Song for a Lazy Day

I suppose it's time for a real Summer poem, so here you go. I'm not quite sure about the third verse; it breaks the meter of the poem, but it is meant to give it a pausing, wandering feel, as if the reader were taking a short detour off the beaten path.


Song for a Lazy Day

The days slip by,
unnoticed, unhurried,
and everyone is walking slow,

so take your time
and try not to worry;
just let the little things go,

while the sun
lingers on,
as the wind plays a lazy song,

and I’m happy
just sitting here,
watching the apple trees grow.

Human

Ah, another death poem. Onward, Summer!


Human

What man is called happy
in this scattered life?
Each tincture of blessing
is spoiled by strife.

For we are but vessels
the world cannot fill,
till years take their passing
and bodies lie still.

Silently

And we're back on track with another poem! It's short, dark, and depressing, but then it's only this time of year, with 14 hours of beautiful sunlight beating down on the Willamette River, that we can afford to read and write this sort of thing.


Silently

At last the dark dismal
covers the sky.
You do not ask how
and you do not ask why.

It is not your place
to question the will
that closes your eyes
and bids you lie still.

Desire

Two months without a post! I do apologize. I have no excuses; the fault is entirely my own. It appears, however, that somewhere out there, people are actually reading my posts, and so, for those who so kindly asked, I now return with more weekly poems. I hope their virtues, as they are, make up for my absence. This latest is a short one. It was written while I was on a Dickinsonian kick, and I tried to capture that brief, yet amazingly self-contained, nature of her own writing. The style is somewhat different, but I feel that I have succeeded, to a certain extent, in encapsulating a broad and universal idea in a few brief lines of text. Enjoy.


Desire

The most sublime pleasure of passion’s pursuit
Resides not in taking, but wanting the fruit.
Disdain satisfaction, then, at such a cost,
For, reaching the heart, one will find it is lost.

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.

The Mime

Another week and another poem, or rather, another two, as I was delinquent in my posting last week. Here's a bit more humor to help keep the spirits up through these last few wet days of winter.


The Mime

What if a mime,
when in an act,
quite suddenly had
a heart-attack?

Would the audience
comprehend
that this mime
was near his end?

Or would they nod
their heads and say:
“His acting is
quite good today.”

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.