“Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson!
You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!””
— T.S. Eliot from The Waste Land; I. The Burial of the Dead

A poem about what I saw outside my window one night.

Our sky lit up nigh with pale purple promise

of a warm summer air in the dark seasoned forest.

Symphony madmen play unrelentless chirping tunes

mixed together in bright soul breaking blues.

The spaces of dirt and rocks and things

that glow from the ever present full blue sting

under radial moon and clear formed cloud

go beyond my belief and forever in shroud.

in the night evermore

forever in store

bright flases of life

forever no more

alas goes the hour

ive wasted away

i’ve long stayed my welcome

yet my peeping remains

the blue curtianed window

hangs high in the dark

with none of a thread

tied fast to its heart

untitled

Dark is the night

And dark is the day

But what is the torch that I follow?

What is the road to which I am bound?

Where is the destination

And where was the womb?

I see a bloody rivers spawn from boney mount.

But still I feel not the wind through the grass

Or the prick in dry dirt.

When will pain end, if it is never started?

How is death the end;

Is it not a beginning?

How is it different from life?

What is the truth

When one is allowed to force?

What is the lie, when it is the mother?

If you say I am real,

Can I say the same of you?

Can I know that it is not I that is real,

I that is light?

For, what is light?

Is it a window in the dark,

That peers into the void?

Into the fabric of life?

Whatever it is, keep it close,

For sometimes

It is all you need

To find your way home.

the villa

The morning starts and the Piper wakes, rising to start the day

He sits outside the Pilgrim’s house, and softly begins to play

As the people open their doors, the sunlight fills their eyes

But as the music starts to play, it softens the morning’s lies

The people step out into the sun, waiting for the warm

But hidden behind the music, is a cold starting to form

The hidden cold of the morning tries to rise, but soon to fall

Only to leave a sudden but terribly violent squall

The people are angered, and begin to move, heading for the door

The Piper is failing and the news is wailing: “It has never been this way before!”

The people search for the Pilgrims house, marching with a brawn

And the goal there lies and a little boy cries “The Piper is at the Gates of Dawn”

And as I move closer towards, this house at the end of the street

I see the Piper slip into the front and disappear, quickly on his feet.

I move in closer, to escape the crowd, who have realized the ruse

That the boy who cried was the Piper himself, failing to amuse.

Ode to a Stick or a Leaf

Oh, he who once was green as life
And the life of Earth
In the days of your attach’ed strife
You were far from death
And the days of your freedom

In the short time after creation
That happens to everyone
The nature and righteous king
That separates from the throne
Of the Earthen land in its home
And falls back into sand

The love that I once felt for you
Has fallen back into morning dew
Of frozen time
And mystic wine
To come back in the New Year
To fall again with wind
With no surprise to this  

Separation, separation
From the green’ed head
That releases the air
Into sky, from golden hair
Brings upon the Horseman’s plague
And Medusa’s evil gaze

You are the hand
From the high stand
That brings unto the food
Of that up in the sky
And delivers upon,
Into the brown
Of hardened skin of life

So, you who are the essence of life
Has fallen to the death
And your silent cries
Separation have echoed the last breath
But soon replaced
For thought displaced
As you die and break apart

When will this end
If hath not begun
This silent, not sweet rapport
That cuts right through
My spirit
And me
"shantih shantih shantih"

Lament to the Enigmatic Hermit

Let not the leaves of heaven fall on you
For the ubiquitous ways of your mind
Hold my fears of reality as true
And detrimental to all of my kind

Be the chinaware of darkest hour
And the raven who crows in the night-time
Your syndication sends me to cower
In the depth of our most serious crime

Yet your unmatched ways bewilder mine eyes
To see upon all of your bravest deeds
Never to fall instead only to rise
And look upon the face of Canaan’s seeds

the sacred forest - part I: the forest

Green
Unforeseen
Dream Machine
Upon all paths of life we must trot;
until open arm’d rock faces and tree limbs,
until all the life is dripped out shadow from behind.
We shall never see the chosen one,
we shall never obtain the dream,
until night is to fall again
and homes are to feel again
and are that which we speak.
Are we something else that
has got to be given to the world?
Is this why all we need to say is: feel
what is never felt before?
This is the destiny of my fondest fate
of which we see but unforgiven
all that travels within ourselves
into hardened, woody, and brownish stone
with all the dirt of Imperio’s court
with not but a fairy-teller’s lantern sort.
This is the reason for telling the tale
that can’t be told but to honest ears.
We linger forever in the greenish haze
of smoke-filled mirrors and clouded ponds.
We forever are there where we cannot be,
forever in a wild [destiny] of flesh and blood,
where we are not to bow,
and are not allowed to be
but the man I was meant to be,
and the man I was meant to try;
but only with modest shallow eyes
that only hate the silent crow,
and only dine on their fondest foe
only to live when not to die.

Sadness,

it sounded cool
but it whithered away
and fell to the ground,
all beaten and cold,
wrapped around a brick on the pavement
in a run down city of dust,
where the children laugh forever
and the parents cry alone.

If only the sun would rise over the desolate soundscapes
and horizons beyond the map,
then the ice would melt off the skyscaper’s needles
and fall onto our heads.
But only the trees that bloom with flourescent colors
and shine over the hard grey grass
do light the path towards my home
that lingers forever above the animals that wander
down the beaten path of steel and rock.

Only when i find my home
do i realize i am wrong
and that i do not live here.
But this will take time
as my brain will move slowly,
like the flocks of geese that move so coldly
in and around the brown water and steel reeds,
resting for a second on the newspaper leaves
that grow by the little shacks
where the wise men live,
but not as hermits
and not as men of wisdom.

not emo

I’m gonna try and get back into the habit of writing poetry… I miss it, and I’m only ever getting more interested in it.

I need to start experimenting with different style than just free verse, but then again, i do love free verse.

Poetry is the inner voice of the mind transcribed to words…

leaf

Oh, he who once was green as life
And the life of Earth
In the days of your attach’ed strife
You were far from death
And the days of your freedom

In the short time after creation
That happens to everyone
The nature and righteous king
That separates from the throne
Of the Earthen land in its home
And falls back into sand

The love that I once felt for you
Has fallen back into morning dew
Of frozen time
And mystic wine
To come back in the New Year
To fall again with wind
With no surprise to this  

Separation, separation
From the green’ed head
That releases the air
Into sky, from golden hair
Brings upon the Horseman’s plague
And Medusa’s evil gaze

I can’t change my mold…i can’t change

la da dla dladla la la alla la

that looks like a line of elephants and llamas or something… strange

the world is so bright.

away we flutter,

to the end of life

bound in shackles

walk me down

the change can’t happen.