my thoughts wander
my motivation wains
something slow and sluggish
is creeping through my veins
my will seems so weak
my conviction lacking
my conscience seems asleep
as it gives me no firm backing
I drift and dream and wonder
I plod and plot in vain
laziness assaults me
and takes over my brain.
no acts of heroism
no appointment will I keep
with destiny this hour
instead I go to sleep
I may never become famous
or make the history books
I'm to busy contemplating
how my eyelid looks
go be the noble figure
that people read about
I may read your book someday
but that fact I seriously doubt.
oh my dear! how truly awful
is the apathy I feel
I need a resuscitation
of my motivating will
someone charge the paddles
to give my soul a shock
save me from this arrest
from mental-activity-block
no? no one out there?
I guess their all asleep
now I can rest unbothered
in truly quite peace.
mnb
(sorry for the roughness of this, I wrote it out of boredom)
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
untitled
There is something divinely delicious in a cloud
Its movements which at times seem
to move toward you and away from you,
to explode upward and outward
and to sink downward and inward
all at once.
Called white only by children and lovers
an artist looks in and deciphers the tangled
shadows, pulling forth whites and blues,
greys that tend toward black
and lavender and greens that tend
toward colors as yet unnamed.
And perhaps, they never look so well
as when they pass over a bright red roof
of some barn or building with fields
and trees below,
waving like excited children at a parade.
Then without ever moving
they float by and are gone
and the sky is left empty,
what lovers and children
would call blue, but you and I know
is anything but.
mnb
Its movements which at times seem
to move toward you and away from you,
to explode upward and outward
and to sink downward and inward
all at once.
Called white only by children and lovers
an artist looks in and deciphers the tangled
shadows, pulling forth whites and blues,
greys that tend toward black
and lavender and greens that tend
toward colors as yet unnamed.
And perhaps, they never look so well
as when they pass over a bright red roof
of some barn or building with fields
and trees below,
waving like excited children at a parade.
Then without ever moving
they float by and are gone
and the sky is left empty,
what lovers and children
would call blue, but you and I know
is anything but.
mnb
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
revenge on growing up
I sat on the cleanest step
I could find
between the wads of gum
Only my dratted purse
kept me from running
pell-mel into the rain
only me being at work
kept me from singing out lustily
But nothing could stop me
from counting the seconds
between lightning and thunder
no one could stop me from
leaning out to let a few drops
fall on me now and again
Twenty minutes or so, they said
until they pick me up
twenty more minutes of restraint
from this childish longing
And then
I shall walk
slowly
to the car
mnb
I could find
between the wads of gum
Only my dratted purse
kept me from running
pell-mel into the rain
only me being at work
kept me from singing out lustily
But nothing could stop me
from counting the seconds
between lightning and thunder
no one could stop me from
leaning out to let a few drops
fall on me now and again
Twenty minutes or so, they said
until they pick me up
twenty more minutes of restraint
from this childish longing
And then
I shall walk
slowly
to the car
mnb
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Oliver's (my cat) new favorite poem.
The Tiger
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
He request that I read it to him at night, but when I try to compare by reading The Lamb he walks away indignantly. Well, he is a cat.
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
He request that I read it to him at night, but when I try to compare by reading The Lamb he walks away indignantly. Well, he is a cat.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
I had to learn this in eighth grade
A PSALM OF LIFE
TellL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream ! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real ! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife !
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,— act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
TellL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream ! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real ! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife !
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,— act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
getting older
Just nap for an hour
the mother said
an hour and then you can play.
An hour! An hour!
the child cried
it might as well be a day.
Just wait another month
the father said
A month and then you can drive.
A month! A month!
said the teen
it might as well be five.
Just another year
the professor said
a year and you'll have your degree.
A year! A year!
the youth sighed
it might be the end of me.
Forever
the man said
forever I'll be with you.
Forever! Forever!
the woman smiled
that's long enough if its true.
A lifetime
the grandmother crooned
A lifetime is yours now to spend
A lifetime! A lifetime.
Which is not very long in the end.
mnb
the mother said
an hour and then you can play.
An hour! An hour!
the child cried
it might as well be a day.
Just wait another month
the father said
A month and then you can drive.
A month! A month!
said the teen
it might as well be five.
Just another year
the professor said
a year and you'll have your degree.
A year! A year!
the youth sighed
it might be the end of me.
Forever
the man said
forever I'll be with you.
Forever! Forever!
the woman smiled
that's long enough if its true.
A lifetime
the grandmother crooned
A lifetime is yours now to spend
A lifetime! A lifetime.
Which is not very long in the end.
mnb
Monday, April 13, 2009
Another of my favorite poems. I have colored my favorite parts green.
The Garden of Proserpine
Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep,
Of what may came hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine.
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness, morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end, it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
Today will die tomorrow
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no man lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light;
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight;
Nor wintry nor vernal,
Nor days, nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
~Algernon Charles Swinburne
Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep,
Of what may came hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine.
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness, morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end, it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
Today will die tomorrow
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no man lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light;
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight;
Nor wintry nor vernal,
Nor days, nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
~Algernon Charles Swinburne
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Something fun Tiffany sent me
Woman's faults are many
Men have only two
Everything they say
And everything they do.
Men have only two
Everything they say
And everything they do.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Read with Scottish Accent
A Redwall Poem
Oh a beetle maid sat in a glade,
an’ she lamented sadly,
‘mah love’s gone off tae fight the bees,
ahem feared that he’ll fare badly.
Those bumbly bees are fierce wee things,
wi’ stripey shirts an’ wee small wings.
Their bottoms carry nasty stings,
they’re feisty aye an’ buzzy!
Och mae Berty Beetle looked so stern.
He didnae think twas funny,
when ah’ said that ah’d no’ kiss him,
til he brought me some honey.
He took his club from off the shelf,
an’ said tae me so gravely,
ah’ll fetch ye honey back the noo’,
an’ he marched off right bravely.
Twas some lang time ere’ he returned,
mah poor love injured sorely.
Ah spread him wi’ some liniment,
an listened to his story.
Alas, poor me tae love a fool.
Did naebeast tell this fellow,
those bees that don’t wear fuzzy shirts,
are wasps striped black an’ yellow?
Wi’ a hey an’ a hoe an’ a lacky doodle dan
midst all this shameful fuss.
‘Tis not just birds who live in trees,
an’ not just bees that buzz!
~Rackety Tam
Oh a beetle maid sat in a glade,
an’ she lamented sadly,
‘mah love’s gone off tae fight the bees,
ahem feared that he’ll fare badly.
Those bumbly bees are fierce wee things,
wi’ stripey shirts an’ wee small wings.
Their bottoms carry nasty stings,
they’re feisty aye an’ buzzy!
Och mae Berty Beetle looked so stern.
He didnae think twas funny,
when ah’ said that ah’d no’ kiss him,
til he brought me some honey.
He took his club from off the shelf,
an’ said tae me so gravely,
ah’ll fetch ye honey back the noo’,
an’ he marched off right bravely.
Twas some lang time ere’ he returned,
mah poor love injured sorely.
Ah spread him wi’ some liniment,
an listened to his story.
Alas, poor me tae love a fool.
Did naebeast tell this fellow,
those bees that don’t wear fuzzy shirts,
are wasps striped black an’ yellow?
Wi’ a hey an’ a hoe an’ a lacky doodle dan
midst all this shameful fuss.
‘Tis not just birds who live in trees,
an’ not just bees that buzz!
~Rackety Tam
Monday, February 9, 2009
1 min 23 secs of your time please
Today's valentines day post is actually the song I have added to the blog. Please listen to the entire song, the end is the clincher, and it will only take a minuet and 23 seconds of your life that you will never get back. So . . . . sue me later for wasting your time.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Curse (working title)
The gods devised a horrid plague
Then sent it down to earth
A curse to dim the brightest day
To follow all from birth.
It holds the power to destroy
Kingdoms great and small
It also has the pow’r to kill
Any -- yea -- and all
There isn’t any cure for it
In time twill run it’s course
Till everyone is dead and deep
Such is its power -- such its force
The strongest die the fastest
Great men have fallen prey
Though they played by all the rules
Their dead and deep today
It lurks in every city
Infects each tiny town
Soon each will succumb to it
And then all will bow down
The gods devised a horrid plague
Then sent it from above.
Wrapped in a tiny heart-shaped box
And smiling called it "Love."
Then sent it down to earth
A curse to dim the brightest day
To follow all from birth.
It holds the power to destroy
Kingdoms great and small
It also has the pow’r to kill
Any -- yea -- and all
There isn’t any cure for it
In time twill run it’s course
Till everyone is dead and deep
Such is its power -- such its force
The strongest die the fastest
Great men have fallen prey
Though they played by all the rules
Their dead and deep today
It lurks in every city
Infects each tiny town
Soon each will succumb to it
And then all will bow down
The gods devised a horrid plague
Then sent it from above.
Wrapped in a tiny heart-shaped box
And smiling called it "Love."
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
still a little rough
Love is the color red.
Death the color black.
Who knows what strange bed-fellows
This world may allow,
When Death and Love lie so close
A bitter sweetness -- a perfume foul.
Red the blush on a lovers face
Red the lips that smile
Red the pounding heart that falls
To all Love's ways and wiles
Black the rotting teeth
Black the spotted skin
Black the hole that takes her
When Death has claimed a win
A rose the symbol of forever love --
A rose the coffins favorite flower.
Rose petals given to prove his love --
Rose petals placed to mourn Deaths hour.
For red is at its boldest,
When lying on sheets of black.
And love is felt most keenly,
When Death has taken it back.
mnb
Death the color black.
Who knows what strange bed-fellows
This world may allow,
When Death and Love lie so close
A bitter sweetness -- a perfume foul.
Red the blush on a lovers face
Red the lips that smile
Red the pounding heart that falls
To all Love's ways and wiles
Black the rotting teeth
Black the spotted skin
Black the hole that takes her
When Death has claimed a win
A rose the symbol of forever love --
A rose the coffins favorite flower.
Rose petals given to prove his love --
Rose petals placed to mourn Deaths hour.
For red is at its boldest,
When lying on sheets of black.
And love is felt most keenly,
When Death has taken it back.
mnb
Monday, February 2, 2009
Not my favorite holiday
For the next two weeks I will post poems, both my own and other to show my true enjoyment of this "special" time of year. Today I start with a classic.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
And so are you.
Where would the world be without this poem? Think of the countless Valentines day cards that would have been empty but for its simple little lines. And think of the thousands more which would been blank if they could not have written a parody of this rhyme. It boggles the mind! Below are some of my favorite parodies.
Roses are blue.
Violets are red.
If you agree,
You've got rocks in your head.
Violets are blue
Roses are pink.
Put on your shoes,
Your feet really stink.
Red r red,
Violets r blue
I luv chocolate
More than u!!
Roses r red
Violets r blue,
Sugar is sweet
And so r you...
The roses have wilted,
The violets r dead,
The sugar bowls empty
And my wrists r stained red... (sorry, you squeamish people.)
Fall in a bucket
Fall in a tub
Fall anywhere
But don't fall in love
Do you love me
Do you not
You told me once
But i forgot
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
And so are you.
Where would the world be without this poem? Think of the countless Valentines day cards that would have been empty but for its simple little lines. And think of the thousands more which would been blank if they could not have written a parody of this rhyme. It boggles the mind! Below are some of my favorite parodies.
Roses are blue.
Violets are red.
If you agree,
You've got rocks in your head.
Violets are blue
Roses are pink.
Put on your shoes,
Your feet really stink.
Red r red,
Violets r blue
I luv chocolate
More than u!!
Roses r red
Violets r blue,
Sugar is sweet
And so r you...
The roses have wilted,
The violets r dead,
The sugar bowls empty
And my wrists r stained red... (sorry, you squeamish people.)
Fall in a bucket
Fall in a tub
Fall anywhere
But don't fall in love
Do you love me
Do you not
You told me once
But i forgot
Sunday, January 25, 2009
depressing
So I wrote this little ray of sunshine on a night when I was frazzled, depressed, and generally "femininely moody". I shall not give particulars, but it was circling round in my head last night, (after a very bad day at work.) So don't worry about me, I'm fine, just feel like posting this.
NO TITLE
Today I saw the saddest girl
the world has ever seen.
Her face, the holding place of
unwept tears, unrealized dreams.
Her eyes were pools of sorrow.
Face lined by secret fears.
Her mouth -- held closed and silent
hadn't truly smiled in years.
It made me weep to watch her,
so I slowly turned away.
Then she vanished from the mirror
until another day.
mnb
NO TITLE
Today I saw the saddest girl
the world has ever seen.
Her face, the holding place of
unwept tears, unrealized dreams.
Her eyes were pools of sorrow.
Face lined by secret fears.
Her mouth -- held closed and silent
hadn't truly smiled in years.
It made me weep to watch her,
so I slowly turned away.
Then she vanished from the mirror
until another day.
mnb
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Some of my favorite poems and poets
Siegfried Sassoon
~Glory of Women
~Suicide in the Trenches
Wilfred Owen
~Dulce et Decorum Est
~Anthem for a Doomed Youth
Lewis Caroll
~Jabberwocky
~The Hunting of the Snark
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
~Charge of the Light Brigade
Amy Lowell
~Sword Blades and Poppy Seeds
Algernon Charles Swinburne
~The Garden of Proserpine
Rudyard Kipling
~If
The Voice of the Wilderness
The voice of the wilderness
Is the wind, blowing
Reminding us of time passing by
The voice of the wilderness
Is the rain, dropping
Telling of of times that we will cry
The voice of the wilderness
Is the sun, rising
Sending us to face another day
The voice of the wilderness
Is the moon, shining
Speaking of the things which fade away
The voice of the wilderness
is the mountain, standing
Firm and unyielding in the sky
The voice of the wilderness
Is the butterfly, flittering
Wherever the breeze may chance to sigh
The voice of the wilderness
Is a small brook, rambling
Saying, "come see what's round the bend
The voice of the wilderness
Is an old oak, falling
Proof that we all must meet our end.
mnb
Is the wind, blowing
Reminding us of time passing by
The voice of the wilderness
Is the rain, dropping
Telling of of times that we will cry
The voice of the wilderness
Is the sun, rising
Sending us to face another day
The voice of the wilderness
Is the moon, shining
Speaking of the things which fade away
The voice of the wilderness
is the mountain, standing
Firm and unyielding in the sky
The voice of the wilderness
Is the butterfly, flittering
Wherever the breeze may chance to sigh
The voice of the wilderness
Is a small brook, rambling
Saying, "come see what's round the bend
The voice of the wilderness
Is an old oak, falling
Proof that we all must meet our end.
mnb
Monday, January 19, 2009
lost
The lonely hour of midnight rolled
across the empty land
The deafening ring of the church bells tolled
to the click of the hour hand
Another day has gone and I
will never get it back
In bed I look to the night-time sky
encased in robes of black
Another space of calendar lined
a number scratched away
The though most pressing on my mind
I've lost another day.
mnb
across the empty land
The deafening ring of the church bells tolled
to the click of the hour hand
Another day has gone and I
will never get it back
In bed I look to the night-time sky
encased in robes of black
Another space of calendar lined
a number scratched away
The though most pressing on my mind
I've lost another day.
mnb
Thursday, January 15, 2009
something of a complaint from freshman year.
Up and down
Up and down I often wander.
Up and down I ever go.
Up and down the stairs I journey.
Up and down and to and fro.
Up and down what does it gain me?
Not a pound I’ll merit that.
Up and down a drumming rhythm.
Meant to keep away the fat.
Up and down in quick succession.
Take the stairs and change your fate.
Up and down a short recession.
From the looming shroud of weight!
Up and down the blood is pumping.
Why must these dratted stairs I take?
Up and down but with good reason.
I take the stairs ‘cause I took the cake.
Up and down this constant climbing.
Of theses stairs in any shoes.
Up and down I must be careful.
Lest I fall and claim a bruise.
Up and down like all have told me.
It’s the student’s lot it seems.
Up and down, ‘cause we are fearful.
Of the dreaded "freshmen fifteen."
Up and down till knees are shaking.
Up and down till legs give in.
Up and down ‘cause teachers told us.
Elevators are a sin.
Up and down my fate forever.
Up and down my end will be.
Up and down till I have vanished.
A stain on the stairwell is all you see.
mnb
Up and down I often wander.
Up and down I ever go.
Up and down the stairs I journey.
Up and down and to and fro.
Up and down what does it gain me?
Not a pound I’ll merit that.
Up and down a drumming rhythm.
Meant to keep away the fat.
Up and down in quick succession.
Take the stairs and change your fate.
Up and down a short recession.
From the looming shroud of weight!
Up and down the blood is pumping.
Why must these dratted stairs I take?
Up and down but with good reason.
I take the stairs ‘cause I took the cake.
Up and down this constant climbing.
Of theses stairs in any shoes.
Up and down I must be careful.
Lest I fall and claim a bruise.
Up and down like all have told me.
It’s the student’s lot it seems.
Up and down, ‘cause we are fearful.
Of the dreaded "freshmen fifteen."
Up and down till knees are shaking.
Up and down till legs give in.
Up and down ‘cause teachers told us.
Elevators are a sin.
Up and down my fate forever.
Up and down my end will be.
Up and down till I have vanished.
A stain on the stairwell is all you see.
mnb
The Artist’s Fate
A poet heeds the muses,
Who bring tears and love and life.
Brilliant lines dance from the shadows
To the glory of the light.
We watch their words shine brightly,
To great for time to touch.
But man, unlike the poem,
Cannot withstand so much.
While the rhythms and the cadence
Stand the passing of each year,
The day dawns when the poet
Is to far gone to hear.
The painter gets his visions
From the dream gifts of the gods,
His masterpieces show the world
A heart and mind at odds.
The head cannot with conscience
See the world as being good.
But the heart sees hidden beauty
The embodiment of could.
Protected from the cares of time
The paintings in the shade,
Stay, whilst the painter crumbles
And his color gradually fades.
The maestro hears the music,
As the song for all lifes’ dance.
Mother Nature sings it to him,
As she holds him there - entranced.
The swelling of the ocean,
The rushing of the wind
Like phantoms caught forever,
From the moment they are penned
Though the music echos ever
"Listen" to the world repeating
The time will come when maestro lies
Unhearing and unheeding.
Yes, the poem lasts forever,
Lest the manuscript is lost.
And the painting rarely fades,
Lest the sun has shown his wroth.
And the music stays in memory
Lest the instruments are broke.
But the artist tastes the rhyme,
Hears the note, and feels the stroke.
The old must clear the way
So the young may come to give.
Yes, the artworks last forever,
But the artist gets to live.
mnb
Who bring tears and love and life.
Brilliant lines dance from the shadows
To the glory of the light.
We watch their words shine brightly,
To great for time to touch.
But man, unlike the poem,
Cannot withstand so much.
While the rhythms and the cadence
Stand the passing of each year,
The day dawns when the poet
Is to far gone to hear.
The painter gets his visions
From the dream gifts of the gods,
His masterpieces show the world
A heart and mind at odds.
The head cannot with conscience
See the world as being good.
But the heart sees hidden beauty
The embodiment of could.
Protected from the cares of time
The paintings in the shade,
Stay, whilst the painter crumbles
And his color gradually fades.
The maestro hears the music,
As the song for all lifes’ dance.
Mother Nature sings it to him,
As she holds him there - entranced.
The swelling of the ocean,
The rushing of the wind
Like phantoms caught forever,
From the moment they are penned
Though the music echos ever
"Listen" to the world repeating
The time will come when maestro lies
Unhearing and unheeding.
Yes, the poem lasts forever,
Lest the manuscript is lost.
And the painting rarely fades,
Lest the sun has shown his wroth.
And the music stays in memory
Lest the instruments are broke.
But the artist tastes the rhyme,
Hears the note, and feels the stroke.
The old must clear the way
So the young may come to give.
Yes, the artworks last forever,
But the artist gets to live.
mnb
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
I'm a bit morbid at times
The Dead Lay Buried Deep
The dead lay buried deep
The past now locked away
Some cry and mourn and weep
I would forget the day.
The dead were buried deep
My hopes with them were lain
The grave will always keep
It's memory of the slain.
Though they are buried deep
And can no longer rise
Their spirits soar and leap
Unbound by mortal ties.
Oh to lay buried deep
To share their fateful end
But I alone must weep
My true and faithful friend.
Soon I'll be buried deep
In my place beneath the grave
The price we pay is steep
To walk among the brave.
mnb
The dead lay buried deep
The past now locked away
Some cry and mourn and weep
I would forget the day.
The dead were buried deep
My hopes with them were lain
The grave will always keep
It's memory of the slain.
Though they are buried deep
And can no longer rise
Their spirits soar and leap
Unbound by mortal ties.
Oh to lay buried deep
To share their fateful end
But I alone must weep
My true and faithful friend.
Soon I'll be buried deep
In my place beneath the grave
The price we pay is steep
To walk among the brave.
mnb
a calvin and hobbes poem
I made a big decision a little while ago.
I don't remember what it was,
Which prob'ly goes to show
That many times a simple choice
Can prove to be essential
Even though it often
Might appear inconsequential.
I must have been distracted
When I left my home because
Left or right I'm sure I went.
(I wonder which it was!)
Anyway, I never veered:
I walked in that direction
Utterly absorbed it seems,
In quiet introspection.
For no reason I can think of,
I've wandered far astray.
And that is how I got
To where I find myself today.
I don't remember what it was,
Which prob'ly goes to show
That many times a simple choice
Can prove to be essential
Even though it often
Might appear inconsequential.
I must have been distracted
When I left my home because
Left or right I'm sure I went.
(I wonder which it was!)
Anyway, I never veered:
I walked in that direction
Utterly absorbed it seems,
In quiet introspection.
For no reason I can think of,
I've wandered far astray.
And that is how I got
To where I find myself today.
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