Your barren branches
fruit snapped off in the long gone winters
its always cold inside you
but still i watch for the returning refrain
'bare ruined choirs' faded words read
and now i see their meaning.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Murder of Sonnet 61
Every night, your loveliness keeps my eyes from closing.
I am so tired, yet thoughts of you prevent my sleep.
Why do you do this? Stealing away the rest that is mine.
I sometimes see you. No, a shadow, taking your form.
But is it you, floating towards me across that great distance?
Searching me to see if I am faithful to you, aren't you?
Watching me silently, making sure I am not distracted.
So jealous are you, fearing I have some other diversion.
But no! You, in all your greatness, would never.
It is mine one conscience that keeps me from sleeping.
My love for you keeps my eyes from closing against the dark.
Watching for you, waiting. Never losing hope that you will come.
For you I wait, but morning wakes you far away from me.
And being far, I despise those near to you.
This was my take on a more modern version of Shakespeare's Sonnet 61 even though I didn't use any rhymes. It was written, (like all great things are) to impress a girl. And it totally worked.
Here is a copy of the original for comparison.
~~~~~
Sonnet 61
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.
~~~~~
I am so tired, yet thoughts of you prevent my sleep.
Why do you do this? Stealing away the rest that is mine.
I sometimes see you. No, a shadow, taking your form.
But is it you, floating towards me across that great distance?
Searching me to see if I am faithful to you, aren't you?
Watching me silently, making sure I am not distracted.
So jealous are you, fearing I have some other diversion.
But no! You, in all your greatness, would never.
It is mine one conscience that keeps me from sleeping.
My love for you keeps my eyes from closing against the dark.
Watching for you, waiting. Never losing hope that you will come.
For you I wait, but morning wakes you far away from me.
And being far, I despise those near to you.
This was my take on a more modern version of Shakespeare's Sonnet 61 even though I didn't use any rhymes. It was written, (like all great things are) to impress a girl. And it totally worked.
Here is a copy of the original for comparison.
~~~~~
Sonnet 61
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.
~~~~~
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Her Personal Ocean
At first she was chided
this tiny represention of a child
mouth wide as hot droplets spewed from
her scrunched up eyes
and her mother rocked her
comforting while scolding
commanding that there be the stillness
of sleep once more.
Then openly scorned after the fall
sun shining blinding off spokes still spinning
as the boys examine the shallow scrapes
that do not quite qualify as a respecable wound
and besides they taunt she is crying
a girlish thing that cannot be tolarated
so exclusion builds its walls around her.
She is too young to realize
that she now lives the cliche
Spending her every night waiting
weeping softly as she pretends to sleep
maybe it will ring tomorrow evening
at school she watches him who does not know
her number-name-need-nervousness.
Over drinks she tries to explain to
her friends what her new boyfriend is like
hoping they approve but knowing they will
see right through to the glaring faults
she excuses her self to slam a fist into the wall
a public refuge so others like her can pull together
stop that stupid crying she can hear
she knows they are trivial tears.
Isn't it what they always say
everyone cries at a wedding?
Does that include the bride?
Are her tears from happiness?
She lets everyone believe that with a nod
lets get this over with.
Nothing serious the doctor says
just need to watch him for a while
obsevation.
Her husband seems satisfied smiling
after all
nothing is wrong
yet she still wishes for an arm around her shoulders
so they can start shaking
so she talks lightly of fresh air and rushes out
nothing is wrong
sob for a while pretend it is hiccups
nothing.
is.
wrong.
Something is wrong.
But she can make it right
those people were mistaken that came
yesterday
No it must have been today
That young man with his nice family
clasping his arms around her speaking so loud
saying he was her son
but her son is barely ten
or is he still a baby
where is he
don't cry don't cry soothes the nurse
time for your medicine then time for bed
but when is it time to release the ocean sloshing in my head
washing away my memories she screams
and the nurse just turns out the light
leaves and shuts the door
so no one can hear any crying anymore.
this tiny represention of a child
mouth wide as hot droplets spewed from
her scrunched up eyes
and her mother rocked her
comforting while scolding
commanding that there be the stillness
of sleep once more.
Then openly scorned after the fall
sun shining blinding off spokes still spinning
as the boys examine the shallow scrapes
that do not quite qualify as a respecable wound
and besides they taunt she is crying
a girlish thing that cannot be tolarated
so exclusion builds its walls around her.
She is too young to realize
that she now lives the cliche
Spending her every night waiting
weeping softly as she pretends to sleep
maybe it will ring tomorrow evening
at school she watches him who does not know
her number-name-need-nervousness.
Over drinks she tries to explain to
her friends what her new boyfriend is like
hoping they approve but knowing they will
see right through to the glaring faults
she excuses her self to slam a fist into the wall
a public refuge so others like her can pull together
stop that stupid crying she can hear
she knows they are trivial tears.
Isn't it what they always say
everyone cries at a wedding?
Does that include the bride?
Are her tears from happiness?
She lets everyone believe that with a nod
lets get this over with.
Nothing serious the doctor says
just need to watch him for a while
obsevation.
Her husband seems satisfied smiling
after all
nothing is wrong
yet she still wishes for an arm around her shoulders
so they can start shaking
so she talks lightly of fresh air and rushes out
nothing is wrong
sob for a while pretend it is hiccups
nothing.
is.
wrong.
Something is wrong.
But she can make it right
those people were mistaken that came
yesterday
No it must have been today
That young man with his nice family
clasping his arms around her speaking so loud
saying he was her son
but her son is barely ten
or is he still a baby
where is he
don't cry don't cry soothes the nurse
time for your medicine then time for bed
but when is it time to release the ocean sloshing in my head
washing away my memories she screams
and the nurse just turns out the light
leaves and shuts the door
so no one can hear any crying anymore.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Pushed
A reign of teirdrops floating under you follows
trepidation.
No lever can offer the wonder.
But all you try to do is change
the fixation.
Motion is staying even if eyes are truth.
Urns hold the embodiment of our loneliness hold it ever close.
Fill down a sky of rivers though it will wash goodness away.
Now that know
ing
is ending.
trepidation.
No lever can offer the wonder.
But all you try to do is change
the fixation.
Motion is staying even if eyes are truth.
Urns hold the embodiment of our loneliness hold it ever close.
Fill down a sky of rivers though it will wash goodness away.
Now that know
ing
is ending.
Heart and Home
Now I know it is your poison which imprisions me. For not half an hour ago did thoughts of treason enter my head. Feeling no feeling now but a steady haze, a slowing of ideas, a sinister comfort for even displaced as I am I know it is you.
Creaking floor boards that old cliche yet you delight in it often. Is it because I helped to rip your garments from you leaving you in this state. And the whispers from the rooms behind me the bottles cannot hide them always this you revel in.
Who were they? Staring with their sad eyes at me as their feet sway. Are they yours mine ours! Maybe all this is false but still I feel your embrace is spreading. No place feels a home anymore.
Except the heart. The heart is the home now no other is safe. So I kill it to keep it safe. Wrapping it in soft layers so tight it slaps at me to stop.
Creaking floor boards that old cliche yet you delight in it often. Is it because I helped to rip your garments from you leaving you in this state. And the whispers from the rooms behind me the bottles cannot hide them always this you revel in.
Who were they? Staring with their sad eyes at me as their feet sway. Are they yours mine ours! Maybe all this is false but still I feel your embrace is spreading. No place feels a home anymore.
Except the heart. The heart is the home now no other is safe. So I kill it to keep it safe. Wrapping it in soft layers so tight it slaps at me to stop.
Opening Wide the Doors
Its not that I don't love you
but I miss that which I thought was promised
a romance of the everyday sort
a home dripping with petals and the heavy smoke of candles
is not what I mean
all I want is surprises
of little things that mean everything
and that will bring forth the rush of memory at a touch
It seems that we are plauged with the mundane
frustrations highening because we both are at fault
I would not push it all upon you
I do not feel like taking the steps to invoke desire
Your continued intrest is always a bewilderment
but a pleasant one
I wish you could have been there
living life with me long ago
Almost everything the same
excepting that you would be there by me
our memories an entwined scarlet thread
not the fraying ribbons that we've tried to tie together
So unhappy with our now all I do
is recreate a different past that could have never been
imagine a future that threatens failure even before we've arrived
Can it be the long burning flare I hope for
even if it flickers I think we could be content
but I miss that which I thought was promised
a romance of the everyday sort
a home dripping with petals and the heavy smoke of candles
is not what I mean
all I want is surprises
of little things that mean everything
and that will bring forth the rush of memory at a touch
It seems that we are plauged with the mundane
frustrations highening because we both are at fault
I would not push it all upon you
I do not feel like taking the steps to invoke desire
Your continued intrest is always a bewilderment
but a pleasant one
I wish you could have been there
living life with me long ago
Almost everything the same
excepting that you would be there by me
our memories an entwined scarlet thread
not the fraying ribbons that we've tried to tie together
So unhappy with our now all I do
is recreate a different past that could have never been
imagine a future that threatens failure even before we've arrived
Can it be the long burning flare I hope for
even if it flickers I think we could be content
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