rsc4life
September 13th, 2008, 08:46 PM
Note, the first few are early works, and i am missing 10 because i cannot open microsoft word files! ergh!
Winter past the styx
The muse of the wood held the silver sickle of spite.
So unlike her it was, the wood harp gracefully by her side.
But, no.
Hera would quail under her look.
The mottled blue ocean turned away in fear
The lush green valleys prickled watching her.
Like Persephone of old, Hades fruit, her cross to bear as ever before.
Reason for Being
He is bound to the earth.
A wary eye, focused on the bleak, rough terrain.
Like the lover,
Split from his mate he feels,
Empty, forlorn.
Humor, a failing attempt at sanity.
He is everywhere, a kindred spirit.
Made out of spite, lust and emotion.
A savage beast,
Lost in reason, translation and love.
The human inside us all.
Serenity of Night
He leapt up, soulful in his longing for a companion.
Only night purged him of the memories that clung on as scraps.
Only night buoyed his spirits.
Fending for himself on the lonesome plain that is earth.
Drowning in the pool of light.
Drawn down from his plinth he stares blindly.
The stinging air healing his wounds.
He is staid, howling at the world.
He knows not what he does, just how he feels.
He is alone.
Hannibal, on a summer day.
The sun beats down upon the bush.
Never wavering, the green plant retreats.
Buzzards high,
Country nectar plentiful.
He lounges upon a chair,
Snapping his jaws playfully at his pleasure.
The water, the brightest blue, a gleaming temptress to his eye.
Around him bees buzz, birds sing and all is gay and merry.
Life on the Mississippi is indeed a dandy.
At least on a summer day.
Untitled
Brass and glass
Smearing ink
A pot of which cost quite a bit of money
But luxuries are luxuries
Being pelted with cups and bottles
Urban sprawl, supersensory dream
And debris cluttered the narrow cobbled road
And there laid a white handkerchief
Upon it, a word, written in smearing ink
Run it said…
And run I did.
untitled
clash, riot batons
poison unfiltered
disease unfettered
and we watch because we cannot look away
untitled
the sand in the hourglass continues its progress
requiem to philosophy
and he listens to the vivd songs
of the bridge and the pond
and he sees the hues of life
human thoughts deconstructed
the deep azure, vibrant red
blood pooling on homer's field of poetry
the deep water wounding a culture
smoke over buildings
the flag of a new era
slum of the usa
Orange streetlight gold sidewalk I’m walking is it autumn winter summer who knows…
I have to get moving where I’m moving is confusing but I’m moving
I’m infatuated with the rhythmic walking like 20k man and I see phil
He’s looking shifty guilty like he doesn’t know what he did but he knows he did something
Go downtown lights ablaze lps rotating in a metallic way it’s the difference between a bloodred sky and hot rocks
Cups of coffee with two sugars and creamer
Regular people walking singing dancing in the merry light unaware of what some sacrifice
I’m a regular person I do that but I see the gold light
Keep walking silent pleas for help real screams real terror real night
The sidewalk ain’t gold no more its grey mundane like a quaker.
Shadier than corporate world with suits and ties and nice egg white omeletes
I don’t live there Phil don’t live there but we know its there the others have no idea
Mercedes and buttons and nice pens and coffee and walkin down this street that night is the nicest feeling in the world.
untitled
cleaving destiny
poured from a plastic bottle
and complex it is
vibrant green
unlocking your heart
untitled
His thoughts were clear
Daydreams
Forgetfullness
As the rain pours down
Pattering on the tin roof
He reaches out
Grasping air, thoughts, feelings, love.
His feelings are muddled, confused, unsure, unsteady
He has all the daydreams
He stares at that roof
And everything is still
Still with a vibrant happiness, and a crushing sadness
Still with a lost love, and a pessimism that aches the soul
If it ever happened, the Sahara would bloom
Water would freeze
And souls would be complete
One soul at least
He has a path to follow
Tolerance, is gifted to so few people
Patience, a gift granted to some
He would walk a thousand miles
He would find the holy grail
He would fix Hera
He would weep
He would sing
To achieve his goal
A sip of water, ice bobbing
Calms the nerves
Somehow, he muses
And we say it,
Sometime
Someplace
Somehow
We will be united
But a temporary heartache is just that,
Temporary
Who knows if it is lasting
Who knows if it is fitting
Who knows if it will make you happy
A sabbatical for poetry
Or prose
A trip to the beach
Going to a restaurant
A haircut?
Or we just walk on
Through the rain, trees,
Through the sadness, triumphs,
And hope
And pray,
That it will happen
That you will speak of your longing
And you will get the reply that you think you deserve
But it is as abstract as picasso
As blurry as Monet,
As cruel as Caligula
He isn’t vain
He works to achieve his happiness
As everyone searches for
And so,
He colors in the scene above him
Of passion
Of heartache
And of peace
Pure peace.
untitled
He's ill at heart, of course, we must pick at the branches of the olive tree
better than the spring of water in your eyes
sitting in a comfy red couch
duck tape and gum
formica and dirt
and so it goes.
he listens with an open mind
and a guarded pen,
willing to place himself before the other fools.
conscience? I don't think so...
Winter past the styx
The muse of the wood held the silver sickle of spite.
So unlike her it was, the wood harp gracefully by her side.
But, no.
Hera would quail under her look.
The mottled blue ocean turned away in fear
The lush green valleys prickled watching her.
Like Persephone of old, Hades fruit, her cross to bear as ever before.
Reason for Being
He is bound to the earth.
A wary eye, focused on the bleak, rough terrain.
Like the lover,
Split from his mate he feels,
Empty, forlorn.
Humor, a failing attempt at sanity.
He is everywhere, a kindred spirit.
Made out of spite, lust and emotion.
A savage beast,
Lost in reason, translation and love.
The human inside us all.
Serenity of Night
He leapt up, soulful in his longing for a companion.
Only night purged him of the memories that clung on as scraps.
Only night buoyed his spirits.
Fending for himself on the lonesome plain that is earth.
Drowning in the pool of light.
Drawn down from his plinth he stares blindly.
The stinging air healing his wounds.
He is staid, howling at the world.
He knows not what he does, just how he feels.
He is alone.
Hannibal, on a summer day.
The sun beats down upon the bush.
Never wavering, the green plant retreats.
Buzzards high,
Country nectar plentiful.
He lounges upon a chair,
Snapping his jaws playfully at his pleasure.
The water, the brightest blue, a gleaming temptress to his eye.
Around him bees buzz, birds sing and all is gay and merry.
Life on the Mississippi is indeed a dandy.
At least on a summer day.
Untitled
Brass and glass
Smearing ink
A pot of which cost quite a bit of money
But luxuries are luxuries
Being pelted with cups and bottles
Urban sprawl, supersensory dream
And debris cluttered the narrow cobbled road
And there laid a white handkerchief
Upon it, a word, written in smearing ink
Run it said…
And run I did.
untitled
clash, riot batons
poison unfiltered
disease unfettered
and we watch because we cannot look away
untitled
the sand in the hourglass continues its progress
requiem to philosophy
and he listens to the vivd songs
of the bridge and the pond
and he sees the hues of life
human thoughts deconstructed
the deep azure, vibrant red
blood pooling on homer's field of poetry
the deep water wounding a culture
smoke over buildings
the flag of a new era
slum of the usa
Orange streetlight gold sidewalk I’m walking is it autumn winter summer who knows…
I have to get moving where I’m moving is confusing but I’m moving
I’m infatuated with the rhythmic walking like 20k man and I see phil
He’s looking shifty guilty like he doesn’t know what he did but he knows he did something
Go downtown lights ablaze lps rotating in a metallic way it’s the difference between a bloodred sky and hot rocks
Cups of coffee with two sugars and creamer
Regular people walking singing dancing in the merry light unaware of what some sacrifice
I’m a regular person I do that but I see the gold light
Keep walking silent pleas for help real screams real terror real night
The sidewalk ain’t gold no more its grey mundane like a quaker.
Shadier than corporate world with suits and ties and nice egg white omeletes
I don’t live there Phil don’t live there but we know its there the others have no idea
Mercedes and buttons and nice pens and coffee and walkin down this street that night is the nicest feeling in the world.
untitled
cleaving destiny
poured from a plastic bottle
and complex it is
vibrant green
unlocking your heart
untitled
His thoughts were clear
Daydreams
Forgetfullness
As the rain pours down
Pattering on the tin roof
He reaches out
Grasping air, thoughts, feelings, love.
His feelings are muddled, confused, unsure, unsteady
He has all the daydreams
He stares at that roof
And everything is still
Still with a vibrant happiness, and a crushing sadness
Still with a lost love, and a pessimism that aches the soul
If it ever happened, the Sahara would bloom
Water would freeze
And souls would be complete
One soul at least
He has a path to follow
Tolerance, is gifted to so few people
Patience, a gift granted to some
He would walk a thousand miles
He would find the holy grail
He would fix Hera
He would weep
He would sing
To achieve his goal
A sip of water, ice bobbing
Calms the nerves
Somehow, he muses
And we say it,
Sometime
Someplace
Somehow
We will be united
But a temporary heartache is just that,
Temporary
Who knows if it is lasting
Who knows if it is fitting
Who knows if it will make you happy
A sabbatical for poetry
Or prose
A trip to the beach
Going to a restaurant
A haircut?
Or we just walk on
Through the rain, trees,
Through the sadness, triumphs,
And hope
And pray,
That it will happen
That you will speak of your longing
And you will get the reply that you think you deserve
But it is as abstract as picasso
As blurry as Monet,
As cruel as Caligula
He isn’t vain
He works to achieve his happiness
As everyone searches for
And so,
He colors in the scene above him
Of passion
Of heartache
And of peace
Pure peace.
untitled
He's ill at heart, of course, we must pick at the branches of the olive tree
better than the spring of water in your eyes
sitting in a comfy red couch
duck tape and gum
formica and dirt
and so it goes.
he listens with an open mind
and a guarded pen,
willing to place himself before the other fools.
conscience? I don't think so...