Friday, February 27, 2009

Poems I wrote this week

Here are some non-traditional poems, I figured I should be trying something new once in a while. This is an odd spur of the moment poem and still needs work, but I am posting it anyway because, probably, no one will read it but me, so it doesn't matter :)

Today I spied a gate with locks

The kind of gate that no one knocks

Behind the house looked like a box

Made of tears and cedar blocks

From the hall I hear tick-tocks

So strange each passer-bye just gawks

In the yard where tree shaped rocks

Between these trees were strung old socks

Near the gate was gray old ox

Playing with a music box

The tune he played was sweet

He looked at me and then he talks

“Listen now, beware the fox

For the world he bleakly mocks

He, good fortune, always stalks

Within your shadow, there he walks

Soon ill fortune comes in flocks

After him it comes like pox

This suddenness it always shocks.

A wise man builds and then he calks

He leaves no boat upon his docks.

Wise men still have food to eat

These poems I made about rain and storms.

I like the sound of the rain

I do

The pit-pat in makes

I lean my face against the window,

Cold and comforting

The woolly gray blanket sky

Hanging above me

Soft and soothing

It’s cozy like this

It is

Click click tick, the rain and clock

Speak together

The clock like my heart

The steady beat

The rain like some wild thing

Just out of reach

The untamed beast

Is the wind

This feral fiend

Is the storm

This visceral gale

Tempest strong

Calm thy temper

Fade thy ire

Compose these winds

Monday, February 2, 2009

The bondage of the bird of with paper wings

A bird of paradise in my hands. I return to my book whose pages, like the arms of a dear friend, comfort me. I reenter seamlessly into a world so apart form my own while so a part of it as well. I need this lover of paper and print, though why, I am not sure. Maybe for its charms, worlds of glitter and beauties, or for its subtle sweetness. Even for its dark demeanors, or melancholy moods, the forgotten glory of princes and poppers, rich and poor, loved and loveless. I call these worlds my own. I, who is stuck between their pages like a misshaped blot of ink, I revel in the sights and sounds of a new world, the smell of musty pages and the delight of wonders. The words create paintings before my eyes, which come alive in my mind. The turning of each page is like biting into the soft flesh of a sweet fruit. The juice drips off my chin and stains my skin like the brand from a hot iron. I always long for more, even when it has ended. Each is sufficiently mourned for its passing.
Like snowflakes, each is unique with qualities still much the same. There are an infinite number of possibilities. Despite each book’s nearness though, each is a world shrouded by the mist of incompatible understandings. Each has its own disappointments, though remember it in a reverent light and in time its scars and blemishes disappear leaving a more perfect copy in its place.

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