Spinning out of control,
toward something much worse
than I could have imagined before.
Falling into a hole,
with no way to reverse
my trajectory anymore.
The Snake and the SquirrelOne day, an old Burmese python was slithering through his jungle home when he passed by a pool of water. The snake turned back toward the pool to take a drink and as he approached it he saw a small, red-furred animal, eating a nut, in a forest on the other side of the water. Reflexively, the snake struck at the creature, through the water, but was abruptly met by the muddy ground beneath it. After taking a moment to come to his senses, the snake slithered around to the other side of the pool, closer to it. He carefully dipped his head into the water, but once again saw only the muck-ridden floor of the pool. As the snake was shaking his head dry, he saw the animal lift her head from her meal. The squirrel seemed to peer directly at him through the water.
Distracted, the squirrel carelessly dropped the plumpy nut it was treasuring. The tasty morsel fell off and rolled down into the water. She raised her tuffs in surprise, emitted a small cry of disappointment. In an attempt to retrieve
We're ThereAnd so, at last, we've reached the inevitable end,
the destination we've been chasing all along.
A bittersweet resolution to everything we've done
and now, I guess, it's time to say so long.
The Myth of IndependenceYou say "hell is other people.",
but where do you think you'd be
if everyone around you
shared your misanthropic view?
in a world of apathy,
what exactly is it
that you think that you could do?
Brain WaveFor so long I was stuck,
but then inspiration struck.
I found the right idea, at last
and now I'm on my way.
So That HappenedJust when I thought that it
was over, said and done,
something told me that
it's only just begun.
So I took another shot
and tried with all my might,
I only hope that it's
enough to make things right.
Misanthropic Abandon“Hell is other people”,
a wise man once did say
and from where I'm standing,
they can all just go away.
No one is an island,
but I'm damn sure going to try.
They only people I want to know
are me, myself and I.
MediocrityIn the mushy middle
right between loved and despised.
With no distinguishing features,
but potential unrealized.
It leaves no lasting impression,
just emphatic apathy
so all that's left to say
is that there's nothing here to see.
I'm FreeBreaking out of old
and their inherent
until all that's left
to embrace the
to say exactly
Shall I find thee all in ice ensnared,
the tree boughs stripped, the blossoms bared,
trapped in a wet and wintry grave -
the blight of snow and hoarfrost shared?
They brought you here, their souls enslaved.
The altar where your minions prayed -
a brilliant diadem of ice,
the offering that your cold heart craved.
They linger here whilst you entice
their frozen limbs as sacrifice.
Their wizened hands by you declared
the chosen few who paid your price
The Defense of Gawain (Fragment 1)He brushed his wavy hair from his pale face
Just like his horse was shaking off the flies
While following behind. Their limping pace
Was slow, although the city rang with cries
Surprised from friends who thought that he was dead--
But still his head slumped down, and still his eyes
And clammy cheeks were flushed with streaking red,
Though they were running, dashing to his side.
And then his young brother, half-laughing, said,
"Oh god, I thought--you know we thought you died?
That awful task--you left, you rode away--
And then did not come back. Oh, how I cried!
I thought you died. On last year's new-year's day
A year since you had left, they all agreed
You must have failed your quest, but I said nay--
I knew my brother Gawain would succeed
Although it seemed to all impossible.
But you did not come back, and I concede
I thought you died." And then his voice sunk low
From where it had been shouting in delight,
And then he said: "But brother, may I know--
Your hair is snarled, unkempt--yo
His fingertips splashed through the ivory keys
With ripples that scattered in rows
While windows bloomed petals of watery pinks
Each kissing his cheeks with a glow
Releasing his notes like a bird caged in spring
He untangled the keys from their din
Making sense of a sequence not meant to be seen
He etches them deep in his skin.
He performs for the windows and plays for the halls
The curtains will sway in his song
The picture frames quiver and jump from the walls
Beneath the great rush of his palms.
So I open my window, before I lay rest
Just to capture a trace of his spawn
It's been years since I've heard it, but still I await
for the chime of the Pianist's song.
EurydiceHis voice enveloped me, and I became
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.
OrpheusDarkness encompassed me; high-vaulting fire
Leapt and burnt the vision from my gaze
But though I could not see, I strummed my lyre
Until the music swept away the haze
And I could stumble onwards through the mire.
Now I strum no more. What use are lays?
Save to remind me of my lost desire
That I betrayed--let silence fill my days!
For I, whose song once moved the gods to weep
No longer can make melodies from woe--
No dissonance expresses pain so deep
And no music can be as beautiful
As that which I have lost. Let others come
And fill the void with noise--I will not strum.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
ShameHere's the bloody stain,
burden of my shame.
Let me bear the strain,
savior of my name.
We have born the pain -
righteous, strong and plain,
There is naught to gain
in blessing or in bane.
I have known the blame,
felt my senses fein.
bleeding in the rain,
praying oer the slain,
And know that I've lain
twixt madness and sane.
A Sad DayPlease don't let him bring you down
I don't want to watch you waste away
I wish I could run to your arms
And promise you a better day
I want you to surrender
The awful games you play
Just for once in your life
I wish you'd ask me to stay
I watch you from my window
As you give into his demand
I know you just want to be "cool"
And you think I don't understand
But as the days fly past
And I wait for your call
I start to think you don't care
Because I'm nothing at all
Then I get depressed
And slowly wither away
I can think of nothing else
Except that one day
When you told me I was yours
And you loved me true
Now I look in the mirror
And know I'm nothing to you