Monday, March 30, 2009

The Dream King

The lights from the city embrace the night's sky
A warm corona of love lights glow softly,
As the nocturnal mother winks her beautiful eye.

As the twilight goes on, the nights never go out
The citizens sleep, but the halogenic symphony
of viridian, gold, and red stand firmly devout.

They create a beacon of hope, seldomly seen
By those wrapped up in the evening's nocturnal dream.
These serene, peaceful sleepers do not hear the passing of the Jeep
That passes by as civilization bleats with the cries of ten thousand electric sheep.

While the town's napping citizens rest with the sands of Morpheus in their eye,
They remember the lights of ancient cities,
And wells of forgotten grottoes, that have long ago run dry.

Some recall the flickering flames that played on the temples of ancient Zion
While others see a lush, tropical oasis...
Visited by holy Arab horsemen, hunting the almighty white lion.

People remember events long past, but still occurring
The electric lights flicker while the dreamers are stirring.

As the rays of the sun have two hours to rise,
The gentles sleepers still rest with the dream sands in their eyes
Some conjure images of regal, courtly kings
While other weary travelers imagine barbarous things.

The moon sinks and the sun begins her mighty reign
Over the lands, lovingly embraced by dewy rain.
The dreamers collectively begin to wake
When they breathe the first breath of morning...
The sands of sleep begin to break.

Wakers all over shrug off their dreams
As the sun cascades the land in her heavenly beams
They never truly forget the times that have gone past
It is just hard to remember when they live their lives too fast.

Morpheus, the Dream King, returns to his land
On his throne of dreams, he idly runs his fingers through sand.
Only a few more hours to go, to wait
Before the Dream King can help the sleepers remember their fate.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

I Stared at Her Blankly (The Fated Lovers 3)

Hers is a tale of morbid desperation
Searching for forlorn love in a waylaid station.
We reached each other, briefly, at university
But in highschool is when she set her eyes on me.

Her eyes were green forests set in a world of pale skin
Her hair, ablaze, and smooth as rose satin.
When we kissed, her lips trembled with a hint of fright
Her tongue darted about, looking for a brief respite.

From what she needed a break, I shall truly never know
For she kept her secrets and pushed them below
What did surface from that soul sounded like horror
Her heart filled with holes by a barbarian borer.

She told me a tale so strange, yet so true
About a day, long ago, under a sky of blue
There was a picnic that day, with a grill
But that fortuitous feast was interrupted with a cry...
So shrill.

The coals spilled over in a freak occurrence, so gruesome
The flames moved over to a group, a young infant twosome
The fire spread out to a girl aged twelve thousand days,
They all too quickly took her soul in a scorcherous haze.

My brief lover's eyes grew misty as she related this tale to me.
She extended a hand to my leg, and then to rest on my knee.
I stared at her blankly, never fully understanding
Until this day, that seems so gruesomely demanding.

You see, the young girl who had perspired,
Who met her untimely end on an impromptu funeral pyre,
Was of relation of my lover, so brief.
It was her great aunt who was devoured by Death's sharp teeth.

She was close to the man who witnessed the flames, long past
Her grandfather lived with a pale memory that sailed eternally,
In his mind and soul, on a ship with a black mast.
Well, he lived his life as a sage, nonetheless,
He died of old age, with this he was blessed.

I stared at her blankly, never fully understanding
Until this day, that seems so gruesomely demanding.

With his passing, my brief lover was struck
With a feeling of guilt, she was left alone...with no luck.
Another person she had known had again passed
She rested her hand on me shortly,
For a moment that was not meant to be passed

She related yet another tale to me
Of a brief interest of hers,
Who smiled with charming glee.
He was not mature, but constantly youthful
I wish I said he had a filling life...but I have to be truthful.

He loved to dance in malls and public spheres
This charming man, hopped into a car in his late teen years
He was planning on visiting the local mall
To dance with poise and grace at a rather impromptu ball

His party of revelers sped to the interstate
Where our handsome dancer met his fate
A car intersected with their baller's carriage
And our happy reveler never saw mariage.

He used to dance in a way that was tasteful
An awkward teen, trying to be smooth and graceful
His dance did not end when he was struck in the car
For he salsas eternally on the wink of a star.

I stared at her blankly, never fully understanding.
Until this day, that seems so gruesomely demanding.

With all of this pain, death, and strife
It is no wonder my brief lover has a hard time connecting
In this mortal life

We parted ways then, briefly, but she made various and sundry call,
Crying desperately in her mother's shower stall.

I listened to her blankly, never fully understanding,
Until this day, that seems so gruesomely demanding.

She talked on that phone and complained of her strife
Telling me she had her pale hand on a knife
It was late and I began to sleep
From the darkness, the pain from her had leaped

From the knife to the thigh, sliced the cleaver
My brief lover, she had let Death deceive her
Mephistopheles made her think that death is an end
Instead of a beginning of a wonderful mend

A mend, a fix, of many relations
That never had time, in mortal occasion
For Death may be an eternity,
But that forever has others waiting, as you will see.

My brief lover, how I wish you can know
Why you need to not worry about Death and emotionally grow
For there is plenty of time left for forever you see,
So please live your life, enjoy your mortality.

All is NOT Fair in Love and War (The Fated Lovers 2)

It was mid-July when we walked the fields of former battle
The heat was strong enough to drip sweat from the cattle
That grazed in the wheat-filled plots where not so long ago
There was a skirmish, a fight, a quarrel, you know.

We walked down the lane, hand in hand.
You were my girl and I was your man
At least that's how it was before you stopped
And allowed our hands to come apart, to drop.

You coughed and complained about the heat
And the sickness you thought that you had beat.
But, it stayed persistent in your system, my dear,
You hacked some more and wouldn't let me near.

When we climbed a mighty tower made of stone, long ago
Where the ancient snipers picked their targets below,
I extended an arm to wrap around your side,
Yet you moved away..and sighed.

Oh my Muse of former splendor...
What has made you lose this love and surrender?
Was it your sickness that ended our love
Or was it another reason, known only to those above?

As we left that mighty, stoney spire
My love had begun to perspire.
Wilting and wasting like the flowers in this vase.
That others gave to me, in try to replace.

Replace what my love? This hopeless yearning?
That somewhere an essence of you is constantly burning?
Melting hot with the flames of our passion
That has passed long ago like last fall's spring fashion?

You and I, we came to a place to rest.
A bench in a room of glass and room, made by the best.
You rested your head on me, as the sun set.
As of that day? Try as I might to not remember...
I never forget.

The Folks Who Live In Their Heads

We speak in tongues barbarous and respectful
With tones polite and resentful.
This unabashed way of speaking,
Is rough around the edges...
Like a wooden floor creaking.

Two people are talking by a steamy window pane
Their conversation lofting and lilting with their vocal refrains
Not truly giving each other their fullest attention
Never truly remembering the names that were mentioned

Civil citizens live their lives in private spaces
Only thinking about their own faces
Rushing down private lanes in non-public sleds
These are The Folks Who Live in Their Heads


I don't need to be respected
Or socially protected
By beligerent peers
Who cherish the bland
And trample the land
As they persistently guzzle their beers

However, i don't need praise from the intellectual sods
With their systematic killing of the formerly glorious gods
Don't treat me special if you think above others,
For we may or may not be from God, but we are Earth's lovers

Please refrain from tipping your hat respectuflly
No one needs to appreciate me
Except for yours truly, myself and I
While I remain confident, and never awry.

Be sure in oneself, so others also might,
Through self-respect one gains social respite.
You shall stun and amaze, when you should find right.

No Free Drinks

Are there no free drinks for a hopeless romantic?
A person beleaguered by love, left lonesome and frantic?
It takes liquor to stifle the flames of Love unrequited
That have been burning since the day Love was ignited.

So bartender, patron of brandy, and whiskey and glass
Pour me a double so this desire might pass.
A desire so near, but distant and far,
Has brought this hopeless romantic back to your bar.

A night tormented with wonderous thoughts of what may or may not be,
With a lover so unabashedly and relentlessly carefree.
A kind face that one can mentally admire,
Is what this vagrantly shy poet requires.

But if that is not on the menu tonight
Then never mind my silly insight.
Just pass a full glass over and let my troubled mind worry..and gripe.

The Olive Branch

Fingers grasping and grasping,
At things never seen.
Clutching and yearning,
For space in between.

As light as a feather,
And as stiff as a board.
These are the things,
We no longer afford.

Our youthful days of playing,
Have long gone past.
But our imaginations still fly,
At full mast.

So draw up the ink
And bring forth the quill
And let the creativity,
from your mind, spill

Onto the pages of books long scorned,
In boxes of rooms,
forgotten and unadorned.

Isn't it funny?
How it was meant to be?
You find this,
A slight trace of me?

Now close this window
and come over to me....
We can have crumpets and coffee
....or tea.

We can waste the night,
Discussing philosophy.
From foreign lands,
We never had the chance to see.

But first you must shut this window
And extend the olive branch
Of poetic discussion,
To the likes of me

Creativity Strikes

When Creativity strikes, it is never foreseen.
It comes from a land where few have ever been
When it visits, be courteous, be friendly and kind
For Creativity, in turn, shall expand your mind

The Pen is My Canvas

The pen is my canvas,
The page is my brush
You are my subject
My colloquial crush

I am unabashedly smitten
By the prose I am struck
In verse there is clearance
No darkness or muck

Poems of Historic Insignificance

Here's something of lyrical integrity.
A little note marching towards eternity
While it may never truly reach those infinite shores,
The prose will move others to pen wonderous scores

As I lay on my back and watch this wonderous light
Cascading upon me, its rays of respite
I linger, think, and ultimately reflect
On the lives in the future I shall truly effect.

When I flip to the front and begin writing some more
I wonder what exactly tomorrow's tomorrow has in store
Will this verse from this page affect another's mind
And crash eternally upon the shores of time?

Or perhaps it's percentage is one zero of chance...
But I am eager and willing to compose, these poems..
Of Historic Insignificance.


There's too much pollution blocking our minds
Keeping us from reaching, the splendors behind.

The back of our thoughts, like curtains undrawn
Never truly seeing, the light of the new dawn.

So shut off the pollution and unleash your true force
You could make an impact, be it for good or for worse.

Noise pollution prevents us from hearing out inner desires.
Visual pollution douses our collective visual fires.

But sit down alone in a peaceful, quiet place and be filled
With a creative, serendipitous grace left un-willed.

You will find the pollution has left
For a second, a minute.....
That will soon be bereft.

Cherish the silence, the simple serenity.
For this is the closest to mental eternity.


If we were but pebbles
Being cast into the pond of time
I hope to make a ripple
And benefit mankind

Untrained Minds

Untrained minds can be
Relentlessly daunting
Yet full of serendipity

It is with training that these thoughts can be truly harnessed
And from them, creative thoughts can be garnished
Onto anything or anyone, yet especially
The minds of the future, or those yet to be

Poets teaching poets, whether directly or not
Is something that attests to ways we have wrought
Into our society of singers, of minstrels and playwrights
Who write of the moon, the stars, and the daylights.

This lyrical verse, left unread for the century
Has lead poets towards their most basic philosophy
‘Write and recite, in both public and private,
Be unashamed or just try to hide it’

For words made by one person has the chance to be
Echoed in the halls of history
So gather your inkwells, your pens, and your Bics
And write something clever and right our minds quick!

Second Place or Worse

As I laid myself to rest
It occurred to me: I won’t be the best
Eternally stuck in second place or worse
No future poets shall read my verse

But I am content to never obtain victory
Those who come after won’t need me
For they are individuals, different and alike
And so their minds I need not impact or strike

In first place, there lies a sickening guilt
That chokes and smothers like a leaden quilt
Within my place, off the pages of note
I shall work my words and perfect my quote

Since I am so trouble-free
Second place or worse sounds quite perfect
To me.

The Doors of Time

As we traverse the ornate marble halls
We hear others orate immaculate calls
Calls of love, cries of greed, pleas of persuasion
Is what we hear on this splendid occasion

Walking through those stony passages we listen to something more
The persistent pulsing of time ebbing and flowing through that wondrous door
As much as we attempt to pull on the handle, we are so gruesomely shocked
To find that the brass handle of Enoch’s Door is still locked

I looked to her and she to me
And after some searching, we could not come up with a key

Initially frustrated but ultimately content
We decided to leave and from the marble halls we went
Back to our lands so rich and so pure
With its maples and larches under skies of azure

After some debate between she and I
We came to a thought with which we were satisfied
For time has many halls, all straight as a string
And the door to which leads to a center, connecting

Enoch’s Door is impossible for man to unlock
To do so would interrupt the ebb and flow and cause havoc
So here we sit, intertwined on the beaches of our shores
As we ponder; How many others have witnessed the doors?

The Visitor

A visitor came to me from the door
A man encloaked I’ve never seen before
He approached me at my writer’s desk
And extended a bony finger towards my chest

“Your mind or your soul, young poet, young man,
Is what I require, it’s part of the plan.
While your mind stays with you in mortal strife
Your soul will keep you within eternal life.
I need but one so make your decision quick,
Or let me snuff your life, as a candle’s wick.”

I paused, sighed, and put down my pen
Then brought up my head and thought of the glen.
In youth I would play in that glen so free
Always expecting to live careless for eternity.
I thought of those days and how they have passed
And smiled and thought ‘My chance has come at last’

“Oh Death, Ol’ Scratch, The Sandman, Mephistopheles
I will tell you my decision and why it came to be.
Take my mind, for my soul is too dear
The future is uncertain and my end may be near
Take my mind so that I may constantly be
Eternally happy and endlessly care-free.”

From Death’s cowl, a flash of white struck
And it seemed, with all of my strange luck,
This is what he wanted, my mind, my brain
The flash of white was a smile that is forever engrained

Engrained in my soul, but not my mind
For I lost that long ago; left it behind
The visitor left and walked out the door
As my body slumped and my pen hit the floor.

See You Around (The Fated Lovers 1)

Alright folks, sort of new to this. I've been writing for about three weeks now and came up with three parts of a series. Here's the first one.

See You Around

I see you around a lot these days,
Your sing-song voice lilting in a burned out haze.
Your blank, blue eyes often stare at me,
Reflecting the day that seemed an eternity.

It was late in the year, the month of Fall,
When we met in a park, all the leaves falling...all.
You brought your cattledog and I brought a smile,
That was hoping for a moment, worthwhile.

As we ascended the hill with its mud so wet,
You unleashed man's best friend, your pet.
We talked about everything yet nothing at all,
Our voices faint whispers carried by the winds of fall.

Your dog ran circles around us as we climbed up the fort,
Wooden and silent with planks long and short.
You climbed up to the top with no hesitation,
then I traversed the rungs, my hands aquake with trepidation.

We sat surrounded in that heavenly park,
Surrounded by silence, only interrupted by a playful bark.
While we sat together on those planks erected long ago,
You told me something you thought I ought to know.

Some heady thoughts about the Industrial Revolution,
And how you thought it was the source of our current pollution.
Your words were boring, but I was entranced just the same,
Just to hear your singsong voice lilt from the mouth of your heavenly frame.

We spoke some more, as you well know
And the presence of Autumn was graced with soft snow.
Powdery flakes that flew wonderfully and clear,
You turned to me, smiled, and said, "Let's get out of here."

You leaped down from the fort with no hesitation,
I gradually fell, my legs aquake with trepidation.
Your voice lilted then in an intoxicating haze of snow,
As you leashed your dog, "Hey, Fido...time to go."

We walked circles in that country park's leafy lanes,
Confused by the blizzard's oppressive strains.
We perpetually marched it seemed...for hours..our voices never speaking,
Off in the distance, I can still hear that wooden fort vigilantly creaking.

It creaked and it cracked until we found our way back
Back to the place from where we embarked,
An empty gravel lot, where our cars were parked.

After I hugged you goodbye in that snowy fog,
You smiled, laughed, and put away your dog.
You joined him too quick, or at least I have found...
Shortly after saying, "I'll see you around."

I see you around a lot these days,
Your sing-song voice lilting in a burned-out haze.
Your blank, blue eyes often stare at me,
Reflecting the day that seemed like an eternity.