Hello, hello! I have not written actual formed poetry in so many years(2) it feels as if I have lost nearly all touch with that basic ability. Time to start counting again. xD This will be a collection of a few poems. These will be all Cinquain.
Whispering Breezes,a cinquain
Paltry,
like other days.
Anxious secrets dance,
Spoke beauty in the words now hushed.
So sweet.
100 years
Ramparts,
break against swords.
They seiged to no avail.
Arrows deflected against shields.
Stoic.
Springtime
Flower,
gentle pollen.
Blooming with the Sun's rays,
petals dance with placid whimsy.
Freedom.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
The First Question
I found myself thinking. And I know, it's far too literal to be me...but hey, I don't care- we all have days that we just want to get to the point and ask, "Is this all..?" I suppose.. we'll never know.
The First Question
My lord,
is this all that I may see?
Are our lives no more than a test,
set up for us to fail eternally?
But what choice have we?
To believe in the bleakness of hopelessness,
that our tomes, and knowledge
fade away with our final breath?
What lies beyond the swirling abyss?
Is it hellfire, damnation, or sacred fortresses-
that stand stoic and proud,
keeping out the ever present and creeping oblivion?
I can dream,
to be adorned in fine silks,
the sterling silves and gold -
reflecting upon and ever burning Sun.
Deepest burns the fires of life,
stalwart and proud like the raging flames of hell itself,
refusing the to bend its knee
to a future bleak with the promise of unmaking.
What are the mysterious of the depths?
Are they cold and unwavering,
with truths so black-
tomorrow is promised only by the shadow of never?
And if I choose to walk a path of light,
does it mean I'll only be welcomed into the dark?
Can I scream to the skies, please listen,
"Is this truly the end we all work toward?"
The First Question
My lord,
is this all that I may see?
Are our lives no more than a test,
set up for us to fail eternally?
But what choice have we?
To believe in the bleakness of hopelessness,
that our tomes, and knowledge
fade away with our final breath?
What lies beyond the swirling abyss?
Is it hellfire, damnation, or sacred fortresses-
that stand stoic and proud,
keeping out the ever present and creeping oblivion?
I can dream,
to be adorned in fine silks,
the sterling silves and gold -
reflecting upon and ever burning Sun.
Deepest burns the fires of life,
stalwart and proud like the raging flames of hell itself,
refusing the to bend its knee
to a future bleak with the promise of unmaking.
What are the mysterious of the depths?
Are they cold and unwavering,
with truths so black-
tomorrow is promised only by the shadow of never?
And if I choose to walk a path of light,
does it mean I'll only be welcomed into the dark?
Can I scream to the skies, please listen,
"Is this truly the end we all work toward?"
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Black Gate
This is a poem that, may I just be honest... is heavily dark and heavily influenced by my weird obsession with death lately and also how it relates to seasons. Enjoy or don't.. It's all good.
Black Gate
Come and take my hand,
grip my soul amongst your vice
and tear it apart a little more.
It's like your frantic dance of guilt.
Unravel my seams,
with words that cut like ice..
Caustic, your voice burns my will,
dying in a casket of malcontent.
O' Blackened gate,
would you open your eyes,
and shower your darkened gospel,
so I may rest eternal
in your protective embrace.
May guilty conscience,
end in the waning summertime,
to drown your fairy tale
in rainy sorrow.
Write a forlorn ending,
with pages stained with tears.
Your fantastical images swirled away.
to face harsh reality alone.
Blackened gate,
would you open your arms
and petrify us with withered touch-
so we might go peacefully to oblivion,
away from reality in denial.
Quiet rest beckons menacingly,
a gental touch of a skeletal finger,
drumming in final judgment,
the weakness of mortality.
And I'd watch you wither,
flesh cerulean with grey ice..
Beauty forever preserved
in ever decaying time.
O' Blackened gate,
would you open your heart,
and take me away too.
So I might say farewell to flesh,
and paint memorial in everlasting beauty.
Black Gate
Come and take my hand,
grip my soul amongst your vice
and tear it apart a little more.
It's like your frantic dance of guilt.
Unravel my seams,
with words that cut like ice..
Caustic, your voice burns my will,
dying in a casket of malcontent.
O' Blackened gate,
would you open your eyes,
and shower your darkened gospel,
so I may rest eternal
in your protective embrace.
May guilty conscience,
end in the waning summertime,
to drown your fairy tale
in rainy sorrow.
Write a forlorn ending,
with pages stained with tears.
Your fantastical images swirled away.
to face harsh reality alone.
Blackened gate,
would you open your arms
and petrify us with withered touch-
so we might go peacefully to oblivion,
away from reality in denial.
Quiet rest beckons menacingly,
a gental touch of a skeletal finger,
drumming in final judgment,
the weakness of mortality.
And I'd watch you wither,
flesh cerulean with grey ice..
Beauty forever preserved
in ever decaying time.
O' Blackened gate,
would you open your heart,
and take me away too.
So I might say farewell to flesh,
and paint memorial in everlasting beauty.
Neo Purge
This is a new rendition of "And so the World Burns."
I call it Neo Purge, because it is a new rendition to a poem about Nuclear Holocaust... it seemed fitting, but hey who knows right xDD...
Anyway, I hope peoples appreciate the difference in the writing style and structure. ^^
Neo Purge
And so the world burns.
The children of men spolling over
a cup of tears too full of grief-
so slow to trickle into nothing.
Cruelest angels sang in discord,
a mockery to the prayers
of sullen faced religious men,
that dropped to their knees in reverence of calamity.
The sun set too early,
doomed to never rise again.
The break of day brought only fear
and the scathing light of erasure.
"The wrath of God."
They spoke in merciless despair.
He never answered their pleas.
Walking on water was merely a parlor trick,
in a land where there is no hope.
And so the world grew quiet
shrieks of children died out,
muffled in a mother's arms-
that smothered innocent smiles with regret.
A frenzied choir sang,
the envious song-
of a bitter sentiment
jealous of the dead.
The religious men resentfully cursed,
a deaf lord,
refusing to bow rebellious heads
in reverence of a forsaken lord.
And so the land is hushed-
a barren strip of desert lay,
no children left playing..
soot lay etched in horrifying silhouettes,
remnants from where the world burned
I call it Neo Purge, because it is a new rendition to a poem about Nuclear Holocaust... it seemed fitting, but hey who knows right xDD...
Anyway, I hope peoples appreciate the difference in the writing style and structure. ^^
Neo Purge
And so the world burns.
The children of men spolling over
a cup of tears too full of grief-
so slow to trickle into nothing.
Cruelest angels sang in discord,
a mockery to the prayers
of sullen faced religious men,
that dropped to their knees in reverence of calamity.
The sun set too early,
doomed to never rise again.
The break of day brought only fear
and the scathing light of erasure.
"The wrath of God."
They spoke in merciless despair.
He never answered their pleas.
Walking on water was merely a parlor trick,
in a land where there is no hope.
And so the world grew quiet
shrieks of children died out,
muffled in a mother's arms-
that smothered innocent smiles with regret.
A frenzied choir sang,
the envious song-
of a bitter sentiment
jealous of the dead.
The religious men resentfully cursed,
a deaf lord,
refusing to bow rebellious heads
in reverence of a forsaken lord.
And so the land is hushed-
a barren strip of desert lay,
no children left playing..
soot lay etched in horrifying silhouettes,
remnants from where the world burned
The Trees Lay Barren
This is an iffy poem for me... I intended it to be awkward, but I don't exactly know if it'll pay off. I like it, but at the same time- am fearful. I hope it's cool and such~ I guess, find the meaning? There are clues.
The Trees Lay Barren
A wind sapped the breath,
of a quiet notion,
a secret yearning
for summer's sweet caress.
Without poem or prophecy
the young blooms wilted,
gone from this cruel realm too soon.
The world wept their loss.
Children slept shivering in bed,
hoping to dream away a nightmare
that had birthed itself into daylight.
The horrors of imagination born to reality.
The leaves had all fallen,
ushering in the unforgiving frost.
An army of bannermen set to fight-
to keep the blossoms of hope forever dead.
The moors run black with ichor.
And though cold stifled faith,
a tyrant's blood boiled red,
and armies rose to fight.
Warmth faded from their memories,
children grew never to know the Sun.
All was gone to frost,
burning buildings the only insolation.
The world of men ripped itself asunder
and great fires consumed the spring blooms
as they rose from slumber
perishing in the light of a second Sun.
Children dug passed floral roots,
razing the land to suckle
a coveted black gold,
from nature's dried teet.
But soon they all choked,
on a smoke that burned away their lungs.
There was no longer any bread,
or grain to harvest in perpetual winter.
And the Sun no longer shined,
as if refusing a cry for life.
And so all corroded into naught,
leaving only the trees that lay barren.
The Trees Lay Barren
A wind sapped the breath,
of a quiet notion,
a secret yearning
for summer's sweet caress.
Without poem or prophecy
the young blooms wilted,
gone from this cruel realm too soon.
The world wept their loss.
Children slept shivering in bed,
hoping to dream away a nightmare
that had birthed itself into daylight.
The horrors of imagination born to reality.
The leaves had all fallen,
ushering in the unforgiving frost.
An army of bannermen set to fight-
to keep the blossoms of hope forever dead.
The moors run black with ichor.
And though cold stifled faith,
a tyrant's blood boiled red,
and armies rose to fight.
Warmth faded from their memories,
children grew never to know the Sun.
All was gone to frost,
burning buildings the only insolation.
The world of men ripped itself asunder
and great fires consumed the spring blooms
as they rose from slumber
perishing in the light of a second Sun.
Children dug passed floral roots,
razing the land to suckle
a coveted black gold,
from nature's dried teet.
But soon they all choked,
on a smoke that burned away their lungs.
There was no longer any bread,
or grain to harvest in perpetual winter.
And the Sun no longer shined,
as if refusing a cry for life.
And so all corroded into naught,
leaving only the trees that lay barren.
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