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?

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––

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Horizons past and heaven's eyes withdrawn,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

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?

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.