When it rains it pours
So here we go, I'll keep throwing stuff out here, damn insomnia kinda forces my hand. So let's get caught up on stuff so far shall we?
Dust to Dust (Sonnet # ??)
Dust to Dust, an end to all our toil,
when one year we 'lide, and fall to soil
and so in winter we to heav'n take
or sit in the pit, Hell's fiery lake.
We bemoan fate, which thus will bemoil
so fearfully; deign else-wise saints, make
sinners thereof. Upon astral throne
from whence He made us His “preferment”
he sits to judge 'neath not but our own,
but banners in all lands shall be bent
to Nature's will with what wonderment
as ever was known. Now he was blown
like the molten earth, and made of that kind
and sparked to being, the Dust in The Wind.
Starvation's Fruition
No more is said, no more is done
please slip the shackles
let loose thine wrists
let ankles fly
in passions, please flee.
A heart so starved for love.
starvation has led so far
into hunger, that it fasts,
forevermore.
Mounting Olympus
The giants of this trade lie before me, dissected
by the bitter blades of the self-proclaimed, self satisfied, surgeons
an autopsy of the poet?
Nay, a biopsy, for art does not die with the artist, nor will
the artist ever die in the art. Such is the life, the death and the
resurrection. One holding more weight and translation
into myriad languages beyond every horizon.
And so they lie open on the table each bullet, stab wound, and
cancerous mass splayed filthily before me.
A pile of broken hearts sits discarded in this corner:
forgotten, and lonely as the author’s relevance and the work
that sent him or her to the chopping block upon which they lie.
Watching as the malicious incisions mar the marvelous
literary gods, I pray to find myself one day disgraced
beside them, once I find my own singular tongue.
In the Ghetto
(? not sure, was calling it "His Mama Cried", help with the title maybe?)
We all see the pain and the despair
in the world torn by furious storms of hell
and the indecent, destructive reign of monarchs
tyrants of the cruelest order. We prepare
the calloused hearts and feed hate with the knell,
the ringing of the bell and the dirge for those who’ve passed.
Pity is not to given by brothers, no
man can pity himself in good faith, nor those who fly
to mountains high to rant and cry
besmirch his eye with spit and lie
to his beauteous sky. No, they run
jump the gun repay the one
who promised fun no, kill his son
so it was done and he died,
the child died, and His mother cried.
In parting from Student to Teacher
In so many ways
it is spoken, again
it shall seek days
to live, and to pen
it’s own hot deceit,
such hell worthy lies
would scar angel feet.
And still, this that tries
needs anthem to ply
the fast ties that once bound
the master and I.
That cord so tightly wound
and woven into our art
ensures the friendship we found
now resides deep in our heart
and we two shan’t ever part.
Noble Madman
Vagabond of a humble kingdom
Vagrant of a lesser land
here he stumbles drunk the lonesome
roads, crucified idol clutched in hand
Once he owned the castle keeps
and raised the banners high,
but now fortunes hatred seeps
to manifest and to evil, ply
while gloomy seraphs o’er fly,
haggard saints begin to die
and broken kingdoms fill the sky.
Sonnet 28
A sight for sore eyes that cannot stand Dawn
with languid lull, nearer to new days noon,
you have no clue what comfort you are. Gone,
With trunk heavy veil'd stars that droop to swoon,
unto the selvan, the ponds on the lawn,
whereon you lie in breathy slumber, moon
new risen, and stars steadfast as the stone
that whence eyes land on you may ne'er give way,
and so ensnare the heart beneath the bone,
and so give comfort as your beauty may.
But your slumbers encumber and enthrall
me to hold you in warm safety withall.
My waking dream recalls this writer's scope
from my hatefull line, to revive my hope
Sonnet 29
(aka. Icarus and his Art, or Icarus the Artist)
To sculpt the craft and eat of the fruit
in leave of a love with which to ply
the heart, and starvation leads to lust.
It flames so no river run may mute
the stillborn passion so apt to try
the tempestuous waves, that bring Dust
to dust. Trusting with self delusions,
the faith of fools, flaying God beside
The Tree of which we shan't eat, aside
the heart which projects its illusions
of love. The lonesome man whom they chide
and chase through dreams into reclusion
Crushed by the pressure to, with love's wings, fly
The artist goes mad, and plummets from the sky.
Sonnet 27
(origionally I mistook this for a full 14 lines when it was missiong one... so I just added line 12 now.. tell me if I should keep it or what)
How can I, with pretentious word
feign reveal the beauteous world
about me. Once so roughly hurl'd
from sorrow, hate and loss, absurd!
How could I think myself worthy.
What possessed me, to think that I,
one sans soul akin, one sans thee,
could I conceive Xanadu high
above the mortal eye, a sky
of red dawn's benevolent tie
to all those things that live and die.
Numb, insensate, when I should cry
But truly I ask, how can I
see you standing there, and not try.
The Hangman
(or Artist and the Hangman)
Locked away from loving Lux, the light of heaven's holy sun
to slave in languid Luna's lulling beam
mastering tools in solitude,iron shackles spacious run.
No joy may tarry where such gray stones gleam,
the furies disembowel with wicked blood lust's hateful way.
The Devil cuts his share to flee, planting hateful hurtful seed
by which an empty love may breed, this talent that will fray
the ties that bind the bark to shore, Satan knowing where to lead
Hiding art with hateful doors
bleeding martyr's blood of whores
who've lain beside those men of yore
seeking love and art seeming pure
but genius has so little form to cope
ironically ending by hangman's rope
Graduation Poem
(the poem I wrote for my Graduation speech, but noone seems to have heard)
We’ve paced the path
beyond the horizons
once regarded as all.
The peaks ahead lie laden
with light and glittering ivory.
Round about the old crone’s head
the blizzard swirls and the zephyrs
bring the looming, wrath to bear.
At such a crossroads we neglect
the past so studied and look
instead towards the winding, wending
road ahead. And in these ways
so wrought in right and wrong
and ringing with the tune of righteous
ineffability, heed must be taken.
Heed of the lessons so many times
taught and the learning
so few times sought
yet they who stood here shan’t be forgot
and
lessons learn’d here will not be forgot
For nothing done here was ever for naught.
And if you've made it this far through this menagerie of what can only be termed melancholy..... sorry if it's depressing, but what can I say, it's winter, it's cold and the heat keeps going out in our dorm. G'night