LITERAL : POEMS
HER WILL
|
Her force of will, hard won,
Alone tells the story
Of her tough life now gone.
Her vessel, which fled she
To a fate too long due,
A life patiently sought
Since fortune frowned (mind you,
Never helped along), ought
Still hold inside its frame—
In great internal wells
Once filled with love not tame,
And passion that cast spells
On whomever it met—
Some semblance of living,
But it's clear: when she set
Out toward her home, giving
Her tortured mortal form
Permission to find rest,
What was left in her warm
Servant's heart, which no test
Or blight could ever rend—
Which, once absent, defined
In sharp relief and penned
Its visage in our minds—
That resolute, iron will
(Or what mote she still claimed
Once she worked to instill
It into those she named,
Those she chose to receive
The best inheritance
She could by herself leave),
With her deliverance
Escaped, joining her soul
In its body anew,
Leaving only a hull
Withered by time. And few
Will know the volume filled
In that worldly chassis
By only what she willed
To stay, by that mass she
Summoned to fill the vows
She made in younger days
To see the life-spun rows
Calmed, her loved ones' pathways
Oped, and her elders gone
To their rewards above;
The few who know will spawn
The stories of her love
And bring glory to Him
Who breathed it into her,
Who with it to the brim
Filled her heart—and over—
And whose will even hers
Obeyed despite its cries,
And by whose great powers
Her will and spirit rise.
Note: anyone is welcome to use this poem, but I must be given credit along with the poem, and I must be contacted and alerted that it's being used.
Alone tells the story
Of her tough life now gone.
Her vessel, which fled she
To a fate too long due,
A life patiently sought
Since fortune frowned (mind you,
Never helped along), ought
Still hold inside its frame—
In great internal wells
Once filled with love not tame,
And passion that cast spells
On whomever it met—
Some semblance of living,
But it's clear: when she set
Out toward her home, giving
Her tortured mortal form
Permission to find rest,
What was left in her warm
Servant's heart, which no test
Or blight could ever rend—
Which, once absent, defined
In sharp relief and penned
Its visage in our minds—
That resolute, iron will
(Or what mote she still claimed
Once she worked to instill
It into those she named,
Those she chose to receive
The best inheritance
She could by herself leave),
With her deliverance
Escaped, joining her soul
In its body anew,
Leaving only a hull
Withered by time. And few
Will know the volume filled
In that worldly chassis
By only what she willed
To stay, by that mass she
Summoned to fill the vows
She made in younger days
To see the life-spun rows
Calmed, her loved ones' pathways
Oped, and her elders gone
To their rewards above;
The few who know will spawn
The stories of her love
And bring glory to Him
Who breathed it into her,
Who with it to the brim
Filled her heart—and over—
And whose will even hers
Obeyed despite its cries,
And by whose great powers
Her will and spirit rise.
Note: anyone is welcome to use this poem, but I must be given credit along with the poem, and I must be contacted and alerted that it's being used.
THE PLEDGE OF A KNIGHT
|
When day breaks
And shadows
Throw their shrinking claws
Across the tufts
And creases of my covers,
I, lying as a watchman,
Half in and
Half out of a dream,
Find to my joy
That a gentle form
As beautiful as the full moon and
As pure as the sun
Is aiming its countenance at me,
And from it
A crescent of white is
Happily beckoning a reply.
Can such a love as hers
—a love that is forgotten by this world,
A love that this world has
Bartered away
And prostituted
To a less wild love
That burns brightly,
Quickly,
Falsely—
Deserve anything less
Than my very life in return?
No less does it deserve!
And I,
Knowing this love first hand,
Receiving this love daily,
Freely give my life to her,
And would freely
Lay it down
—and, were it within my power,
Take it up again—
For her:
The woman who smiles beside me;
The woman whose concept man has lost;
The woman whose purpose society has perverted;
The woman for whom I would fight against time and death;
The woman for whom I would move the heavens
And overturn the Earth,
And battle the greatest dragons;
The woman who is
My wife.
And shadows
Throw their shrinking claws
Across the tufts
And creases of my covers,
I, lying as a watchman,
Half in and
Half out of a dream,
Find to my joy
That a gentle form
As beautiful as the full moon and
As pure as the sun
Is aiming its countenance at me,
And from it
A crescent of white is
Happily beckoning a reply.
Can such a love as hers
—a love that is forgotten by this world,
A love that this world has
Bartered away
And prostituted
To a less wild love
That burns brightly,
Quickly,
Falsely—
Deserve anything less
Than my very life in return?
No less does it deserve!
And I,
Knowing this love first hand,
Receiving this love daily,
Freely give my life to her,
And would freely
Lay it down
—and, were it within my power,
Take it up again—
For her:
The woman who smiles beside me;
The woman whose concept man has lost;
The woman whose purpose society has perverted;
The woman for whom I would fight against time and death;
The woman for whom I would move the heavens
And overturn the Earth,
And battle the greatest dragons;
The woman who is
My wife.
NINE ELEVEN
|
There is among the everyday heroes
Of fire a tale of superstition told:
If silence rings throughout the engine house,
And eventlessness, though welcome, grows old,
And dust settles into outfits’ boots’ toes,
Then ready your guts and expectations:
The bygone days of infernos to douse
Will soon be no more for ‘maginations;
The greatest Phoenix yet is soon to rise.
O naturally benign captured birds,
Why have you flown low above our heads,
And lodged yourselves in the towering rooms
Of commerce where trading business-man treads,
And carried the men of terror—whom words
Could not deter from their holy mission—
And Hearsed your riders into early tombs,
And let the Phoenix of superstition,
Manifest in you, strike down from the skies
At the unprepared siblings tall in size,
And forced on them their suffering demise?
Of fire a tale of superstition told:
If silence rings throughout the engine house,
And eventlessness, though welcome, grows old,
And dust settles into outfits’ boots’ toes,
Then ready your guts and expectations:
The bygone days of infernos to douse
Will soon be no more for ‘maginations;
The greatest Phoenix yet is soon to rise.
O naturally benign captured birds,
Why have you flown low above our heads,
And lodged yourselves in the towering rooms
Of commerce where trading business-man treads,
And carried the men of terror—whom words
Could not deter from their holy mission—
And Hearsed your riders into early tombs,
And let the Phoenix of superstition,
Manifest in you, strike down from the skies
At the unprepared siblings tall in size,
And forced on them their suffering demise?
ANTI-SOMNATIC
|
Anti-somnatic:
trying to be poetic
at 3 in the morning,
but I'm forming
vivid visions in mind,
and I want to find
an answer for
my questions or
I'll explode—
or implode—
take your pick,
but I'm sick
of not knowing
where we're going,
or if I'm wasting
time by pacing
up and down
the floor and ground
of my apartment house—
where even a mouse
can't find sleep
or he'll weep
for not thinking
of you—peeking
into your mind
in order to find
the way to go
just so I'll know
the way to bend
and put an end
to this confusion,
so the contusion
inside my brain
will start to wane,
and leave me be
(so he can see
the backs of his lids
and send his kids
to their mouse beds
inside my Keds).
I want you more
than ever before—
I want to feel
you here, and real,
not just a figment,
not just a distant,
faint vision—fair,
but made of air;
and I want us
(Oh, I want us!)
and all of this
stuff I really miss
about you to flood
my brain and blood
and ignite sparks
that shoot fireworks
and blow my top—
but then I stop
and wonder why
when you come nigh,
you stir up thoughts
of shoulds and oughts
that keep us feeling
like our dark dealing
will make us fiends
instead of friends—
but then I laugh,
because only we
can really see
a doubting war
over what we are.
trying to be poetic
at 3 in the morning,
but I'm forming
vivid visions in mind,
and I want to find
an answer for
my questions or
I'll explode—
or implode—
take your pick,
but I'm sick
of not knowing
where we're going,
or if I'm wasting
time by pacing
up and down
the floor and ground
of my apartment house—
where even a mouse
can't find sleep
or he'll weep
for not thinking
of you—peeking
into your mind
in order to find
the way to go
just so I'll know
the way to bend
and put an end
to this confusion,
so the contusion
inside my brain
will start to wane,
and leave me be
(so he can see
the backs of his lids
and send his kids
to their mouse beds
inside my Keds).
I want you more
than ever before—
I want to feel
you here, and real,
not just a figment,
not just a distant,
faint vision—fair,
but made of air;
and I want us
(Oh, I want us!)
and all of this
stuff I really miss
about you to flood
my brain and blood
and ignite sparks
that shoot fireworks
and blow my top—
but then I stop
and wonder why
when you come nigh,
you stir up thoughts
of shoulds and oughts
that keep us feeling
like our dark dealing
will make us fiends
instead of friends—
but then I laugh,
because only we
can really see
a doubting war
over what we are.
CHILD'S PLAY
|
A child comes to play,
to throw stones at the pond,
and, in her innocence, laugh
when the duck chases the ripples
in hopes of bread. She's happy
to play with another being,
something whose life
she could affect—
even so briefly;
but those implications escape her—
they fly far above, where her
thoughts do not yet reach—
and the only thought that breaks
through her curious eyes,
her rapid, clumsy movements,
is to laugh.
to throw stones at the pond,
and, in her innocence, laugh
when the duck chases the ripples
in hopes of bread. She's happy
to play with another being,
something whose life
she could affect—
even so briefly;
but those implications escape her—
they fly far above, where her
thoughts do not yet reach—
and the only thought that breaks
through her curious eyes,
her rapid, clumsy movements,
is to laugh.
ON CAMPING
|
He stretches his mighty sinews out
To grasp the defeated tree,
And promptly hurls it onto the blaze
To the awestruck cries of pals.
Laughter springs up,
Stories are told,
Pasts are compared,
Friendships are made,
Hearts are lightened,
Bonds are strengthened.
He looks around,
Stirs the fire,
And cracks a grin;
He can think of no greater joy than
Camping with his closest friends.
To grasp the defeated tree,
And promptly hurls it onto the blaze
To the awestruck cries of pals.
Laughter springs up,
Stories are told,
Pasts are compared,
Friendships are made,
Hearts are lightened,
Bonds are strengthened.
He looks around,
Stirs the fire,
And cracks a grin;
He can think of no greater joy than
Camping with his closest friends.