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Judson Shastri Jul 2011
But you have not trod softly,
And my dreams lay beaten and still and dead.
Beggar's garb after your feet pass by;
A light walk to stretch your limbs.
Ever my years change.
--Still I require some cloth
And these erupted flags, these dreams, will do.
They will have to do, for being still poor,
I have only dreams and nothing less.
Because should you embark again,
Under your feet they will still be spread.
And perhaps then these rags and the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Will be one and the same.
My favorite poem of all time has to be "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" by W. B. Yeats.
This is a response poem to that. I hope I did it justice...
Judson Shastri Jul 2011
Lest we think, we cease to be,
and I ponder, therefore I am, indeed.
Good people, grasp something...
hold something.
Now nothing is produced, save sweat and salt,
dripping down the contours of leg, foot,
and heel.
Thus lathering the spot of downfall,
the spot of death.

Heel! Body, hark!
Harp,
but in harmony with the drums of mind.
With the drops of percussion, invisible and cried out from the ears.
Fashioned tears to shield you
from consequence.
Our tendency, as humanity, is to act without thinking. It's our Achilles' Heel you might say...
Judson Shastri Jul 2011
Were I to admit my faults, my love,
would you secure the line that pulls us abreast
by speaking true that I do have them?
I will never say that I am an image hard to break,
or that my will does not lead to some death
or another.
Nor will I ask that you deceive me with a pretty ribbon,
wrapped around my body, head to heel.
I am a fresh conceived child of the potter, no image hard to break,
but glass easy to make into dust. Clay easy to unbake.
Don't let me sleep, unanswering for the mistakes I have sung into sword,
for I might fall upon them and break.
As I have said before, its possible.
No image hard to--
I am not faultless, dear one. Never that.
I break of my own accord.
This slippery world requires a crutch
I simply do not own.
But you have encouragement enough
for us to off and find me some feet together...
...make me an image hard to break together.
I wrote this against the common, modern ideal of love. People today, especially my age as a teen, want their love interests to tell them that there's nothing wrong. They want to be told that they're perfect just the way they are. I think it's stupid.  
We have faults. And I would rather be told the truth from someone I hold dearest, than lied to for some ghost of a pleasure.
Judson Shastri Jul 2011
My son, you may find me at the edge of reason.
As I prepare to jump, leap, look, walk off and careen
into the depth,
the dark
of shadowy eyes.
Those shadows indeed in my eyes relay vision.
And I can almost see beneath, to the bone and the haunt it pastes on its readers.
The skull in full strong decorum.
A shook spear once held something like it. Perhaps the poetry flows
and wanders where it goes. A sorrow ****** from serene non-life.
All I care is to note
that I have privilege of viewing close my stark intentions.
For that is what the skull shows,
in its lidless bower:
the heated soul of my evil.
If you're in the right light and are gazing upon something reflective, sometimes the shadow cast on your eye enables you to see what your skull would look like should the skin, muscle, vessel, and nerve be removed. The depression of your eye is darkened, simulating the hollow cavity where your eye goes.
I saw this in the mirror and I was inspired.
Judson Shastri Jul 2011
Discrepency.
What seperates us.
As simple as a cloud watched, when I see the whisked whiskered cat,
and you see collected evaporation.
An operation as impossible as love,
is unthinkable now
What we don't speak of begins to amount in great size,
and between us grows space. I find our bed is wider.
We manage to keep sleeping on either edge, cold feet shimmering on the matress,
and cold sheets shouting on the floor.
Apart.
It is as if we run either side of the bar where lies Herman's whale,
obstructing you from I.
However, we've not the cable to pull her away. I see her lie alien on that shore
and it sickens me.
As if a rift does not belong in us, but gapes there.
A shadow in the warehouse is not supposed to breathe,
when we are shattering, whirling flash-lights. But they inhale.
As if a wall is not built, 'tween my toast and your tea
at the morning table.
Courage for fixing is not suppposed to play dead.
And that's when I realize
its not playing.
Divorce, as a word, has the poetic significance...of a rock. However, what speaks to me is that so many people make the same mistake, and don't even know what it is until they're in that courtroom screaming at each other. Although contributed to by many, many things, it's a simple matter of compatibility.  
No one wants to take the time to find out what isn't obvious. "She intoxicates me." So why not marry her? Because you didn't understand love in the first place. Hardly anyone ever does.

The poem is from the point of view of someone who knows his marriage is failing, and that there is no return. This is not to say I advocate divorce, in fact I believe there is no problem so great that it can't be worked out. I'm just trying to convey the hopelessness of it all...

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