I Have Loved the Stars Too FondlyThese vast expanses broader than the skies
And deeper than the ocean, just as blue
Are unobtainable from where the view
Is struck by light and hidden from my eyes.
Oh marvels of the farthest-reaching space,
Oh nebulae, oh planets, ancient stars,
Already naked eyes have fought such wars
To glimpse beyond the darkness to your face.
And light which grows with centuries has bled
Still higher in the night and drowned you out.
My city home has left my eyes in doubt
That worlds of breathless beauty I have read
Exist, nor are they found where'er I look:
All space confined in pages of a book.
CheeseWhat must the sonnet bend its form around?Cheese3 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
What must the ode give tribute to, or laud?
To what belongs the metered verse, or sound
Of rhyming couplets? Let them describe God
And let them speak of love and justice well.
It seems to fit the villanelle to sing
Of mighty works, the rubaiyat to tell
Of noble deeds, of wars, of knights, of kings.
This is the evidence of former times:
That glory was bestowed on gilded ink
And granted to the wittiest of rhymes
Which made us turn to truth--to grow, to think.
Indeed bold topics suit such forms as these--
But which form shall I use to write of cheese?
I am the wayward childI wish I had something more to offerI am the wayward child2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when your joints ached and your bones creaked
and you wept dust; (the cobwebs around
your tongue were a comfort once)
but I am three times screwed
over backwards and turned right around,
breathing in gravel and praying on
the only consistencies I know like
on Sun-day we are in the house of God
and it won’t rain and dad won’t speak
and mom will sit with pursed lips counting
all the times we didn’t kiss her goodbye
and everyone will call it normal,
everyone will look at the way I write words
on cracked pavement and get glassy-eyed
when they speak softly and forget the sound
of my own voice when I’m afraid; all those times I
tripped over my own feet and walked away
with wounded knees, and they will call me normal.
I’m at it again, building barricades
from ashes and calling them friends
(this here is fear, he visits me nightly;
and that stale stain in the corner
is actually anxiety, recuperating
from the moment it caught a
Aphrodite's DissertationThe sound of catamarans upon the foam,Aphrodite's Dissertation3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
the march of cavalry and weary knights
who lay their bodies down are coming home
to linens drying like a hundred kites;
if not for love, what force are sword and chain
that they may honor empires with their call,
if not for me, they all have died in vain
and made of Troy the laughingstock for all.
Indeed, your chamois shirts and littered socks,
the tender cartilage of tambourines,
unfinished wine, and little jew'llery box,
and dual hemispheres of nectarines
belong to me alone in my design:
the air you breathe, your everything, is mine.
5. Emptiness of SpaceIf you, who are the emptiness of space5. Emptiness of Space2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Fill all that is and was and will yet be,
And to beholders have a nameless face,
And see the future as a memory,
Why then do you watch sparrows' darting flight,
Or give a name to roses and to stars?
It seems one such as you, who fills the night
Would need no lowly souls, yet here we are.
You know the name of all my moods and fears
And all the inner longings of my heart.
You know the number of my hairs and years
And give thought for the whole and all the parts.
Such staggering minutiae fill your hand,
While galaxies are all yours to command.
Sonnet XVAs prized grow the seconds, I long for home,Sonnet XV3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
My mind craves old and familiar things,
Of distant horizons and clouds to come
I can not think, but of these ancient strings,
And though my infant sights were of elsewhere
Yet, native I have called no other land,
I am the will of this impassioned air,
I am the soul of this nomadic sand.
Alas! Like the fumes of a spectral flame
For a love greater than love I must part,
But if I triumph, be it in your name
Which in faraway lands will warm my heart.
And when I die and my last breath is spent
To this heaven let my soul be twice sent.
EurydiceHis voice enveloped me, and I becameEurydice3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Myself again--I heard it in the song:
A mordent on a note he held too long;
A stutter in his voice. I heard my name
In these and felt a happiness the same
As when I saw him first. Oh, I had longed
To hear him sing again, but this last song--
It was so beautiful. And it remains
The best of human works, though none shall hear
Its sorrowed notes; the lyre's meand'ring tune
Through vast arpeggios and Death's expanse
Except the dead. It will not disappear
'Till all the world's destroyed, and hell's exhumed--
Such music must be worth a backwards glance.
Arise and Breathelittle siren girl, held up by fishhooksArise and Breathe3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and lines - you'll only be free when
they cut you loose.
still, they tell you: you will not fall
victim to swelling tides, you
will float. (you are a dead weight.)
you are something incomplete
like the forgotten house on the
end of the row, eating itself,
dimming day by day:
paint chips and chapped lips
have nothing left to say.
there are monsters nursing
deep beneath your flesh, with
threadbare spines and trembling
hands, they are afraid of their own
shadows. (you are only weak when
your eyes are open)
a new year waits upon your doorstep,
promising to take all that was ever [you]
the paper doll can finally sleep,
to see another day.
Though Winter May Retain its Chilly GraspThough winter may retain its chilly graspThough Winter May Retain its Chilly Grasp2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And frost clings to the glass in morning air,
The night wind makes the lovers hands to clasp
And warmth is brought upon me unaware.
Candles in the window flicker brightly
Suggestive of romance for those within.
Inside the air is thick with love, and rightly,
In wedlock, cheek to cheek and skin to skin.
The summer wedding brings the winter cold
A heat which souls alone must do without.
I do not take for granted that we hold
And care for one another. Beyond doubt,
This joy I have tonight extends above
All I, a fool, expected of our love.
Sonnet XXIX: An endingThe world bent towards the end I would have writtenSonnet XXIX: An ending6 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
then like a harp-string snapped—the twisted threads
unwound, and all sprung back to what we had been
now I am gutted—and you, I think, are dead.
What use are harps when vaunting horns of silver
proclaim the world has ended; what for me
is left amongst the ruin and raging rivers
of blood and ash, and every tie cut free?
And yet—when your song wound through empty halls
and through your melodies all was reclaimed
I loved it then; that strain; its dying fall--
but tunes are lost, and only words remain.
Yes, only words remain. I cannot write
the wonder in your song—the world alight.
Sonnet IXIf I were to count all the days of mineSonnet IX3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And keep the jolly best safely aside,
I wonder, would they still shimmer and shine
Unwashed by each sudden sorrowful tide?
Would the gift of cheer prance from cheek to cheek
If arid the eyes of a happy swain?
Would laughter now flow through each teary creek
And there be rainbows, bereft spells of rain?
And bloom today and each coming morrow
In a bough of joy, merriness and glee,
And cast away man's everyday sorrow
Blind to what it were worth to thee.
And only when the sun dispels the Nile
Will wither the sunflower's sun kissed smile.
Faustian Sonnet IDamned to Chicago from Orleans’ talkin’,Faustian Sonnet I1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
there is hell to be praised for: tooth and nail.
Guilt says that I have no other option,
for the soot heels of a hellhound on my trail.
Can’t call a tale my own; it takes two cents
for heaven to be braced for: truth and bail.
Death can’t bury itself; it takes two hands
to dig into graves hellbound for the rails.
Guilt says that I have no other option,
death can’t bury itself; it takes two hands
damned to Chicago from Orleans’ talkin.
Can’t call a tale my own, it takes two scents
for the soot heels of a hellhound on my trail
to dig into graves, hellbound for the rails.
The (un)wanted ending of a dance with the devilI did my dance with the devil -The (un)wanted ending of a dance with the devil6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
which I suppose is probably you.
You made it look like it was heaven,
but I could see right through
the clouds, which had formed
in and around your mind.
You used to be so organized
but they have taken your sight.
A fierce battle –or a passionate
dance one would say- happened
between us, confusion leading you astray.
And now all is fought and told,
and I have taken my victory,
I can’t help but feel the cold-
sense of your burning agony,
which started during the fight.
One could not tell why,
but it brought you into shock,
and before we both realized
you were down, beaten and bruised.
and I was the winner, although I
did not miss all the cues yet-
I did not take action, why?
And now I’m sitting here upon
the bed you once dreamed in,
and all I must think about is
the absence after you leaving.
Although, your body is still present
your soul has left along -
with the wounds I have caused,
and all I can feel is wronged.
I never would
Sonnet XVIVYou are celestial. I tell you this,Sonnet XVIV3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
not with the romantic veneration
of a Renaissance stargazer, whose bliss
depends on perfection. The cessation
of his quixotic notions, his fervent
belief in the Harmony of the Spheres,
would end altogether his pure content
with the firmament he's worshipped for years.
Nomy ardour is more true, if somewhat
less zealous. My telescope has sought out
your craters, your flirtations with moonsbut
I love you dearly still. Even without
his blithe ignorance, I see your beauty.
I love and I know you better than he.
To Hope RestoredAt my first cry, my life began in death--To Hope Restored1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
My own: for I, as all are, lost in sin,
I moved toward my grave with every breath
And every second let the shadows in.
Thus shackled to my nature, I bemoan
My wounds and tear my binds to no avail.
If I must walk toward darkness on my own
What is this gentle light beyond the veil?
My first breath welcomed death, but this a cry
To start again, begotten in the court
So near the holy place--my hope, descry
The way of life for we who, fallen short
Must breathe, alive, the resurrected Lord
Reborn in him, renewed, to hope restored.
Nobody Writes Like ThisNobody else writes poems like I do.Nobody Writes Like This4 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The fixed-form poet's art is old and dry.
It limits creativity? Not true.
But yes, perhaps its day is long gone by.
Oh wait--there are yet writers springing free
On heels of metered verse and rhyming ends.
Alright: nobody writes in verse like we.
We write like madmen, leaving be those trends
In poetry contemporary. This:
The art of the archaic is our love.
And yet we write in newer forms and kiss
The modern in our own way. Read thereof
As I do, and bear witness to myself
That no one writes like anybody else.
In My WorldIt's like nothing else in the world existsIn My World3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
but faces, and that long-forgotten sting.
That ceaseless drumming of "innocent" fists
my head's a broken bell; let freedom ring.
I called them crocodile tears. I lied,
since every time I look a little weak,
the big kids came out and got me. Yeah, I cried.
But not out loud, I was too choked to speak.
Now the big kids play their parts on stage, as peers
and while that may seem better, to a fool,
it's always been the worst of all my fears.
Now bullies look like friends; it's just too cruel.
Quoth the dark schoolboy, his backbone whorled
"The children are the demons in my world."
Composed in Burning PurposeOne sonnet from the hands that raise, aliveComposed in Burning Purpose1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
One syllable, one word, one turn of phrase
Like rolling waves, the moments, they arrive--
Like light and life crescendoed on for days.
So strike, composer, notes, and wave your hand
Through music in the air. And raise your eyes
You dancers on the stage-- now take a stand--
The lights, the orchestra, the thunder dies.
For this is all you ever fully loved--
This moment full of life that no one knows.
Oh yes, they see and hear and read enough
But you, alone, give birth in painless throes
To glory wrought in burning purpose. Give
Your everything to that for which you live.
NaPo XXIII. Magnum OpusI will not reach my best before I die.NaPo XXIII. Magnum Opus1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Perhaps upon my passing, I'll confer
A greater worth to all my pen supplied
And maybe one or two will be preferred
By readers who come after. But not yet--
Oh no, I've miles to go before I sleep.
Four hundred fifty years, and they'll forget
I ever lived, for poems may not keep.
But maybe one will turn up on a page
Folded in a journal, faded ink
And read by my descendants in an age
When such archaic words will make them think.
I'll raise a glass of tea to that and pray
That future daughters give their best this way.
What Flesh BequeathsThat I am kin to all and everything,What Flesh Bequeaths8 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I taste of stardust ere the rain’s soft bite
On hillsides where November mists alight,
Forsaking flesh and bone and blooded sheen,
To blend as nature deems. What flesh bequeaths,
I will not prize – no gilt, no grandeur binds –
I will depart this plane in measured time
And seize my place amongst the fallen leaves,
Or stars above, or tombstones here beside –
A spot to mark my sojourn’s dear depart,
A child of naught but happenstance, at heart,
Who loved of life and knew of love, in kind –
Contented, by and by – ‘til gathered home
In fields of memory suffused in stone.
4.3: ThumosDeath, whose face is downcast, bloodied, bent4.3: Thumos3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Withholds his hand, uplifted, given pause
As in the face of fear and dark intent
The victor stands unmoving, all because
Death is a weaker being. See, his wounds
Are greater than the ones the victor wears.
And death casts down his shield as ringing sounds
Reverberate. Before, so unaware,
Death claimed to strike His heel and win the war,
But victory was won, and so the blood
Which blinds death's eyes, will flow unceasing, pour,
As life and breath and spirit, in a flood,
Flow forth from hands upraised to match his own.
Death, given pause, can no more hold him down.
spatial resolutionstarlight and meteor expression,spatial resolution6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
a thousand seconds into gold and amber
light reflected light reflected light reflected light reflected
a mirror for this dimpled space-time,
a longer day than meant to be a part of,
theorem in this iridescent glow:
the clock reads three a.m but you
are not discordance,
a touch of sugar and immersion
the sort of sinking we all wish
we could afford
Love is Only for the InsaneLove is not made of crimson lips,Love is Only for the Insane3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Leaving marks on chaste skin
It's a heavenly sin
Done only by the wickedly insane
It's not made of sugar, spice and everything nice,
It's only fear, sacrifice, and pain
Love is made of wilted roses,
Left on an abandoned doorstep
Love is a devil
Disguised as an angel
Only for the foolish, lamenting, and deranged
Love is not made of sweet words,
And crumpled bed sheets
It's only tear-streaked skin,
And broken hearts stitched together again
Cry PeaceThe snow lies deep upon the broken landsCry Peace1 year ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
Entombs the blood within the ancient frost
To battle have we too long turned our hands
Too many years of death and woe now lost;
Too many tears are shed to count the cost.
Tradition is a yoke around the neck
That chains us to the cruel and savage past,
And history, the reef on which we wreck,
Rewriting tales that leave our souls aghast;
With glory is atrocity recast.
And yet we cling to bitterness and pain
As if salvation were within its clutch,
Tallying the records of the slain —
A litany that freezes with its touch —
Entraps the living with the dead, as such.
But every winter must succumb to spring
And passing time may acrimony quell
Let welcome be a balm to ease the sting
Let friendship toll our discord’s final knell…
Lay enmity aside, to wish us well.
a painting hung all wrong.in a dream.a painting hung all wrong.3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
we find him strung up in our garage
washing line taut. neck bulging.
i covered someone's eyes.
stopped them from remembering,
almost familar features
and blue blue blue blue wide open eyes.
where's someone to cover mine?
i mirror you with swollen throat
my voice thick with blood and screaming.
a painting hung all wrong.