She stands before me, empty handed;
a shell of existence, breathing life.
Feeling pulses through her viens
and excitement drives ambition,
where dread cannot hold her back.
Words are thrown from wings of sorrow,
where the arrows fall as rain,
from people lost to people found.
Poems escape from dirty fingertips,
to bring expressions of their author.
A house is built upon a street,
though fields and rocks lay bare;
the homes of countless animals,
above the homes of countless more.
And we are graced with impermanence.
Yet so often it seems to me,
that is to say I think,
that in a way it doesn’t really count.
Not really.
With storm comes the heartbeat of man,
In shattered love their mourning’s lost-
The wistful rain beats against harrowed bones,
And blue pearls shimmer in the fog.
A memory lost where a life begun,
Where friends laid now is thick with thorn,
Viridian coils around a sodden shore.
The island is no longer seen,
Nor its name spoken, nor its tales told-
Shadows blossomed where cracks ached,
Clutching the rafters when they can,
Where dust and stones are torn apart by wind.
What one could give,
But for a shattered chalice of innocence-
A piteous grasp toward the final pulse.
“I’m capernoited!” He exclaimed,
I asked him to explain.
He damned Damn Lethologica,
Said he couldn’t think the name.
“There must be zenzozenzizendic words”
He justified at me,
“For how I do feel for the nonce.
Umm, do you follow me?”
If he were on a whaling ship,
That’s stuck in ice, he’d sing,
And if the ship were Greenlandic,
He’ be mallemaroking.
When I protested he was mad,
“besotted” he’d become,
“And though its not inviolate
It beats vigesimation.”
I think he saw my clueless looks,
He asked: “would crocked do?”.
Oh how I wish he would use words
Beknown to me and you.
I still daren’t ask however,
Else he’d think ill of me,
And I know if he were to do so,
I’d lack drunk adoxography.
(Source: circadianpoetry)
For the work that which the poet does,
is not that of mortal man.
His twists and grows and burns and breaks,
like no other produce can.
It is of subtle texturing,
of rhythm, pace and rhyme.
That which would seem erroneous,
if not for beating time.
In this a poet meets his kin -
The songwrite is well known.
But there is a cunning distinction -
Poems are sung alone.
A song is light, despite the tone,
for in it’s telling lies
not what that of which dreams are made,
but a fiddler’s riddling cries.
Its words cannot depict its heart,
which is a thing of gold.
A singer cannot be as sad,
as a weary poet old.
The once young boy’s hand still does write,
and joyous it can be,
but saddened are his words beneath,
the words that age-d he.
But they to that sad old poet go,
to hear his broken word.
In them friends a man might find-
by whom his tale is heard.
And yet then why he sits alone?
Poor and impoverished boy.
The words around him form his home,
he lives inside his only joy.
(Source: circadianpoetry)
