"icarian" poems
Son of Daedalus,
foolish young boy,
flying through the august sunset background
and tasting the damp clouds viewed with splendor,
Son of Daedalus,
arrogant dreamer,
did you smile to the sun,
before your feather bound wings burst into flames,
Son of Daedalus,
poor boy,
did your soul rise from those flames like a phoenix
with your tiny lungs so filled with salty waters,
did you take one last laugh to the end,
Here lies a boy,
the son of Daedalus,
immortal in memory to the Icarian Sea.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
Written not to thine appraisal accord;
Words that aim to torch the infernal loom,
Seeking the world of sorcery and sword
Unconfined to thine astringent courtroom.
Methinks thy hackles must surely be raised
For hours laboured, tempering such sleight...
Yet adamant this pen, wielder unfazed
Mirrors many thou haplessly indict.
Scholars of insight construed only thee-
So feebly traced was this artistic lie;
A labyrinth from which my muse soars free.
Minoan mentor, dare not I deny:
It may be an Icarian Ascension,
But stands it staunchly, lacking pretension.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
He favored this poem
but never explained
the one named Smoke
by Henry David Thoreau
remembered Walden fame
Was the poem a mirror
reflecting a life
in fullness lived?
a pilot as Icarius
youthful ascents of flight
Were his pinions melted
in one upward climb?
Then a sharp descent
may have in the mirror appeared
discovering atomic paths
searching for particles
in their hidden depths
An Icarian bird once more
in a new pursuit?
Facing dangers in
desert flashes
like Icarius moving
much too close to
elemental light?
Or else
smoke thins and thickens
No more circling above
leaving his nest now
pursuing literary truth
where darkness also
has its due
Shading light from sun
and stars
Enabling students to
see anew
Imaginations soaring to
heights and depths
But he remembers still
a life complete and whole
Does he find any need
for pardon for this
his own clear flame?
I'll end this verse with
a sound some would
call a chime
This because 'til now
just one line did rhyme!
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 11:45 AM UTC
We used to sit
in your bedroom
and climb onto the roof
after midnight, creating stories
for the constellations
that we sometimes drew—
The day we met—
you brought me cake
with the word “Happy”
in green icing;
how it filled the following years—
The drawings we made together,
hung on your walls;
Lego rocket ships
and video games
played until we
would watch the sunrise
from your rooftop—
Picking blueberries
with your mother,
our stained fingers,
the bag that burst
in the car;
the upholstery, soaked,
smelled of them for weeks—
That summer
we built a treehouse—
you fell off,
broke your arm,
and I wrote
of your Icarian shot at flight—
The camping trips—
the time we saw an eagle
land not three yards before us,
and the picture you drew
from memory that night—
The day you moved
to New Orleans—
we sat on your roof
the night before,
trading treasures:
my notebook of our stories;
your box of our drawings—
The letter you wrote,
eight months before
you left this world,
says you love the art
but hate the artists;
you once told me
“life is art,”
and sometimes I think
I know what you meant—
Now I wonder
if our constellations
befriended you,
and if you watch
with them and draw
pictures of me,
as I still write
stories of you.
Apr 13, 2011
Apr 13, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC
Help me, I’m Icarus
I’m sinking, into the sea
Everyone knows what got me here,
My pride got the best of me
I’m in your tattoos,
your cautionary tales
Don’t patronize me like Moby,
the **** got swallowed up by a whale
Save me from drowning
It could be worth your while
Even though, as long as I live
My legend inevitably dies
Help me, I’m Icarus
Sinking into the sea
My pride may have gotten me here,
but I died from your apathy
May 7, 2011
May 7, 2011 at 4:38 PM UTC