will wave goodbye.

There is a place where heartbeats end,
Where none dare tread,
Where the light hangs dead,
Where the sound of footsteps is dulled by the dust,
Where eyes bear crust,
Where bones bear rust,
Where the wind brings death with every gust.

There is a place where colors end,
Where day is night,
Where wrong is right,
Where all the world begins to blend,
Where the skies descend,
Where the buildings bend,
Where all must come to an end.

...including the poem. (that was not a part of the poem) Anyway, this is a poetry experiment I am taking for a spin; with all the talk about endings, here's to a potential beginning.

As for the (possible) series's name, I believe something akin to "Divergence" will be appropriate. If you have not already deduced, the experimental series will consist of poetry beginning with (but likely diverging heavily from) the first line or two of a famous poem. In this case, the first line is from "Where the Sidewalk Ends," by Shel Silverstein. As Silverstein's poem is relatively short, I thought it best to take only the first line.

The Watcher

A distant ray breaks through the mist,

A sweep of dust on empty air,

Embracing arms of black come forth,

To welcome the uninvited there.

The welcome mat is rife with rock,

Spotlight-lit, a navy black,

Untrodden crags beneath come forth,

From every wave, a jutting crack.

Yet above it all a soothing light,

From tiny star: colossal glare,

A prayer of the nighttime rite,

Or a searching, sifting stare.

The shadows enter one by one,

To open sea they bid farewell,

And one by one, like weary moths,

Are swallowed by the dancing swell.

A darkness both literal and tonal, both external and internal, from both the above and the below, searching, sifting, dancing...

Untaken Paths

The ever-watcher forever seeing:

Never watch if unbelieving,

Not every person, every being,

Endeavors after thoughts so fleeting.

The thought in mind, for mind in case,

If fought for mind, pursue the chase,

And never mind what later face,

Nor further find another race.

But then to leave unsatisfied,

Receive the win, discard the ride,

Yet some reprieve unjustified,

Indeed for those who only tried.

Why take if taken only bleed,

When taken take away the seed,

Which, untaken, grow and feed,

For where can path so taken lead?

A poem that references the moment just before...which when taken, no matter how fleeting, ends the chase unsatisfied. For why take if the taken only bleeds, when such effort could be redirected? Why indeed? Another mystery of the human psyche lies before us, in the form of untaken paths.

Terrestrial Slumber

Shifting seas beneath,
Waves on waves roll underfoot,
Dormant power sleeps,
Under a blanket of rays,
Dancing shapes aglow,
Breathing light into the wind,
Uncertain colors,
Flickering: a phantom surf,
In silent vigil,
A mirror shattered and drowned,
A slain canopy.

Well that turned dark very quickly...I suppose it wasn't sleep after all... Anyway, I hope it was thought-provoking; it was inspired by the rolling, dappled shadows of a tree outside my window.

A note: this poem is formatted in a five-ku, a new type of poem I invented that expands the 5-7-5 syllable system of the haiku into an 11-line poem. As its name suggests, a five-ku has five 7-syllable lines, the others containing only 5 syllables.

Thunder thoughts

Thunder thoughts of lightning legends,
The storm a clouded mindscape,
The rain an infinity of ideas,
The fog a lingering haze of partial ponders.
*****
As the ideas flow,
And the ponders blow,
And the thoughts roll lIke warring possibilities in combat,
The legends strike.
*****
They say the deepest roots evade the frost,
But can the brightest legends escape the haze?
Can the strongest thoughts penetrate the permeating rain?
*****
Such permeating rain
As could infiltrate the most fortified stronghold,
As would engulf the most gargantuan behemoth.
*****
A titan like that of myth,
A stature unparalleled,
From breadth to width.
*****
Shoulder to shoulder: the Great Wall,
A column stacked: a worldly pillar,
Three to a group: the endless stars,
As far as the eye can see.
*****
Thus lies the myopic wonder:
Cryptic unknowns rewritten with cryptic mirages,
A lightless world lit by worldless light.
Gray to gray, and black to black,
Without the need of need to lack.
*****
For riches fall their height in full,
However high the clouds can reach.
*****
Flash. Boom. And yet another.

Indeed; another "Wonder; wander" has come to be, under storming Manhattan skies, over flooded Manhattan roads. What will we wonder next? Where will we wander next? Hence, the thunder thoughts roll in.

(originally written 6/19/17)

Poem 2 Part 7

And growth to laud, if growth assert,
Fare best when from its germ divert,

Poem 2 Part 6

All for nought and nought for all,

A falling rise brings rising fall,

(It's back!! Also, I will soon be encountering many "falling rises" and "rising falls"...)

One

The cobalt of a drowning sun,
The scarlet of a rising hope,
From ink to cloth to bone to rope,
Incessant tides to chase the night,
Repainted strokes, a two-way flight,
The splintered coffin paves the way,
For yet another to join the fray,
The ashen seed evokes rebirth,
A cycled soul within the earth,
Another death, another dream,
Another flood, a grave, a ream.
Another whisper from the core,
Another cycle, just one more,
Yet amidst a hundred, what is one?

Just one more...poem? Also, I will be adding my comments and descriptions after the poem from now on, as it keeps the entire framework contiguous and natural. After all, who wants spoilers?

In addition, I will be on vacation for the next week or so; thus, I might not be able to meet my 3-poem weekly quota...or perhaps I will, as a result of excessive waiting time. Who knows? I suppose you'll just have to wait for the next...one.

The Diamonding

True to the theme of this poem, a 10-minute timer was put to use. Thus, it seems a bit crude and sharp, but then again so it is. Divine the metaphors! (oh, also I put it into iambic tetrameter in the last 30 seconds because that is what it seemed to implore)

Compressed against the earthly fists,
The terra-force a terror true,
Two twin tide wreakers: rhythm shared,
The strength of air from blue to blue.

The chanting eyes, the staring words,
A can-like mirror, "cannot" fears,
A doubting shard within bests swords,
And too uncertain certains seers.

From higher hues to younger reds,
The hands from straight to right to none,
And empty lines to empty sheets,
The sea alight, the boulder spun.

The Nowhere Walk

More poetry!

We walk,
Our shadows trailing long amidst a wake of dust.
We speak,
Our words a haze of lies within truth within lies.
We watch,
Our eyes that seek the rust upon the needle.
We ponder,
Our thoughts lingering in states that are neither and both.
We sleep,
Our dreams a soundscape of whispering voices.
We live,
Our time a sliver of gold on the current.
But then we find
The gold is hay, and the voices tell lies of the dust.

Melting

Guess the context. Reach for the tale. (originally begun 12/21/16)

The gift I could not give,
The life I could not live;
For fairest upon fairest day,
A silent gift wandering astray,
The words I could not say...

Brightest moonlit ray,
Unreaching inner fray,
Hopes and dreams slip away;
For a future of unmolded clay...
Cannot stay.

And neither could I.

Wonder; wander

Wonder; wander #1(der)

In which I dance amidst the unwritten white and see where it takes me. "***" indicates a new thought, often building upon the one before in some way. I will try to make one of these once in a while, though it remains experimental and thus flexible. Let us begin! (originally written 12/1/16)

Where shall I go? I wonder.
***
To the mountain of Erebor? To the city of emeralds? Where shall the road take me? I wander.
***
Eternal, a traveler, the twists and turns, forks asunder.
***
Rifts deep with hope, the open sky of dread.
Perhaps the empty mountain, or the wooded valley instead.
***
One second a prison, an unbreakable chill.
***
Invisible, a web of thick smoke.
Leaving uncertain dreams, unspoken nightmares.
A riveting allure, impassable walls close in.
It's only me and the white darkness.
***
Perhaps only me and myself.
***
Perhaps only me. Truly a lonely mountain.
For not truly does the city bear hope, only lies.
The answer always lies. Within.
***
Is it not true? Gaze from afar, let your eyes enter the labyrinth of darkness.
Truly, do mortal men lie of the after as they do the before?
***
For...
***
Can only the ichor-bred resist the saccharine?
Can only the weak fare well in perilous plight?
Indeed, such we call before us.
Farewell.

Important Blog Update

        Hello, everyone! Unfortunately, as you might have noticed, I put this blog on the back burner for much of the school year, instead working on other projects and extra-curricular events. Several times, I tried to continue the blog through posting something special, such as a piece of writing or an experimental poem.  However, I never got around to it, and as the school year comes to a close, I would like to release this announcement.

Drafts and more drafts!

        In order to further the development of this blog, I will now start to make daily and weekly releases. This will also help improve my poetry-writing skills, and perhaps I will even throw in some writing or similar work. As a concrete goal, my aim is to release three poems a week, unless I am working on a larger project. To kick-start this goal, I will be releasing some poems and other pieces I have written (or started to write) during the interim since the last post.
        All in all, it's time for the rebirth of Pleonasm in Poetry!