Wisdom

It is time to wake up. Everything is alive, as we must also be. It is far too easy to submit to the hot sleep of summer, and forget that there is so much to be accomplished. It is a sad life that comes to its end, to find that nothing has been accomplished, but this is the constant complaint of America. The wasted life; the lost time. Why is there so little greatness in the world? We are to blame. To achieve, we must first try. We love to dream, but dreaming is emptiness. Do, and if doing does not succeed, then do again and again, until you find the thing that you are meant to do.

Wisdom

O God, to whom has wisdom been revealed?
Not I, who can contain it, but the little ones, the flowers of the field,

who number out their momentary days

in melodies of soft, unspoken praise,

and ever yield.

Falling Asleep with a Blank Page

A little more free verse. This might be the last one for a while. I suppose the title is a bit of a paradox, but I couldn't think of a better one.


Falling Asleep with a Blank Page

Midnight,
and the muse
has left me
for the poets
of the East.

The Forgotten

More mildly-structured free verse; this is becoming a trend. Give me a few more weeks, and we'll be back to well-ordered scansion, but for the moment, allow me my fancies. This was written in a graveyard, and I must say, as morbid as it sounds, graveyards are wonderful places to meditate. They are almost always well kept and spacious, with lots of greenery and statues, and the occasional pond; unlike parks, you will rarely ever see another soul; and by their very nature they are extremely conducive to self-reflection - good luck being flippant in a graveyard.


The Forgotten

It is sad to see the fields of graves,
once well-tended, now forgotten,
covered in a careless bed of leaves,
such a quiet, faded end
to so many loves and sins,
and to know that I'll return,
not a visitor of the dead,
but a man, soon forgotten.

Hypocricy

Well, I missed a week and a half, so I apologize to my audience, such as it is... Life has been busy. But here is a counterpart to the last poem (in form, at least; not content). I figure, as long as I'm posting quasi-free verse, I may as well make a run of it.


Hypocrisy

The poet freed
from the bounds of meter and rhyme
is a sad creature indeed,
who has traded aspiration
for instant gratification,
and freedom for license,
and just as abstract art and atonality
have replaced the form with banality
and formlessness and worse,
so to free verse
has abandoned the ancient verbal melodies.
But, alas,
even these lesser songs
have a place and time,
as here and now.

Strength in the Darkness

The second poem of the week. I originally wrote this poem to the metrics of Elliott Smith's song, 'Between the Bars.' To that end, I sacrificed a natural flow for a mimicked one, and now regret it, especially in the brief third interim verse. On the other hand, it's a fun little demonstration of the extent to which music grants an almost artificial structure to lyrics.


Strength in the Darkness

Speak to me ever so soft in my ear,
gently and close, that no one may hear,
telling me that I have nothing to fear
as I slip into the night.

Stay here beside me and speak once again.
walk with me all the way through to the end,
for I fear that I have no other friend.
Help me make all of this right.

Close my ears
to the sound
Of the demons
around,

As I wait and I pray
For the light of the day,
Help me to stay...

Keep up your courage and wait in the wings.
Soon we will see so much happier things:
The rise of the sun and the changes it brings,
Down upon us from such height.