Catch Some Wide Eye

Archive for the tag “poem”

Love’s Lullaby


finding my dead rhythm to set it in the grave
sometimes we awake to love, and sometimes we abstain
he took my heart out with him; i hope it will behave
sometimes we awake to love, and sometimes we refrain
in a field of withered roses, maybe we all look the same

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Nourishment


slices of soul
dripping with succulent nectar
as the juices of my heart
dribble down your chin

Heart


you
are the demon howl
of my soul

Symphony Magical Mystery Tour


English: Brendan Townsend conducting the Lared...

an elder wand with a resin core
sprouting musical moments from tip to bore
the magic of stardust becomes still at a glance
then heightens the conquest, encores to advance

Em


brace
the storm is coming

embrace
the storm is coming

embrace the storm

Wisdom Says


The less I speak
The more you listen

An Elder’s Story


what we find
depends on what we seek
and how we seek it

A Couple of Meditations


folding you into my thoughts is a luxury
smooth skin on freshly laid linen

Let Us Be Wary


we all grow old
and die a thousand deaths
before we live a single life

Parents Batting for Home


your hands hit hard
your example hits harder

PTSD: To the Soldiers I Love


the dead stay dead forever
and promises are never
more than a bluff
ripped up, stolen and rough
i’d be your teddy bear
with this eternal stare
but you’ve torn out the fluff
maybe’s never enough

yes, i’ve caught the disease
in the battles we seize
hearts are drowned and they freeze
down in dark memories
enemies in the wire
we’ve come under fire
come on take me higher
with every puff
maybe’s never enough

Vision in Wine


two distant poles
dilated
bloated with dilapidated dreams

Rewrite


give me your poison and fatten me up
i suck out the words but the wound’s filling up
so i push on the keys and light another up
just a midnight melody and you’ve made the cut

chewing up, choking up climb to the top
i’d write your heart reckless but that’s not enough
light up and fill up and fatten me up
i’d think this was love when you’re feeling me up
suck out the soul but my brain’s filling up.

so star in my play and have all things your way
you’re the beautiful, wonderful almost broadway
spinning my memories, feeling them up
you’re off again, on again, claw to the top

chewing up, choking up, climb to the top
i’d write your heart reckless but that’s not enough
light up and fill up and fatten me up
i’d think this was love when you’re feeling me up
suck out the soul but my brain’s filling up.

now you’re the director just chewing me up,
the stage lights are staring, the audience is glaring
the audio’s shrieking, my headaches are leaking
the fuzz sets in again, off again, choking me up

is this your line or mine, and is anyone here
can anyone hear the venom you laid
all typed out page by page

chewing up, choking up climb to the top
i’d write your heart reckless but that’s not enough
light up and fill up and fatten me up
i’d think this was love when you’re feeling me up
suck out the soul but my brain’s filling up.

Suitor to Queen of Hearts


follow me.

i need some hearts to break.
feast on my discontented echolalia
take a swig of the vinyl
to drown out the noise.

fall in love with me
again.

Surrealist


Dream girl
poems are like dreams
twisting, writhing, swimming
from one nonsensical dilemma
to another

Summer Hobbyist


rust peels off
chisel chink chink

time slipping round the ankles
footsteps laugh into the distance

Sotto Voce


beyond my fate
the note spills from my lips
filling the spaces between spaces
in the words between words
until it spins into silence
and dies

Expectancy


A bubble.

 

here is my heart
the stretched
bloated bubble

 

and here is the pin
sharp
gleaming, glinting

 

On the Meaning of Poetry


Preamble to this post:

Whereas POETRY, being defined by Merriam-Webster as “writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm” and by Oxford Dictionary as “literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature”:

And as LITERATURE being defined by Merriam-Webster as “writings having excellence of form or expression and expressing ideas of permanent or universal interest” and by Oxford Dictionary as “written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit”:

Therefore, I will commence to perhaps finally introduce myself to POETRY, thereby to determine whether or not my creations are, indeed, to be considered poetry.

Emotion is something I’m good at. Too good at, perhaps, a bit tipsy at, even. I’ve tried to educate the emotional out of me, to view everything through slowly formulated, data-specific stiff, logical answers. But there, did you see that? Even sticking a little word like ‘stiff’ into that sentence makes the whole idea take on a negative tone. Corpses are stiff. Living things are fluid, malleable and adaptive.

Emotion is something I’m good at, at least in myself. I don’t know how the emotions relate to you because I’m not you. Sometimes we’re similar, almost the same. Most times, we’re very different. It’s hit or miss every time I take the keys. Intensity, though, that’s something I have. At least most days, because life has taught me that that, too, is not a venerable trait. Too intense, too deep. These things are not good, people say. Balance. One must always have balance.

Distinctive. Artistic merit. Those are things I struggle with. Do I use up all the big words I used in big-people school or dumb it down for the general consumption of the masses? Is “dumbing down” an insult to humanity or a tool to communicate broad ideas in sweeping brushtrokes? Is there broccoli in my teeth? The choice to be precise and articulate or vague and abstract spins about in my mind like the needle of a compass, wobbly and dependent upon where I am standing.

Expressing ideas of permanent or universal interest. I can do that, right? The brushtrokes. Pain. Death. Love. Creation. These are things all humans understand, but would a thirsting child in a war-torn world be interested in my poetry? Would a hummingbird pause to hear my musicless song? Can poetry ever do such a thing, and is that to be our chief aim?

I think, in the end, then, we are all failures. From nobel laureate to ten-year-old lyricist, Wolf to Shelley to Dickinson and back again.

But maybe we weren’t meant to succeed. Maybe it’s not about succeeding at all, but about stabbing about with emotional intensity for the heart of a thing until it stops beating in our ears.

You’ll Never Reach Her


Star Trails Northern Hemisphere

I dip my hands into oblivion,
and find myself clasping stars

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