me in rhy(me)

Can you say this??

2011-11-14T19:30:00.000-08:00

Very well, then
Mr. Knox, sir.
Let's have a little talk
about tweetle beetles....

What do you know
about tweetle beetles?
well...

When tweetle beetles fight,
it's called
a tweetle beetle battle.

And when they
battle in a puddle,
it's a tweetle
beetle puddle battle.

AND when tweetle beetles
battle with paddles in a puddle,
they call it a tweetle
beetle puddle paddle battle.
AND...

When beetles battle beetles
in a puddle paddle battle
and the beetle battle puddle
is a puddle in a bottle...

...they call this
a tweetle beetle
bottle puddle
paddle battle muddle.
AND...
When beetles
fight these battles
in a bottle
with their paddles
and the bottle's
on a poodle
and the poodle's
eating noodles...

...they call this
a muddle puddle
tweetle poodle
beetle noodle
bottle paddle battle.
AND...

Now wait
a minute
Mr. Socks Fox!

When a fox is
in the bottle where
the tweetle beetls battle
with their paddles
in a puddle on a
noodle-eating poodle.
THIS is what they call...

...a tweetle beetle
noodle poodle bottles
paddled muddled duddled
fuddled wuddled
fox in socks, sir!

Spent

2011-04-15T21:10:00.000-07:00

I spent my young years Dreaming
Dreaming of the day
When life and love and happiness
Would all come into play.

I spent my young years Wishing.
Wishing every moment passed.
So I could grow up faster,
And have my fun at last.

I spent my young years Dreaming.
Just dreaming of the day.
Then woke to find my young years
Had just been dreamed away.

I spent my middle years Hoping.
Hoping things would turn out right.
That all the mistakes that I had made
Would vanish over night.

I spent my middle years Trying.
Trying to reach those childhood dreams
Climbing ever up Life's scaffold
To reach the topmost beam.

I spent my middle years Hoping.
Hoping things would turn out right,
Then woke to find, in Life's long day
I was fast approaching night.

I spent my old years Praying.
Praying that God would forgive,
And when my day on earth was over
He'd take me home to live.

I spent my old years Searching.
Searching for the reason why,
We begin to grasp Life's meaning
Only when we come to die.

I spent my old years Praying.
Praying that God would forgive
Another soul who wasted life,
Who Dreamed, but failed to Live.

something's not quite right. . .

2011-04-09T19:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish to write a line
But worry that it will not rhyme.

Then a rebel deep inside my soul
Says "would you please just let it go?"

And while I try to write free verse,
I slip back to Zuessian of course.

(I'm rather proud of my three unrhyming almost rhymes.)

an unfinsihed beginning

2011-03-25T17:09:00.000-07:00

I'll sell you a story,
A nickle a piece.
A penny a pound if your poor.

Of tragic young damsels,
accosted by beasts.
Of dashing young men sent to war.

This was the opening lines of a ballad I had begun. I liked the intro, which is suppose to be sung by a troubadour, but never finished the rest. Who knows, maybe I'll get around to it some day.

A long poem on stairs

2011-03-09T14:38:00.000-08:00

I like a good stairwell.
I like to climb them.
I like to descend them.
I like to experience them.

I like a good stairwell.
One which twists and turns.
One with pleasing rails fit just so for my hand.
I like a stairwell that echos.
that takes my few hummed notes,
sucks them up and spits them back out as a full song.

I like a stairwell made of polished wood.
A stairwell that speaks of the epitome of good breeding.
I like a pure-bred stairwell.

I like a stairwell with gum and questionable stains
and cigarette butts in the corner.
A stairwell who's end is both intriguing and terrifying.
A stairwell that seems to lurk, who's shadows seem suspicious.
I like a trashy stairwell.

I like a stairwell that curves smoothly around
in an endless spiral a light house or a loft.

I like a stairwell that's boxy and awkward,
like a gangly child - a parking garage, a dorm.

I like a stairwell with many landings,
covered in pots of flowers so that each flight is separate,
with a garden in between.

I like a stairwell that goes straight up,
inspiring groans of dismay to those at the bottom,
and childish pride in those at the top.

I like the stairs that lead up to the memorial of Abraham Lincoln.
A large flight of steps, with good ole Abe sitting at the top.
His giant size makes the stairs look small,
and so he deceives you in death as he never did in life.

I like the stairs connecting two little back roads in Cincinnati,
which when you stand at the top look ordinary enough,
but when you stand at the bottom you can see
a design painted onto each of the risers so that it comes together to form a picture.

I like the stairs painted onto a building in downtown Cincinnati,
stairs painted so convincingly that more than once
a young child has run smack into the building.
A few adults have come close too.

I like the stairs that I have read about in books.

Stairs like the external stairs of Balors Needle,
who's rusted steps were nearly the death of the young squire Keladry.
Or the staircases of a certain king of the Enchanted Forrest.
Who was so fond of sweeping majestically up and down stairs
in long robes that he built a plethora of stairways,
some of which lead no where at all.
Or the stairs which took Frodo and Sam up to Mordor.
Or the stair carved inside a tree that housed a young Merlin.

I like the stairwell that connects Liberty Hill to Reading Rd
which is overgrown and hardly any sane person uses.
It always smells of diapers and is covered with broken bottles.
I take these stairs to reach the number 43 Reading Rd bus,
and always feel a thrill of fear that this might be the time
I am killed by some drunk hiding in the surrounding woods.
This is my adrenaline rush
because I don't like roller coasters.

I like the memories that live on in stairwells,

Like the stairs in a certain hall in Ponca City, Oklahoma,
in which I have never been,
but in which my parents had their wedding reception,
and on which my mother had a picture taken in her white gown,
with her train sweeping grandly behind her.

Or the stairwell that I walked down with friends
on a quite, sunny day freshman year,
and at the bottom found my first job in Cincinnati,
cleaning for a lady.

Or the stairwells in the girls dorm,
which threatened to plunge anyone running
late to class in heels to their deaths.
I wrote an ode to those stairs freshmen year,
it was an ode of loathing.
But now that I have been gone from there a few years,
I begin to miss everything, even the stairs.

And so I find myself sitting hear on this rainy night,
on a dirty stairwell thinking of all the stairwells I have known,
and some that I haven't,
and of which ones I liked.
And I find that I have liked them all.

I like a good stairwell.
I like to climb them.
I like to descend them.
I like to experience them.

A tradition continues

2011-02-08T08:44:00.000-08:00

I greatly enjoy posting my anti-love poems during the month of February. And so I will.

John Donne

I LONG to talk with some old lover's ghost,
Who died before the god of love was born.
I cannot think that he, who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny,
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be,
I must love her that loves not me.

Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practised it.
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency
Only his subject was ; it cannot be
Love, till I love her, who loves me.

But every modern god will now extend
His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlieu of the god of love.
O ! were we waken'd by this tyranny
To ungod this child again, it could not be
I should love her, who loves not me.

Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I,
As though I felt the worst that love could do?
Love might make me leave loving, or might try
A deeper plague, to make her love me too ;
Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to see.
Falsehood is worse than hate ; and that must be,
If she whom I love, should love me.

I caught a hint of Christmas in the air . . .

2010-08-21T17:08:00.000-07:00

and so I thought I'd polish up my recitation of the Night Before Christmas. And since I have no reason to recite it, I though I might annoy you with it. So here's my favorite line,

"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky
So up to the roof-tops his coursers they flew
With a sleigh full of toys and St Nicholas too."

I have always liked the name Nicholas. . . and no Santa that wasn't just for brownie points!

Favorite War Poets

2010-04-22T19:37:00.000-07:00

-Seigfred Sassoon (Actually known more for his anti-war verses.)
-Wilfred Owen (also showed the dark side of war, with very vivid imagery)
-Rupert Brooke (known for idealistic war sonnets.)

It interests me that of the three men, all of whom were soldiers, only the one (Brooke) who didn't see active combat wrote of war idealistically, while those who fought in the trenches, (Sassoon received a medal for his service) wrote blatantly of the horror they saw. Of course this was all during the WWI, and some would say that war has become much more "civilized" but it is something for one to think about.

Here are my favorite works by each author.

Sassoon

-Glory of Women

-Suicide in the Trenches

Owen

-Dulce et Decorum Est

-Anthem for a Doomed Youth

-Strange Meeting

Brooke

-The Solider

Not quite April, but this is how I feel lately

2010-03-23T15:10:00.000-07:00

The beginning of Sword Blades and Poppy Seeds
by Amy Lowell

A drifting, April, twilight sky,
A wind which blew the puddles dry,
And slapped the river into waves
That ran and hid among the staves

Of an old wharf. A watery light
Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white
Without the slightest tinge of gold,
The city shivered in the cold.

All day my thoughts had lain as dead,
Unborn and bursting in my head.
From time to time I wrote a word
Which lines and circles overscored.
My table seemed a graveyard, full
Of coffins waiting burial.

I seized these vile abortions, tore
Them into jagged bits, and swore
To be the dupe of hope no more.
Into the evening straight I went,
Starved of a day's accomplishment.

This is one of my favorite poems, but is too long to post entirely. I always think of the first few lines on cold, wet, windy days.

Thief

2010-03-20T14:39:00.000-07:00

First you stole my breath away
Then you stole my time
Then you stole a kiss from me
Then you stole my mind

I knew you for the thief you were,
I knew right from the start,
First you'd steal my dreams away,
Then you'd steal my heart.

Then like a thief on some dark night
Or maybe some bright day,
You'd quietly slip the window up
And steal yourself away.

mnb

meandering

2009-10-31T16:43:00.000-07:00

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)

untitled

2009-07-02T16:13:00.000-07:00

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

revenge on growing up

2009-06-03T19:16:00.000-07:00

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

Oliver's (my cat) new favorite poem.

2009-05-20T19:54:00.000-07:00

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.

I had to learn this in eighth grade

2009-05-02T16:24:00.000-07:00

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.

getting older

2009-04-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

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

Another of my favorite poems. I have colored my favorite parts green.

2009-04-13T19:08:00.000-07:00

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

Something fun Tiffany sent me

2009-03-21T19:32:00.000-07:00

Woman's faults are many
Men have only two
Everything they say
And everything they do.

Read with Scottish Accent

2009-02-18T19:34:00.000-08:00

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

1 min 23 secs of your time please

2009-02-09T07:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Curse (working title)

2009-02-06T11:54:00.000-08:00

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."

still a little rough

2009-02-04T20:13:00.000-08:00

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

Not my favorite holiday

2009-02-02T18:13:00.000-08:00

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

depressing

2009-01-25T12:13:00.000-08:00

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

Some of my favorite poems and poets

2009-01-24T15:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-24T14:58:00.000-08:00

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

lost

2009-01-19T15:54:00.000-08:00

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

something of a complaint from freshman year.

2009-01-15T10:05:00.001-08:00

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

The Artist’s Fate

2009-01-15T09:11:00.000-08:00

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

I'm a bit morbid at times

2009-01-14T20:07:00.000-08:00

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

a calvin and hobbes poem

2009-01-14T19:49:00.000-08:00

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.