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Horizons past and heaven's eyes withdrawn,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
Monday, August 14, 2017
Friday, August 11, 2017
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 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.
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
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?
Friday, August 4, 2017
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.
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.
Thursday, August 3, 2017
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!
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!
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
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.
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.
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