Icarus, Fly

Here's a brief poetic hors d'oeuvre for your consumption. It is no more meaningful than it appears, though I was pleasantly surprised at how the subject and the form came together without issue. Yet another case of the muse superseding the artist, as always, for the better. This poem does hearken back to the late romanticism of the likes of John Clare and Charlotte Smith, of which I am not overly fond, though I feel it is short enough to allow for such a lapse of judgment.


Icarus, Fly

Rise up, fair Icarus, though your wings melt
and your doom darkly waits in the fall,
for it’s better to fly too close to the gods
than to never have flown at all.

Shadows in the Cave

Plato summed up his entire philosophy of form and truth in the cave analogy, as presented in 'The Republic.' While I do not adhere strictly to such a world-view, I am still quite fascinated by its stratification of reality. This poem was inspired, as one might guess from the title, by the shadows cast in Plato's cave, and the false beliefs that cast them.


Shadows in the Cave

The fire casts such shadows deep
from silhouettes in crimson glow,
as slowly round the rocks they creep,
in restless rank and broken row
that beckons eyes impressed in night
to focus on the formless show
and linger not on summer sight
that bursts beyond the cavern cold,
revealed in Apollo’s might
to only those who wander, bold.

Golden One

I'm too tired to provide a full analysis for this poem. It's about contentment, and having something greater than yourself; greater than the world, in fact. Enjoy.


Golden One

Golden one, now lay my head
upon your shoulder bare,
and whisper sleep into my ear
with soothing strands of prayer.

Then in my dreams you will arise,
though different than you are;
your smile will be the crescent moon,
each amber eye a star.

Your hands will rest upon me
in the wind that wanders by,
and rain will spring from heaven
with each teardrop that you cry.

Your face, the pure and pale dawn,
bathed in the morning light;
your voice, the simple silence,
cloaked in deepest black of night.

In everything I’ll see you
and then everything hold dear,
and with each glance and footstep
I will search to draw you near.

So with your arms of earth that
hold the ocean, take me home,
and give me a safe harbor,
that I nevermore need roam.

Restless Thoughts

Well now, let me preface this poem with a caveat - I was not in the least suicidal when I wrote this. In fact, the genesis of this poem was a classic example, for me, of the inspiration of my muse (though what muse would inspire such poetry, I do not know in the slightest). I was sitting by my bedroom window, trying to think of a good opening line (for I often find that it is easy to build a good poem from a good first line, whereas a poor opening will send one nowhere but down) when this poem came to me, in toto, and I merely wrote it down. Needless to say, I was a little shocked at the morbidity of it all, yet at the same time, I was quite taken with the alliteration and imagery. This is one case where I feel almost that I had no part in the creation of this poem, though on some level, of course, I must have formed it. Disturbing, but perhaps just a little cool.


Restless Thoughts

Bitter, bitter pill of white,
send me out into the night.
Close my eyes and stay my dreams.
Stop my ears to earthly screams.
Sure as silver, quick and deep,
lay me out in silent sleep,
without tremor, without breath.
As I were, and unto death.

Concerning the Poet

Here's a bit of self-reflective poetry for your enjoyment. Though not humorous, there is certainly nothing heavy or serious about it. The pattern and cadence of the words is meant to evoke the rolling, unpredictable path that would lead through the thoughts of a poet, leaving one feeling refreshed and maybe just a little bit happier.


Concerning the Poet

The poet’s heart is not so different
from the poet’s mind,
for both desire truth and tumble
ever on to find,
through paths erratic, beauty, be it
hid in common clay,
and so proclaim their wonders found
in most beautiful way.

The Remains of the Years

I'll try to distance myself from the infectious depression of a rainy winter, and focus on some lighter poetry. To start out, here's a short and sweet look at the slow death that is old age (I know, that doesn't sound terribly light-hearted, but give it a chance).


The Remains of the Years

Legs by the bedside
and hair on a hook,
eyes carefully placed
on top of a book,
teeth in a water glass,
ears on the shelf;
what, in old age,
have I done with myself?

Found

I feel as if I should write something clever here, but I can't, so I'm substituting with mildly deprecating self-reflection. Anyways, this is temptation; nothing more, nothing less.


Found

Through the glass,
through the mist,
gilded gaze
in a kiss.
Ivory,
supple bliss,
breaching
the wall.

Grasping now,
grasping near;
want and wish
crystal clear,
all enclosed
in a tear.
Finding,
we fall.