They say the sun shines bright
Beyond the hills of night. Perhaps one day I might See this beautiful light. For now my days are dark My dreams are nightmares wrought.
When on a modern battlefield,
You shouldn't wield a wooden shield.
Sometimes I find that less is more, when I try to write a metaphor.
(Same idea as last poem but less elaborate.) (Subtitle: Spoonerism 1)
On this one bit I will not yield:
When on a modern battlefield Where not one thought can be concealed As hidden things can be revealed You Shouldn't Wield a Wooden Shield
Simple idea worked out over a few days.
The fortress that which is your mind
May find not such turmoil as harsh And instead might as well, rejoice The shackles which at present bind Or may be, but it shall doth budge The resolve of its castles strong And surely not, it shall not smudge Ordeal undertook by genial souls What may be, will have then begun Fear not, have faith on the virtuous Path; Think not, what if but of the Good, that has_ and in time you will Clearly see; mental tenacity will be Yours, decreed; Have just clear head Upon thy broadsword. Nothing else Will have; or will ever matter more !
Reflections inside CoViD ICU as a duty doctor.
Let not our humble minds admit
That we are better than the rest; Lest we ourselves our fates forfeit To those who jeer and **** and jest. Let not our thinking hearts believe Love must belong to fools like them; Such noble strains as hearts must grieve: Second to none; none to condemn. Let not our wills be resolute, Never able to bend or change; Pity the strength of duller brutes. So trust in life’s sordid exchange: Though we will fall and surely die, We too, one day, shall live to sigh.
so it's iambic tetrameter, sue me
walking the graveyard with a torch and a Sack
I once went with only the clothes on my Back feeling full Force the weight of the Course I'm obliged to continue along the dark Track
Wrote this one in my head while walking home from work a few months ago.
Solitary creature in the Wilderness
Scared of even those of your own Kind Staying out of reach of those too Curious Singing out at night your haunting Cry Is there some great secret that you Know about Try to keep the mystery you Must Deep and sacred knowledge you would Show about If only there were someone you could Trust Can I tame them? Should I try? Do they know the reason why I Felt as though my heart could break All for a common rose's sake when Someone seems Unique in all the World to me the Reason is the Time spent making Ties for Only with the Heart can one the Truth perceive Essential things are Hidden from the Eyes Have they tamed me? Did they try? Have they shown me the reason why I Felt as though my heart could break All for a common rose's sake I Looked for wisdom but I found a Friend instead Companionship I know was meant to Be but Even so, all good things must soon Reach an End my Dearest friend I will no longer See They have tamed me, them have I and Now I know the reason why I Felt as though my heart would break For Naught, but my very own special Rose's sake -for the Fox
Inspired by The Little Prince.
I find that paper lends itself
Excellently to flow of thought; Far better than keystrokes and light. A screen blasts its presence forward; Takes what is does not possess and Flings it into our tired eyes. Paper takes what it is given And dutifully holds it close Until decay does to it part. Like a soldier brave and hardy It values its charge most highly And gives up its life before it.
This is unfinished, both in idea and form. At some future date I would like to revisit this, flesh it out, and put it in a proper meter instead of this freeform tetrameter.
How long behind Bob Dylan’s Shades—
smoke furls and curls among the glass— before a man belies his fame? The corner of the room pervades— imbued with smoke if so to pass— How long behind Bob Dylan’s Shades? Visage so cool but starts to jade; will eyes see through and to surpass, before a man belies his fame? Caught in the great aesthetical wake, the fans will bend and surge en masse— How long behind Bob Dylan’s Shades? His words, his voice, depict a sage— I wonder if the lore will last before a man belies his fame. But once the petals cease to sway and blades blow back a pompous ***— How long behind Bob Dylan’s shades, before a man belies his fame?