Poem, "Too Long a Summer"

Too Long a Summer

Time has tripped and taken to autumn, but born up by hot wind, away from the cold ground of winter.

Gliding and hanging on far too long to summer.

Confused and bitter at the indignity, flailing in their hopelessness, Time stays alive in every twist with wakes of spiraling steam and tide cast by every move.

Sweaty and fallow cheeked wishing for the shady places of cool long nights to bring.

Angry to feel the warmth and humid air hang to them.

Time is hanging on.  Still believing that the world can be cool again.  Eyes looking out as he slowly falls thru the hot wind, they see leafless trees, not from the approach of winter but of a summer that will never end.

Touching down, the ground is hard and dusty and hot.

Be still, be patient, they say, wiping sweat that falls hard to the ground.

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This was inspired by this poem: "May Morning" by James Wright

If you want to read more of my poems, click here.

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Poem, "Wildlife Passage"

Wildlife Passage

Predators, Stalking

So hard, to leave dead and gone

In us, sleepwalking

Know that, there they were

Know that now, they are all gone

Know when and why too

Know, it is the shame

Of an age we could not tame

When our blood lust raged.

A drive we all try

Ringing in the ears, outcry

We did nothing wrong

Come to the Tunnel

Dark for loss, of the Deer ones

Where the wild things cross

Salt, apple, ivy

Thru the wood wound, a chapel

Learn from this wisely

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Poem, "The Truer Pantheism"

I did another rewrite of poetry.  This time it is much less intensive, just striping out gendered pronouns, and using slightly less archaic "Tho's".  This is taken from Lord Tennyson's "The Higher Pantheism", which I kind of think myself clever for the minor alterations.

The Truer Pantheism

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills, the plains,

Are these not, the Soul, the Vision of They who reigns?

Is not the Vision They, though They be not that which They seem?

Dreams feel true while they last, do we not live in a dream?

Earth, the open sky, the weight of body and limb,

Are those not sign and symbol of our division from Them?

Dark is the world to you; truly you’re the reason why,

For are They not all but you, that hast power to feel "I am I"?

Glory about us, without us; and you fulfill your doom,

Making Them broken gleams, a stifled glory, leaving gloom.

Speak to Them, now, for They hear, and Spirit with Spirit can meet

Deeper are They than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

It is law, say the wise; speak free, and let us rejoice,

For when They thunder by law the thunder is yet Their voice.

Law is Divine, say some; not Divine at all, says the fool,

For all we can see with our eyes is a straight staff bent in a pool;

The ear cannot hear, and the eye cannot see;

But if we could see and hear, this Vision, would it not Be?

Here is a related image from Neo-Paganism.com.

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Poem, "Rot of Memory"

Rot of Memory

The rot permeates all cloth

Disgusting me in this damp land

Seemingly where mist was invented

And lazy and hazy thoughts

Akin to tranquilizers

Having the light fade,

When finely crafted,

Though lightly damaged,

Heart and mind cried for the missed opportunity

Never to kiss your lips again

In a room of harsh shadows

Cast by a lamp upended

Knocked by thrown clothing.

Things escalate in the dark:

The shabby curtains tossed by cold air

Sails carrying away our inhibitions;

Reality, and the crispness of now

Serve as a stony beach

On which those ships crash ashore

I crawl out of the sea;

The air stinking with wet.

The dawn now uncaringly rising

A single determined beam of sunlight

Landing on my bloodshot eye

Memory and peace

I am here

You are not

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            I wrote this after reading "Vespers" by Denis Johnson, and taking it in a different direction.

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Poem, "Ice"

Ice

Here in the electric dusk, a sky black with the glow of endless light pollution

You, naked, allow condensation to drip on your skin, the cold sensation

The glass lined with rivulets and filled with crushed ice

Promising the ache of touching against your teeth.

You are beautiful, your hair twisted and deranged

A finger dragging thru rings of wet on the end table

You are steaming with hatred of the heat

As the music fades and the anticipation of the next tract hangs in the empty air

To break in, to speak, seems wrong, there are no words

Such a long last night—full of “o’s” from erogenous zones

You're not an erotic hallucination,

Not a feverishly scrawled poem,

You are a reality of splendor

You are serious

You are severe

You are larger than life in the night

This box, sweltering,

This exhaustion, from passion resembling madness

The absent moon of gentle magic

You hold my eyes, enraptured

In the half second of complete quiet, you smile

Sweaty, hot, messy, with your glass of ice

Ice, ice... You know the rest of the lyrics.

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            This was inspired by a friend of mine who came to mind when I read this poem, “Heat” by Denis Johnson.  As always I am hesitant to say, “I wrote this about you,” as that always feels a bit forward.

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Poem, "Exotic Word"

Exotic Word

You're an exotic word

Auto-correct just keeps trying to rewrite you as something else

Because it is a tool of semi-literate barbarians

You're the right word in a poem that is only half written

Letters traced invisibly

Like the cursive movements of a finger

Pulled, turned, and twisted over bare skin

You're not a typo

any more than a tan line or freckle

is a form of punctuation

There is only one punctuation mark

I would look for with you

an exclamation point

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Poem, "Slow"

           In the past, I have written poetry on this blog.  Sometimes I take poems I find on the Poetry foundation and rewrite them, write a response to them, or just wreck them, as I don't know anything about poetry.  Today I drew inspiration from the Poem, "Now the Slow Blood" by Robert Fernandez to create my own little poem.

           Feel free to tell me what you think.


Slow

Slow the flow of rain.

Now the voice drops lower.

Glow narrow bolt of light.

Below the blood runs colder.

Low below the grass it stiffens.

Now the voice is slower:

Cold light casts thru showers.

Old joints of a church goer.

Slow the sound as thru cotton.

Slow muffled words gathered, gotten.

Old Scratch, near marker standing,

His finger, slowly curls, enticing,

Smile, bright, wide, inviting.

Slow is the idea creeping in the mind.

Slow does the thought grow.

Slow to open eyes, no longer blind.

Slow comes resignation, sorrow.

Not to heaven, no, not there

Old joints, bad soul, down, down there.

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Poem, "Left a Dream"

Left a Dream

First a nod, then a turn

Part from me now?  While we yearn?

I do avow: we will learn…

You are perhaps not wrong when you say

Speaking on dreams of us, in brighter days

Perhaps those are flights left to float away

But there’ll come a night, of subtle ways,

The light of a vision, or the dark of none?

Is it so unlikely, our two could be one?

All that we want, all that we need

All that we are, all that we please

Should this all be left a dream?

Listening to the giggle

Of warm waterway trickle,

And I slide my fingers over

The ripples of the rolling water

I dip my mouth to taste the flow

And hear a sigh as you let go

Elation flashes on warm flesh wet with liquid

My eyes resting on peaks of a beauty, sweet and timid

Holding up myself tight of grip, both hard and rigid

Deeply felt and Heaven calling,

Too quickly spent, though enthralling

Hot and happy, but not calming

More time solicited via palming

Time and time again,

Until no more could I extend

Finishing with a gasp

Oh Heaven, why can I not fix a clasp

To hold this woman, with a lasting grasp?

Why a nod, and then a turn?

Why part when we both burn?

Why?  Please.  Cannot we learn?

Our time does bring smile’s gleam

Should all this be left, just as a dream?

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"In the Ruins", a Poem

            I have decided to once again rewrite a poem that I liked but wanted to “fix” by using my own word choices and breaking up the structure a bit.  That poem is “in the ruins” by Mark Conway.  I did this as a writing exercise and I hope people enjoy it some.

            Feel free to say in the comments that you like the original more.  Or post a link to your own poetry.  Have fun with poetry.

In the Ruins

We toasted in the remains

ruined buildings providing

cover from the wind and rain

As we sat in caves or wrecked houses

on farms given back to the banks

the sound of current carrying

what was ours away

Listening to men who’d been raised

in ways of rearing that were lost

and we strained to divine

the use of their views

tossed on the pyre of time

They were crazy or passed out

those who could not bear

parting themselves from memories

of a world gone

of a time now nowhere

They came in from the rain

inflamed and dismayed

calm and arcane

they drank to dull the pain

The least one seethed

then wept at tasting the dregs

we drank and waited

waited for something to drop

Gazing and sifting

for signs written in wax

we were young

we knew how to die

but not how to last

A small man raged

he had god in his sights 

white signs and glyphs glowed in his eyes

his fingers moving thru the wet dust

patterns not unlike the stars

that shone on clear nights

In the ruins

to the sounds of rain

they spoke

Like a choir of seraphim

broken winged and fallen

their speech glowing

with gnosis and erudition

We sorted their mad sacred words

these broken minded guides

to the life before

and the life after that

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"The New Colossus", Poetry and Americana

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
MOTHER OF EXILES. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

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This poem was written to raise money for the erection of the Statue of Liberty.  It predates the statue being placed on Liberty Island.

Maybe I am atypical, but I was told throughout my primary education that this simple poem, along with many other small speeches (Gettysburg Address), oaths (Pledge of Allegiance), and statements of purpose (Preamble to the Constitution) represent important aspects of Americana and our own internalized mythology (those exact words were not used, I was in elementary school).

I don't know what the general public feels about such things.  I do know that I dislike the casual dismissal of this bit of writing.

What do you think?

Dungeons and Dragons, "Random Poetry Interlude"

Standard Introduction

            I have been writing about Dungeons and Dragons semi-regularly this year and in the course of writing those I found a 30-day blog challenge.  As I have done those a couple times before it seemed remiss not to jump on this one.

            If you want here is a link to my 30-day challenge on Disney Movies, here is a link to my 30-day challenge on Video Games, and here is a comically out of date 30-day challenge on Movies (it is old and the writing is rubbish).

Day 29- Best Player Experience

            Gotta be honest, I could not think of one.  I am not much of a player and I prefer being the guy running the game.  I am more about Puzzles, Monsters, and NPC’s then I am about PC’s.

Filler: A Poem

            I occasionally take poems off the Poetry Foundation and rewrite them.  I am a multi-dimensional nerd in that regard.  So here is a link to the original poem, “Evening Hawk” while below is my re-do of that poem.

            And yes, I am reworking the poetry of the United States’ first Poet Laureate.  Because I have an ego?  I guess?  Or maybe it is just that it popped up while I was researching poems about the end of the world.

Rising Owl

From plane of light to pane of glass,

Out of the peak’s black angularity of shadow,

Wings dipping thru geometries

Riding the last tumultuous avalanche of light

The light above pines and the guttural gorge

The gorge filled with orchids that the sun built

The Owl comes.

Its wings scythe down another day,

The motion that of the honed steel-edge,

Hear the crash less fall of stalks of Time.

Heavy with the gold of our error

Each stalk head falls.

Look!

Look!

It is climbing the last light

Who knows neither Time nor error,

Under whose eye, unforgiving,

The world, unforgiven,

Swings into shadow.

Long now,

The last thrush is still,

The last bat cruises now

In sharp hieroglyphics.

The star is glimmering and green,

Its wisdom is ancient and immense.

Over the mountain.

If there were no wind we might,

We think,

Hear the earth grind on its axis,

Or history,

Drip in darkness like broken flesh.

Coming Tomorrow

            Tomorrow I am going to talk about my best experience running a game.

            Tomorrow’s entry will actually be about Dungeons and Dragons rather than another random poetry interlude.  It will also be the last “real” entry in the 30-day challenge, day 31 is just a rundown of the whole thing.

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"She Walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron

     It has been a while since I posted a poem by an author I like and I have recently discovered(?) Lord Byron from the romantic period.  This is literally the first poem that shows up when you google for him, and I like it.

"She Walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that’s best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 

Or softly lightens o’er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent!

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Some Depressing Poetry by Stephen Crane

I took these from the Poetry Foundation, a great resource for anyone who loves to look well read via occasionally posting poetry on their blog.  Each of these poems was written by Stephen Crane, author of "The Red Badge of Courage".  I am sure he was a real peach to be around.

In the Desert
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”


"I saw a man pursuing the horizon"
I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never —”

“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.


A Man Said to the Universe
A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

"THE SECOND COMING" by WB Yeats

THE SECOND COMING

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

  William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Poem, "The Preserver"

The Preserver

In the lands of oak and pine

the black earth mountains climbed high

into the mists and fog and cloaking clouds.

The mountain valleys wove

like wind thru branches

to an ancient marble quarry

yielding the glorious white stone

from which chapels

glimmering in the light of day

reflecting off snow topped peaks

the glorious harmonies

of their divine choirs

carried high

to ears of angels.

The love of the Preserver

for the people

could be carried by echo

off cliff’ sides and down valleys

to the ears of those near

that the richness of the world

and the beauty of life

filled all those who heard

and urged them

to carry with them

a song in their hearts

and a kindness in their deeds.

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Poem, "Wyld"

 See all the cordial dancers

And the silver haired dreamers

Wandering along the wave breakers

And laying by lost friends;--

World weary and world denouncers,

On whom the pale gloom means,

Yet we were the takers and fakers

Of a world forever unseen

            "Wyld (Poem)"

Poem, "Apocalypse"

10        Dust blowing over the empty cities

10        Hard as stone the forest of withered trees

10        Mountains of chalk crumbling, the rocks slide free

12        A yellow sky with twisting clouds of poison, sick

12        Clouds that shimmer with the colors of an oil slick

4          The oceans grey

4          The soil ash

7          The breath of life has left them

6          The sun’s color changes

5          The star grows, explodes

5          A world is consumed

Poem, "Most Issues"

13        Existence defined by toil in eras previous

13        Broken, scattered, lost, in an age of convenience

10        A fear of the tide of modernity,

10        Old traditions lost out to new reason

10        Fear of uncertainty, an undertow

10        To take them far from a familiar shore

10        Of the new, of knowledge they make a foe,

10        They denounce with cries of, "corrupting lore"

10        So many childish and pedantic

10        Gnashing teeth, the animals are cornered

Poem, "Ghastly Biz"

4 Shiver shiver

5 up and down my spine

6 message came by river

7 as opposed to a phone line

6 message was wet and smears

5 these bring spirits down

4 but here no tears

5 in this little town

6 Anonymous and lost

7 There will be a handling cost

6 dispose of this garbage

5 that is all she is

4 disregarded,

5 why is this my biz

3 make her gone,

3 from my eye,

3 was pretty,

2 now dead,

2 goodbye

10 Haiku

In the House of Sin

Just off of Ohio Street

We were all quite safe

Not origami

The product of my hard work

Just crumpled paper

I want to go home

But I want to stay away

Take it day by day

The images swim

I close my eyes, white and black

ghosts of dreams unborn

I grew up I guess

She begged me to let her down

I did, but not hard

Between the Tree Rows

You can see the Horizon

Whether dark or day

How long will it last

Till April, May, June, or August

Today if lucky

I had just arrived

A world that just did not care

I was not surprised

Went through completely

Like a bullet, not a ghost

The hole she left hurt

You know what he is

Who?  You know who, Amsada

The Man in the Suit