"aphorism" poems
A night owl in the harvest moon
was awake till the crack of the dawn
but wasn’t surfing online, wasn’t rowing
the boat in the digital river.
Deep down to a dreamweaving scene
that was, in musing, painstakingly creative.
Wait till you snap up a witty aphorism.
The darling buds of May will be in bloom.
The tickled pink nightingale too will
give out its voice, singing a song.
Save a copy and tweet it to all,
but do give us a demo, tell us a bit more.
Where does it shine and sizzle?
Where did the winter tuck away the rose?
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
abolitionism
absenteeism
absolutism
abstractionism
absurdism
academicism
academism
achromatism
acrotism
actinism
activism
adoptianism
adoptionism
adventurism
aeroembolism
aestheticism
ageism
agism
agnosticism
agrarianism
alarmism
albinism
alcoholism
aldosteronism
algorism
alienism
allelism
allelomorphism
allomorphism
alpinism
altruism
amateurism
amoralism
anabaptism
anabolism
anachronism
analphabetism
anarchism
anecdotalism
aneurism
anglicism
animalism
animism
anisotropism
antagonism
anthropocentrism
anthropomorphism
anthropopathism
antialcoholism
antiauthoritarianism
antiblackism
anticapitalism
anticlericalism
anticolonialism
anticommercialism
anticommunism
antielitism
antievolutionism
antifascism
antifeminism
antiferromagnetism
antihumanism
antiliberalism
antimaterialism
antimilitarism
antinepotism
antinomianism
antiquarianism
antiracism
antiradicalism
antirationalism
antirealism
antireductionism
antiritualism
antiromanticism
antiterrorism
aphorism
apocalypticism
apocalyptism
archaism
asceticism
assimilationism
associationism
asterism
astigmatism
asynchronism
atavism
atheism
athleticism
atomism
atonalism
atropism
atticism
autecism
authoritarianism
autism
autoecism
autoeroticism
autoerotism
automatism
automorphism
baalism
baptism
barbarianism
barbarism
behaviorism
biblicism
bibliophilism
bicameralism
biculturalism
bidialectalism
bilateralism
bilingualism
bimetallism
biologism
bioregionalism
bipartisanism
bipedalism
biracialism
blackguardism
bogyism
bohemianism
bolshevism
boosterism
bossism
botulism
bourbonism
boyarism
bromism
brutism
bruxism
bureaucratism
cabalism
caciquism
cambism
cannibalism
capitalism
careerism
casteism
catabolism
catastrophism
catechism
cavalierism
centralism
centrism
ceremonialism
charism
charlatanism
chauvinism
chemism
chemotropism
chimaerism
chimerism
chrism
chromaticism
cicisbeism
cinchonism
civicism
civism
classicism
classism
clericalism
clonism
cockneyism
collaborationism
collectivism
colloquialism
colonialism
colorism
commensalism
commercialism
communalism
communism
communitarianism
conceptualism
concretism
confessionalism
conformism
congregationalism
connubialism
conservatism
constitutionalism
constructivism
consumerism
controversialism
conventionalism
corporatism
corporativism
cosmism
cosmopolitanism
cosmopolitism
countercriticism
counterculturalism
counterterrorism
creationism
credentialism
cretinism
criticism
cronyism
cryptorchidism
cryptorchism
cubism
cultism
cynicism
czarism
dadaism
dandyism
defeatism
deism
demonism
denominationalism
despotism
determinism
deviationism
diabolism
diamagnetism
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
for Nick and Kaitie
1.
Yesterday, right when our call got dropped,
I was going to tell you something about marriage.
I was going to tell you something gnomic,
a maxim worth getting engraved.
I've since forgotten,
but I believe it was akin to saying that, like Truth,
marriage is impossible to define in verbal space.
So, I guess I'm glad I forgot. The words
would've seemed either too hastily conceived for their subject matter
or else weightless, enigmatic – without impact.
I think it was Auden who whined, “Marriage is rarely bliss,”
though he lightened the phrase by encapsulating it in the context of modern physics –
namely, at least it has the ability to take place,
and that should be enough to bring bliss equal to Buddha’s Emptiness.
So, I'm happy our call got
dropped,
for the dial tone was
the pithiest aphorism on marriage any sentient life could've produced.
The key word is “produced.”
2.
This is what marriage is not:
Socrates gurgling hemlock
on his dusty prison cot,
giggling as he glimpsed a dikast’s deformed ****
Nietzsche tenured for philology
at Basel; Nietzsche feverishly etching
Fick diese scheiße! on a Jena clinic's wall; biology
predetermining the team for which he was pitching;
a poem; a hotdog; *******
a discharged Kalashnikov
engendering generational pain
somewhere in Saratov
circa 1942;
this is what marriage is not:
hatred, jealousy, ballyhoo,
obsessive yearnings for a yacht;
this is what marriage is not:
anything one pair of hands has wrought.
August 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
The ultimate arrogance:
believing you can live a life
without consequences.
- mce
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
the museum of my heart
has a blurry picture of his green eyes
the boy whose I name I never knew
there's a special exhibit
of all the bathrooms I had a breakdown in
there's polaroid pictures hanging
of all the friends I lost through the years
and all the friends who lost me
there's the poetry I wrote about them
words written in red ink and messy handwriting
there's statues of copper and tin
of all the lovers who couldn't love me
there's a constant humming of white noise and lo-fi
echoes of unspoken words I kept and ones I never heard
there's a selection of wingless butterflies
and a collection of blunt pencil sharpener blades
there's a basket of fortune cookies
and every single piece of paper carries the same aphorism:
"amidst the loneliness, the things you loved will forever haunt you."
there's old tv sets and a stack of DVD's
of all the films I wish I'd seen
there's all the skeletons I've hidden
secrets written on napkins and snuck between the wall cracks
there's a brand new guillotine and a golden noose
carefully kept for anyone who tries to hurt me
there's blackberry trees, an open ceiling
and dark splatters covering the ground beneath it
there's a chapel with empty seats and burned bible verses
rose petals and pink, lilac and blue candles
where an altar waits for a future love's mementos
there's a fountain of sweat, blood & tears
there's me standing in the corner
waiting to hand you your ticket and lure you in
there's angels and devils praying that you make it to the end of the tour
Jan 29, 2023
Jan 29, 2023 at 8:19 PM UTC
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
I.
There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)
II.
I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)
III.
Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.
IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
was an aperitif to an aphorism,
an apothecary of aphrodisiacs,
an apiary of my ever-buzzing thoughts.
She slipped streamline as maraschinos
into a Manhattan, that strike of sugar
staining the most bitter days a color no chemical dispels.
She was an enigmatic row of beakers
shelved in an ancient pharmacy
at the base of the Janiculum.
Her shape was incense wisps, her
touch a song sung in 1940s noir,
her locking gaze acrophobia itself.
Alliteration ran thick through her blood,
she painted like Debussy composed.
No single organism in the universe could’ve imposed
anything on her – well, maybe.
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that I’m a boy –
no air of denigration here.
She was intricate, but altogether simple. Empathetic-yet-
tangible, her character was incredible.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
that held her mind and laughter,
not the dazed sting in my hand as it cupped
in hers – it was her autotelic way and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:59 AM UTC
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!
to think, is to not narrate,
much of what is regarded as
"thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
hands with a tongue...
hence: idle speech,
hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
(tongue)...
but most people don't think,
because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
their day-to-day...
and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
i really do...
how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
really bothers me...
the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
(iberian inverted questioning
¿ ? that's the first step toward
an iberian existentialism)
said the third person,
with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
of the writer's original testimony?
if northern existentialism (french / german...
the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
encompasses the tool that's " "
then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e. ¿ ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
but aphorism 285: "worldview",
"grounding", "configuring"...
i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
aren't all the three descriptive elements /
adjectives the purposive sentiments for
originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
found in the existential tool of double-ditto " "
or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
from passing the judgement...
they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
A wise man once said:
“Wrong life cannot
Be lived rightly” [1]
Many become aware of
This fact, but rather than
Taking action, they instead
Resign themselves, to
Hopelessness and despair,
As doubt rears its ugly head,
Asking: “what can one person do?”
All the while, neglecting the fact
That this world overflows with
People who are just like they are,
Each of them “just” one, and
Each alone bearing the same burden,
Indeed, on the back of “just” one,
This burden is crushingly heavy, but
On the backs of many, it becomes
Lighter than a fallen leaf
Adrift in the autumn breeze.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
I can never compensate for the poems I have misplaced,
Yet I proceed to shed sincere ink upon an empty canvas,
and revert towards elusive answers.
I once again resort to the preferred instrument,
And stumble into a liberating trance.
However, genuine introspection often
Unearths wretched recurring recollections,
That have served as the creative source
For previous poetry collections,
Some of which cannot be read
Without a deep sense of dread,
Hence I flinch from acknowledgment instead.
How disoriented am I?
As disoriented as 20 year old Kimberly
Her derelict of a son is an embodiment
Of her youth blues memories.
How aimless it must be to venture
Amidst the sanctum of stagnation.
It was not long before even the architect
Began to disdain his own laborious creation.
Why wouldn't he?
He was a fool to build
A foundation out of complacency.
The structure is able to endure
Since it thrives off of a perpetual tragedy
Of self-defeating beliefs, lascivious senses,
And misguided aspirations.
Unfortunately, whoever it houses
Collapses out of utter exasperation.
An inevitable predicament I predict
Will confront me as soon as I deteriorate mentally.
The sanctum itself testifies to an aphorism
I recount hearing during a melancholic plight:
Truthfully, throughout the ages,
Fallibility has always been
Among humanity's playwrights.
6/18/13
(c) 2013 Brandon Antonio Smith
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
Mark Cleavenger & Christi Michaels
* ~ * ~ *
**Aging with Grace
As Fruit is to It's Tree
Ripe...Now Ready
To be Set Free
Seasons of Harvest
Shall Never Cease
Growing Ever Forward
From Vanity to Peace
Conflicts Between
Instinctively Known
Able to Transcend
Willing to Grow
At what Point will
My Time Here Cease
I Await Transition
From Vanity to Peace
Lessons from Our Youth
Bring Us to Ponder
Culmination of Our Years
Age Reveals Such Wonder
Relevance upon Sunrise
Fulfilled by Sunset
I Yearn to Transcend
From Vanity to Peace
I Strive for Spiritual Contentment
Releasing all Resentment
My Ego Served Well
Now its Time to let Go
Looking Towards Future
My True Self to Show
From Vanity to Peace is What I Seek
From Vanity to Peace it is
There I Shall Peak
From Vanity to Peace,
Of this I Do Ponder
From Vanity to Peace,
My life's True Hunger**
**A Native American Aphorism...
"No Spiritual Wise Man ever Yearned to be Younger"**
Conception: Mark Cleavenger
Verbiage & Editing: Christi Michaels
Copyright © 2014 Mark Cleavenger. Christi Michaels. All Rights Reserved.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
Conspiring behind
those confinements
of morality,
justice and sincerity.
A suppressed philosophy,
born from the social elite;
Political correctness at it’s peak.
We seek truth in absolution.
As they round the troops.
In Confucius dreams,
the wisdom is hidden
within the aphorism.
The definition defined.
"Do
not do
to others
what you
do not
want don’t
to
yourself”
From provincial son,
to exile in the sun,
policies,
followed by
astrologies
patterns,
and swallowed by the black holes,
of unexplained notions,
the nature of the soul
and all it’s inhabitants.
Oh sweet Mandarin,
where do we begin?
It’s torture to breath,
and it’s gorgeous to sin.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
I had a guest to dinner,
It was a Nietzch ghost.
The ghost brought with him five volumes,
A stranger barring gifts in the night.
In civility i poured him tea and examined these books.
The first book was a Book of Contradictions.
A book that called for morality and peace,
But it was laid in the path of genocide and hate.
A disheartening tale of the Gott that grew to the point of oppression.
The second book was titled the Tot of Gott.
A book of the slaying of the oppressor.
The fall of the mighty by the disenfranchised man,
In its effort to cover all, the controller spread himself to the point of destruction.
The third book was the Book of Cosmic Emptiness.
A book of a speck, a book of existential glory.
It showed however grand our perspective,
We are small and empty.
The fourth book was a Book of Mirrors.
In it i saw everything and nothing.
The world around me was so clear,
But i knew nothing of myself.
The final book was the most perplexing.
Unlike the book of mirrors it was empty as the “o”.
Page after page of emptiness, lonely of words,
Save the corner of the last page which said “Your Tale”
I looked up and the ghost smiled,
A bizarre smile of accomplishment.
It took Its tea and softly rose, for the door.
It never said a word but why would it.
I wonder what my tale will be.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 11:00 AM UTC
A sick world
Makes sick people, and
When people ignore
The world's sickness,
It serves only to
Perpetuate their own, as
They live on
In protracted agony,
Battling their innermost
Fears, sorrows, and anxieties
While so very often
Remaining oblivious
To the causes, and
Blaming themselves.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
Blazing bold bravery,
********* catechism;
A girl stands strongly alone;
Her life, society’s atavism.
Quick quiet quelling,
Demonic agapism;
A girl and her sword stay unknown;
Her dreams are those of meliorism.
All acts agathusia,
Concomitant heroism;
A girl who will **** to atone;
Her objectives and body in schism.
Hard headed heartfelt,
Quick with an aphorism;
A woman searching for home;
Her true enemy nihilism.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
Outside the window falls the summer snow.
Their lives held in a wistful dance,
Held in the winds careless grasp,
They seem almost trapped in a melancholy waltz.
Do they too dream of freedom,
Or do they have it all along?
For the summer snow is filled with the seeds of dreams.
Blown from their homes with childish ambition.
Though the wind may hold them at first
Those tiny dreamers decide to flourish and bloom
If they can be free,
Then can we?
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
Do I know the strength of me?
I doubt i do.
I sit in the wake of a tide; amongst the ebbs and flows.
As i sit upon the grainy sand i wonder what strength do I have in this life.
What strength do I have to exist and to change?
Am i the thread in the needle,
Weaving ever forward in the faith that the weaver knows its course?
Am I the pine that towers tall in the forest,
That is lost in my brothers never blooming?
Or am I the paper boat,
Sent on its mission, etched with purpose and on a course?
I’d like to think i am the third or at least a prelude to it.
For the paper boat is filled with its own hopes and dreams.
Without these things do i have the right to exist?
I’d like to live among the paper boats.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:48 PM UTC
he howled about the best minds of his generation
being lost, but I am not sure they were ever found
though I once lapped up his words like a cat with the sweet cream
or a ravenous dog licking the bottom of his bowl
after a cold wet fast--yep, a dog, like that
and who ever called us the dogs of war?
canines don’t know **** about war: the waiting,
the planning, the measuring, the murdering
they only know fear and what it tastes like to win
what it sounds like to lose, but they didn’t choose
they didn’t have a moral dilemma when fur and teeth and flesh
became a hot blur a la ****** cur, we,
with our “best minds” he thought were festering
were duped only by ourselves, by our desire to believe
the simple sweet lies rather than the shredding shedding truth
who could we blame? Walter Cronkite? Norman Mailer?
John Wayne, Nixon or Peter Pan?
yes, he howled; his howling wasn’t that
of the wolf at the moon, revealing an eternal hunger for a full belly
but a desperate audible gasp for one honest line, one
affluent aphorism before he slipped into the abyss
I won’t give it to him, because I was one of the dogs of war
not pretending to be wolf like he, not lamenting the loss
of great minds, whatever the **** those are
I was washing the blood from my paws and snout
trying to forget it came from some mother’s son
trying to silence the screaming of the other pups
when they fell prey to my razor sharp teeth
given to me by the state, honed to perfection
not by a washing of my brain, but a heart that lusted for the ****
long before I saluted my first flag, long before I swelled
with drunken pride at the bugler’s song, or marched
in cadence with the deadly drums,
he howled, but I didn’t hear an imploring sound
when they lowered me into the godforsaken ground
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Each song is like a bookmark for the book of your life’s memories.
Each thumping bass line, each crescendo and every change in voice tone of the singer makes you cognizant of a time in the past during which you identified at some level with the musician.
To some degree, the words are clearer now than they ever were; in other aspects it’s like viewing a piece of art with younger eyes.
Likely, upon first hearing the song you did not completely empathize with the message.
Maybe you envisioned yourself in their place, wondering what you would feel or do.
Often times, upon hearing a favorite song from days past anew, our cumulative experiences since last hearing the song have made it possible for us to appreciate the meaning.
Sometimes we’ve actually been through the same thing as the singer.
At this point it’s almost like having a psychiatrist there asking you how the situation made you feel.
It compels you to think back to the incident and contemplate the momentousness of the occasion.
It allows you to grieve alongside the artist, to work through the problems which persist in your life as a result and hopefully, under the right circumstances listening to music can allow us to remove the bookmark and turn to the next page.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC
Today i noticed a metallic spot upon my hand.
It was cold to the touch,
And as i removed it i noticed it was an needle.
A needle of impossible length for the space provided.
When it was removed i discovered there was a third eye hidden in my hand.
It opened slowly as if it had been asleep for an immeasurable time.
As it opened i saw things beyond my wildest dreams.
I saw great cities beyond me in all directions,
People above and beneath me,
The wars of past and yet to come,
I saw the beautiful awakening of the ocean of stars,
And i saw it all end at the hands of the glass toothed beast.
Before the eye had wholly opened, i reinserted the needle.
I didn’t think i could handle all the reality laid out before me.
I felt that being a spec in reality would be safer than the alternative,
to be enveloped by its crawling chaos.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:04 AM UTC
Was an aperitif to an aphorism,
An architect of aphrodisia,
An apiary of my ever-buzzing thought.
She slipped into me streamline: Maraschinos
Into a Manhattan. Oh strike of sugar,
Stain the bitterest days a red no chemical dispels.
She was a cryptic gallipot
Shelved in an apothecary
At the Caelian's base.
Her shape was incense wisps, her touch
A song sung in 1940s noir, her locking gaze
Eros himself.
Alliteration ran thick through the blood.
The paintings? Like Debussy composed.
Nothing in the universe could’ve imposed
Anything on her!— Quit it, you idiot...
The admiration, the visions that adorn her:
Subjectively supernatural—
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that you're a boy—
No air of denigration.
She was intricate, but altogether simple.
I encountered her in stifled confessions.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
That held her mind and laughter, not the dazed sting
In my hand as it cupped in hers—
It was her autotelism and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
Framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
Retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
She abstracts me from thinking in correspondence.
The symbiosis between us is an ilk drawn by oblivion and distaste.
My intellectual property in fact has been decocted by the thud of her voice, uninfluenced of her literal aphorism.
Her whimsicality disproves my goal of escape disproportionately, leading to an incontestable emotion.
My useless trickery disintegrates and I succumb un-admittedly.
She is the symphony to any verbal effect, the rhyme to an attempted haiku.
She is the immaterial love that brings me disruption and unprepared musings.
…
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
the final day approaches
more quickly than any
chicken on a june bug
this is the first time
my great grandfathers aphorism
has resonated so deeply
i implore them
each and every one
ask me
ask me anything
i can help you embrace
what your unencumbered peers
treasure
what guides them to a bright future
and its absence in you
to something far more dismal
despite my rationalization
my soft realization
i hold out hope
for you, proprietor of un criadero de caballos
stable full and ahead by a nose
for you, avian veteran
star college running back in the end zone
for you, pop artist
changing galleries with colorful violence
its soon out of my hands
grains sliding through my grip
onto your desk
with which to build
a magnificent castle
or to blow back upon the earth
ask me anything
if i dont know we can search
for truth
and then Truth
im told times up
dont drag me out yet
let me finish this lin..........
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
Upon many days of silent pages I set forth on a journey.
I followed the river behind my house until I came to a lovely delta.
It was littered with papyrus plants of a myriad of lengths.
I stepped into the silt on the banks, so cold and soft.
I wanted to wash away this wall of black silence.
Its strange that such words could bring me such solace,
But their silence would only cause me anguish.
As i stepped back onto the opposite shore, I had arrived.
My goal was the piano that I had left here long ago.
Rough and nicked, it had long been left to the elements.
I sat upon the withered bench among the papyrus.
I began to play, playing to break the silence.
On sweet rigid keys I played notes of bizarre power.
It was out of tune from its long excursion in nature,
But that didn't mater. The notes held their own.
The strange sounds matched my strange writes.
With these notes that danced and evoked such might,
I hoped to speak of the things I could not write.
It was power beyond will and might beyond majesty.
These thoughts and sounds would make Enoch proud.
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC