"odysseys" poems
I’m sick of all these love songs
Written about another
Sonnets and odysseys
Desperate for a Lover
I want to enjoy the silence
Nihility subdue
Equally alone
As I am with you
I try to reflect Compassion
A metric of good health
Psuedo-neo Truism
Learn to “Love Thy Self”
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 10:20 AM UTC
This is it.
Your big moment.
Taking time at these crossroads.
Your decision determining destiny.
A moment all your own, never to be replicated.
skittering circuits buzz, obedient to your commands.
Hours lay ahead of you, stuffed and bulging with the static you will consume.
Channel 2 or channel 4?
This is it.
Your catastrophic downfall.
An outcry was made, now the civility is shattered.
the acquaintances you once held as companions,
may now cut icy glares as the senate did to Caesar.
alarms ring, as you feel reduced in their eyes.
You got the wrong change at the cafe,
so you ask for a fiver.
later on,
your banquet awaits, golden and sunbaked.
stewed for months, in rich and creamy crop of the land.
taking your throne, in the cool shaded flank in your garden of eden.
A cup of soup and a bag of crisps.
these grand odysseys still raise up those same emotional epics,
as moments in youth locked in the past.
like lying on a blanket at the very edge of one of the seven sisters.
alas, you are still perched upon oblivion,
cup of tea in hand.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
You and your gold doorknockers,
those two rings
of golden milk
in your ears,
I love you for the things
that go into your ears,
for the Odysseys
and Onegins
and all the love letters
of Abelard and Heloise
that make all that milk
into a cream.
Your hoops
hang high and tight
until you forget to take them out,
I like when you forget to take them out,
and in the mornings
I wake up
to your low-tolling jingle
in gallons
and the liveliness of your jaw
saying things
that wake me up
with a natural cheeser on my face
and questions galore
in my dry mouth
and lungs.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
1.
The light that agitates the equator
bounds across your southern frontier,
and being higher in the wage scale
enables trips there to be easier
than the odysseys of those passing
away in the opposite direction.
Where once bandaged soles went
now many machines tie the stitches
between the divides where once again
bandaged souls will traverse.
2.
Our footprint will be larger than life
and beat the earth to an abstract plain.
Where once many names were needed,
our editorial, read as obituary, will need few.
It’s a recursive gesture to prune in order to grow
but who’s hand truly closes the symphony?
Here I find legumes, tubers, a display of sage
and a cold comfort in my palm.
The perfect chicane of the fern’s stem,
tributaries unfurled, reflects in the plastic bucket.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
I do not remember my father as a demonstrative man,
but, hobbled though he was by a pre-war psyche,
we never doubted the depth of his affection for us.
His love of nature shaped our own perceptions of life
and his love of sport showed us the path of true competition,
that the essence is not to better others but to better oneself.
He transfused the ocean into us so thoroughly
that we will go to our graves with salt on our lips.
At all the painful pinnacles of growing
my father was there like a crampon you know will not fail you.
A towering lighthouse in his hat and dark suit
as he led me through the convent gate on my first day
and gently cut me adrift in the cruel seas of education
where the nuns patrolled the playground like killer whales
in search of seals.
He went ahead to each new town to make things ready for us
when I started boarding school he let me go in confidence
he bailed me out of scrapes with the law,
he was as certain as the mountain of his beloved Taranaki
and as solid as the beams of a whare runanga.
When I returned from overseas
my father and I found a space in our lives
where we could really get to know each other.
Through a winter that sparkled
he led me on odysseys into his soul
through the walkways, forests, rivers and coastline
of the city of his birth
which will, one day, witness his death.
If I were allowed only one memory of my father
it would be this: seaweed expeditions.
The northeast winds blew a bounty for his garden
onto the reefs around Belt Road
and at low tide we descended with our gumboots and sacks
to gather the fleshy harvest with its nitrogen-rich pods.
He had a system.
We heaped the seaweed on a number of high, dry rocks
then bagged from first to Iast to allow time for the seawater
to drain and the burden to be lessened.
I watched him as he moved around and about as deliberately
as a crab,
gathering the morsels,
bending to scoop the necklaces from the sea,
the sun's purple fire in the white, white, white of his hair.
He had seaweed in plenty at home,
it was the experience he craved.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
I would have said that I love you,
If the situations weren't this way,
If you are a bit patient & mature.
I would write my odysseys for you,
If I could then I would write them,
If I was just a bit happy & luckier.
I would often keep kissing you,
If the air couldn't suffocate me,
If I could have flown up to you.
I would have loved you till sunrise,
When they were never anticipated,
And I could come up with a surprise.
I would compose my songs for you,
When they were most unexpected,
When I would be loved back unto.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 4:04 AM UTC
i'm unwinding my head
on
honey moon belly
******* carnivorous lozenges
falling in love with glazed
eye ball devils
hypnotic stare
destination
a tunnel of fiendish odysseys
blood drooling eel
vomits gush white
daddy long leg threads
in honeys wet cage
to wither
writhing spit hot
in fat muscle and bone
headless
head first
like a mindless falcon
after scattered mice
i feel her teeth tearing
syringes of ecstasy
ransacking swollen motion spirals
and ***** like bronz buckaroos
at a fancy pool party
crimson *** macabre
****** roast bon bon fire
licking her lump of desire
a rousing boogyman sermon
speaks in incinerating tongues
swallowing a hideous parfait
**** growl
girl squat
**** ****
mint julip throat
choke symphony
abducting lascivious pollinated gulps
take me in like reckless bull sap
through your red
dada warp land
pit of the brain
undulant flesh landscape
of shapeless ovule spume
mouthing night blows
Incised flagellation's
devour buffet spread maiden derelict
arched and trembling
drunk and drugged
like a buttermilk sky
groaning hysterical
in feral muck stained beds
of puce and slime ochre pigments
stunned umbra
a famished
deep veined jutting peninsula
longing for princess ***** dynasties
with vast thighs radiating inferno hearths
and rolling hill **** hieroglyphics
decipher rug pugilist lap songs
my goddess i long for your
bruised fruit
crawling like the dead of night
on pitch vanta shadows
where love becomes a savage
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
*Sapphire Eyes Of An Astral Mermaid,
Perpetual Eternities & Her Sundrenched Serenades,
Myriad Odysseys & Spellbound Fairytales,
Veiled In Elysian Elegance Of Her Harmonious Tales,
****** Landscapes & Electric Fire,
Stellar Cloudscapes Of Her Ecstatic Desires,
Spatial Matrix Of An Emerald Queen,
An Ethereal Butterfly Perpetually Serene,
Colored Screenshots & Blue Moon Foundations,
Wrecking Overdose Of Her Summer Seductions,
Synthetic Transformations Of Her Sun Caged Maze,
Interstellar Canvas Painted In Her Galactic Sage,
Searchlights Trapped In Her Floral Vortex,
Eternal Burns Streaming Spectral ***
Supernova Charades & Her Uncharted Palisades,
Dewdrops Verses Drenched In Her Toxic Shades,
Restrained Insanity & Crystal Heartbeats
Stained Perspectives Of Her Intimate Deceits,
Phantasmal Radiance To Her Billion Dreams,
Enigmatic Raves Blossoming Into Epiphanic Realms.
- 05:47 AM -*
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 8:32 PM UTC
As a man, I contemplate my thoughts just beyond the boundary of breaking waves on the shore. An endless symmetry stands before me. The ocean with its crash and calm takes any and all forms. Yet though it morphs its shape, its nature always remains. To be life and to contemplate life. A mere thought that has enchained the minds of greater men. In the grand symphony of time, we find ourselves in the 21st Century. Where there are those who postulate the Theory of Illusion. Each of our own odysseys reduced to the hallucinatory will of my brain. Tell me then, how does one illusion contemplate its own existence from within? My gaze refocuses out to the endless blue horizon, and I imagine the shape of it all. Though we take many forms, our nature prevails. Social animals some would say. I prefer a different metaphor, shepherds of knowledge. Though our collective knowledge flaunts many costumes, our true nature perseveres unfettered. Through the ages we carry all human ingenuity, meanings, and purpose inside some unspoken tome. It does not erode against the battering winds of time. It can not be sunken to the depths. It endures in this very contemplation. My wandering inquisitive mind cannot help but wonder what abstract thought will be captured in this very spot a thousand years from now. For some this conjures a mysterious existential dread, but I can only stand and smile. My mind lets me step outside the binding flow of time and watch the world unfold. Campfires under the crescent moon to villages etched out on verdant ground, and here now to the grand gusto of modern cities. Endless forms and shapes pushing towards our ultimate nature. To understand that purpose in the universe if left by our boot impressions on the mud. The cosmos is our endless ocean. Out there; waiting, for our contemplative minds to shape it.
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 2:54 AM UTC
He drinks it up, he drinks the
**** like it’s water.
There are faces, and files
and they change with the seasons.
The parking lot has never been this dim, but
who forgot to turn on the lights?
The friends who gave him trouble
now just give him help.
The scarred people seem little more than
pawns in a game, and he must play them, but
it’s not his choice.
The mirror’s like a caricature,
it provides more distance than closeness.
I wished he could’ve seen his son
being born, but.
Somebody slams the table, ****
something’s going on
We got him, men
we got him, we got him.
Oh wait, oh wait, egg on our face,
we got played, we got tricked
this man is just black.
“I want to prevail,” he says,
“I’m no loser,” he says.
He’s no quitter, but
he sure ****** it up.
The faces get twisted, now the
eyes look the same.
This won’t be the first time
and it won’t be the last.
He blames a lot on others,
but he knows that persistence
is infallible, like the pope.
Nobody really trusts him now, he’s a bit of
everything and everywhere.
Heart’s in the right place, but
where’s your heart?
He keeps downing the brown ****
keeps downing the liquids.
“One day I’ll get him,” he says.
“one day I’ll get the *******
At this point, he speaks for himself,
for himself. Nobody, no
one, nobody else.
At dinnertime, he says,
“sing me a song.”
Relax is defeat,
rest is charity, rest is
A deep moral compromise.
a loser needs a bed
A winner needs a mug.
he downs the ****
He downs the ****
god, he downs the ****
like it’s water.
OOGABOOGABOOGA
i’ve got him in my sights
He won’t see it coming
he’ll be shocked as the rest
A **** like that? no
he wouldn’t see a barn.
He didn’t say, didn’t see
his own mother, his mother
When he came out the womb.
didn’t see **** I say,
didn’t see ****
SPIRAL espionage ELEGY sang
now or never or ever again.
RAINTIME odysseys
left im babbling rancid
The ragtime freaks giving him looks
from the left of the sandbags,
The night, the night,
too long, too long,
The night’s a *****
i can’t stay, i can’t stay
to night’s a *****
i can’t stay with this *****
this ***** no
take these ropes off
this *****
***** take these chains off
i will, i will
i, no
you are you
people
you are *******
you are stupid *******
these are chains
i am chained
who
why
god
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
What do you think
of the man peeing, the ever-shitting mouse?
Finding meaning in killing
and cleaning house.
Sal quit school,
your lover stops writing.
Eternity's waiting,
a lazy-eyed tiger.
Or everything's cool
even the fighting.
The weather is perfect
for swimming or dying.
Physical dizziness,
mental uneasiness.
Isn't exercise
the best blood pressure medicine?
Universally sad
about my mortality
but also glad
to be leaving the party.
The noise was incessant,
success inconsistent.
The demands of my neighbors,
employers, persistent.
Belonging is longing
for complete solitude.
Seas, odysseys
the loneliness of being spouse.
Rain of April, rain of August
writing of it dry as dust.
What's my reason, rhyme?
Pass the time, pass the season.
If you're alone as you get,
why are you crying?
Hold steady
until a tsunami.
Then swim if you can.
Don't gulp.
Hit in the head by speeding debris.
Couldn't be helped.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
Ten years from now I’ll answer all my own questions
I’ll take care with the brighter lights and sadder days
Even when there’s nothing but the abyss of empty rooms
Of fleeing demons on the swoop and prowl for what’s left
Even when there’s everything under the rug and more
And more reasons to keep the turns and sidetracks buried
Even if I can’t begin to know or try or see or do all the oaths
Of foolish guardians on my shoulder that are fed up
Somewhere there will be a flash or a bump or a splash
Of the best kind of amnesia to remind me to let myself
Forget the silly toobabs and bills and errors of a decade
Spent on the worst kind of expectations and fights
And frights and sights and blighted odysseys of my times
As a hero—Theseus and Perseus know how hard it is
How can all the boxes underneath the bed ever be cleared
Of the things they hold so boldly in the face of the moving
Planets and lonely Pluto waiting not so patiently for a surrender
From the waxing waning pulling straining lifting tugging
Falling and falling that keeps me awake and puts me to sleep
And asks and asks and asks and asks and asks
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:48 PM UTC
The severity of the seriously
scientific professoring of poetic licenses
severing limbs
and one's sanity to turn
into a lackluster one dimensional
word
for word
matter of fact, i.e. Flat.
Now there is research and refined references
like mad-haired alchemists
having mixed two tinctures
wrongly
such liquids
exploding
whilst hypothesized
unremarkable through their myopia
faces intimate with the thickest book
make out session
with the obtuse...
A bureau, hmph
an organization dismissing the muses
and the breath
that we devour
a study on the facets
and romance
with life
written art works
spoken odysseys
magnanimous numbness of verb
magic of lustrous ***********
of star crossed
tempests
evermore a ravenous
soul
Poetry needs no bureau
The heart is only
a lonely hunter
if love were not its prey
to feel free
and truly alive
is the honest purpose
of the written and spoken
word
of poetry
of art of happiness
dancing the night away
in sonnet streets
who do we endeavor to example
when it is our own pen that must bleed
the awful truths
that needs combustion
the foreplay of time / life whispering in italics
beautifully
breaking down
laughter's tintinnabulations
all the world
all the life
our Oyster...
But seriously tho'
what the dealio...?
when I want to hear
a fearless something
soaked
and sensual
and real
so good
the words bleed rain
beaus
utter not
the words not words but
electricity
inner watercolors murals
from the emotions
this art dreams
intermingling
touching prose of roses
its scent a ghost
thick in the recollection
of farewells
the experiences we parallel
all in literary gusto
somehow
communication
erected from **** tube boxes
and artifice waves of wide webs
the slang jive
secret languages whined
signs and pics
depicts inflicts these times
slays the joy
and lovely words
of tiding of wise sayings
you say
with Monet expressions
your a lovely day
ignite me
the Beloved / the songs
the sun
a face of love
a glow
Do you feel me?
lub dub lub dub
the haiku sonnet odyssey
poetry
that is Life...
Today's lesson -
(seriously)
go learn to fly
a kite.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Is it really so bad
to think that maybe
the nothingness that is assumed
at the end of the road
is actually a light
a continuation of your dreams
without all the screams
without bursting at your seams
where you can rest but still float
in a calming boat
a soul in a stream
your life a vivid beam
at the end of all heartache
comes a wave of new odysseys
not even one
that is described by
the hateful religious
but perhaps at least something
something outside of nothing
somewhere to run free
somewhere to be comforted
a land where you can see
enlightenment and glee
learning life's key.
It would be nice
but I get the idea
that the only reason
people even believe in
somewhere after the end
is because we are all terrified
of the black
the dark
the cold embrace
at death's door
the ceasing of all awareness
and maybe the thought
that our life was meaningless
in the grand scheme of things
even though that is probably true
and I am kind of okay
with that
part of me is still hoping
for somewhere for my soul to go
after this hell we call
life.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 12:16 AM UTC
It is terrible
It is beautiful
It can make you empty
It can make you full
Gives you death
Gives you birth
Gives you nothing
Gives you worth
Its wonderful
Its magic
Its crazy
Its tragic
Fights war
Makes peace
Creates destruction
Lets it cease
It makes sense
It makes none
Its an irony
It’s a pun
Transcribes odysseys
Writes tragedies
Volumes of profits
Hordes of calamities
Makes you walk
Makes you crawl
Picks you up
Lets you fall
Its itself
Its reverse
It’s the same
Its converse
Wants you to surrender
Wants you to fight
Picks your battles
Chooses your plight
If you know
You lead the race
If you don’t
Your in the same place
Could be pigeon
Could be a dove
Could be hate
But no its love
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 7:25 AM UTC
"
Rowing through dishevelled bones,
Drifting toward the Undying Halls,
Where the ****** poet reigns,
Composing odysseys of muted souls.
Tombs of heroes line the bleeding stone,
Each crypt houses ballads unsung.
From kings who soared to touch the sky,
To peasants whose hands tilled the earth’s damp soil,
Chiselled on each grave, a forgotten name,
A parable of life, a courage for a story.
Walking through the rubbled road,
Where monarchs and peons once carved their fate.
As angels and demons danced in delight,
Celebrating the fleeting joys of life,
Their smiles once illuminated the gloomy skies,
Now cast shadows in the creeping dread.
Creaking trees bow in the eerie breeze,
Stray ghouls and ghosts drift through the air,
Wounded and lost, still searching,
For the poet whose ink grants peace.
Among the crumbling stone, his hands unyielding,
They come to voice their regretful pleas.
In the garden of silence, they listen,
Bathed in awe as they linger,
Where the ****** poet grieves for each soul.
His quill sways, memories behold,
Etched in every word he writes,
A soul’s forgotten pain—
Every stanza, a homage to their strain.
With each stroke of ink, a life reminisced,
Unshaken, the poet will write until the final tale is told.
Alas, they rise in bliss as the poet weeps,
For a soul, at last, shall find its peace.
"
-Klausyuer
Oct 3, 2024
Oct 3, 2024 at 2:44 PM UTC
Four Hundred Thirty Seven Miles
to a place of hope and possibility.
Not so much a trip as a voyage;
a quest not to be taken lightly.
In your ears, the asphalt seas whisper:
Take to the road, soldier.
There is always a way home for those
who have the guts to risk it.
Crafty Odysseys found the will;
his reward was the great, rooted bed
and the arms of his lonely Queen.
Do you have the strength and courage?
Only take to the highway and drive.
Four Hundred Thirty Seven Miles;
Not far to see an Angel smile; to hear
ancient, faithful Argos bark again.
Four Hundred Thirty Seven Miles.
The road for the brave always leads home.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
Odysseys aren't always what they seem...
Traveling from a hazy state to wide awake,
reality was bursting at the seams.
I dreamed you didn't want me
but I woke up in your arms
and you told me that you loved me
and it was just a false alarm.
But I still felt unsettled and low and I wanted you to know
that it made me think
about the nightmare of a reality
you once had to endure
when you asked me if I loved you and I said I wasn't sure.
And numerous times
you must've woken alone
in sweat that was only your own
with Roses and incense and Christmas lights yet
you had no reassurance or kisses to make you forget
and I think that's the one thing I'll always regret:
only being there in your dreams
and not wanting you when you weren't asleep.
I find it hard to believe
the life you perceived without me was one of ease.
I hope that when I crawl into your sheets and we bump knees
you feel relieved
because when I'm finally with you after a long day away,
I feel like I can finally breathe.
How did you manage not to drown all those nights you spent out at sea?
How did you navigate through the storms so perfectly?
Surely the stars were there guiding you to me,
or perhaps a lighthouse or a cloud or the white caps on the beach?
Maybe it was just hope, or a dream that helped you float on all along.
Regardless, I hope you don't come to the conclusion
that your decision to land on the Island of the Lotus is wrong,
but you've never been the kind to turn down a bowl
so I shouldn't be worried you'd want to return home
unless Odysseus comes to save your soul.
I won't live to sing another sad shipwrecked sleeping song.
And I won't plant the seed,
but just know
that sometimes, trees grow weeds
and flowers don't bloom beneath
the weight of snow.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
A Midas touch will fade to dust
All heroes turn to sand
For nothing means a thing
Without a price tag on a man
So River Styx becomes my flow
And Tartarus my tone
I fly my pride like Icarus
Then fall from grace alone
Into Aegeans inundated
By a flood of trepidations
Odysseys to spread my spark's
Promethean creations
Aphrodite unrequited
In soliloquies of rain
In an Amazon catharsis
I dance naked in the pain
Of the Erebus within me
As my Gaia tears convey
The retribution of Olympus
Couldn't keep my muse at bay
For in these hands of fate
All forms of living art display
Cassandra's eyes clairvoyant
To foresee a brighter day
When all will share divinity
Yet none need bow and pray
For all will feel my master peace
From half a world away
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
I awoke to missing you again. That's the 5th time this week and it's Thursday. I don't know how im supposed to not miss you. I envision us in the future. I envision us walking hand In hand down life in some great ******** fashion or parade of pomp and maybe due to my gross negligence I can't see the irony in this false envisioning. But darling I can't help myself. Your eyes shine like new hope on the horizon of some luckless shipwrecked sailors desperately clawing their way to shore. You light up my life like a lighthouse guiding my boat to port in the darkest of days. Your smile is the story old sailors tell harkening back to odysseys when wars were fought over women like you. As if the beat of your heart is reminiscent to the beat of war drums of colossal armies leading insurrections against the turn of your tide. And that laugh. Concourses of angels could hardly sing such a sweeter melody. Your voice when you sing is a sweet symphony. And never has there been something so soothing or melodious. Your soul intertwines with mine as we surf the cosmos. As we push off, into this existential race for meaning, I've found mine in you. Your smile lights up galaxies. Your eyes shine like quasars. You are my galaxy. I envision myself wrapped up in your stardust when I kiss you. When we kiss it feels as though the enigmatic force of two lovers ripping into each other is nothing compared to the colossal crash of never ceasing emotional duress into the sea of our salvation that I find in your lips. For you, my darling, love is our salvation.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 10:45 PM UTC
Reborn into the Aether
After chaos revelations
Quintessential elevations
For the demi-god ascendancies
Transcending divinations
Of Olympic heights
Titanic mights
And Uranus castrations
Spawning Erinyes of fury
In my spartan fights
And Cretan flights
Escaping wings of Icarus
When Helios ignites
Within me, Gaia's chosen sun
Aphrodite is my lover
By her oceans overcome
With a beauty Hellenistic
Making lions of a man
Though Charybdis stirs beneath her
I still sink into the sand
Of her blissful Themiscyran shores
Elysian Fields I've seen
At the end of Trojan wars
Through Iliads and Odysseys
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
An old salt sits alone at end of dock,
to watch the ships home safely from the sea.
Not that his weather-beaten lips would ever talk
of voyages his mind takes, odysseys
the younger sailor he once was signed on,
where friendships sailed into romantic ports
of call. Now safely berthed, he casts a fond
remembrance back on battling violent storms,
a roller-coaster ride on cresting waves
of lust and anger. Something near a smile
will almost crease one side of sun-scorched face;
a glimpse of paradise sails 'cross the miles.
Young sirens beckon, call him to his past;
he'll walk home safely, lashed unto the mast.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
Cutting razor
blade of life
Pointless, dull
existence knife
Sharpened by
the edge of strife
Won't somebody
save my life
From this wretched,
worthless knife
Buried in
my skin of strife
This sorrow stalks
its prey of life
And sets it teeth
of biting knife
Upon my flesh
to feast on strife
Vampiric in its
draining life
This empty, soulless,
cold-heart knife
Shall feel the warmth
of crimson strife
Until the streams
of dripping life
Release my grip
upon this knife
And rivers flow
in tranquil strife
See I know why
you've courted strife
I've tasted lips
of the sweet knife
Her tempting kiss
was my whole life
Through ****** tears
and sweaty strife
I've cried with every
lonely knife
That spends each day
so lost in life
Adrift at sea
shipwreck of strife
Beckoned by
beguiling knife
To drown in siren
songs of life
Through Odysseys
of epic strife
I forged a sword
to replace knife
Allowed this pen
to claim my life
An argonaut
against the strife
To tides of ink
I cast the knife
Now fight with me
write for your life
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
Every single night as the body dies,
poetry percolates the mind,
and I find myself,
taking one of those dark odysseys into the soul
with questions that swim into the infinity
on what is poetry, what does it behold:
Is it the rivers that lead the birds back to the nest?
Is it the waters, eroding the stones,
smoothing the pebbles that build a home?
Is it the crackling cinders, floating from the flames
of a wildfire to die upon its first breath in the saltine air?
Is it the evergreen grass and the bark of an old oak tree,
thirsty for rain to wet the insatiable soil
that grows branches that speak with possibility?
Is it the milk & honey that drips off the dewy lips
of the sun to feed its golden nectar into our moribund souls? –
still starving for more.
Is it the reason that I am seduced by the moon
that undresses me with its iridescent light,
baptizing me with its glow?
Is the constellation of stars, separated by space
but connected by longing,
by arms reaching for arms?
Or,
is it the journey,
the walk through the wavering mountains,
the climb ants take up into the elephant hills,
the ships drifting upon the cerulean seas,
guided by the bursting horizon
and the winds of a calming breeze?
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC