Living in supposed happiness
Behind the gilded gates
Of your father.
Small suspicions sprout
That the purpose of life
May not have as much to do
With fine dining and shiny rocks
As you were led to believe.
A triad of trips beyond teach
The reality and inevitability
Of old age, sickness, and death,
The pervasive suffering of humankind
Out in the world
Beyond your walls.
In the quiet of the night,
In search of truth
And a cure,
Sitting, studying with yogis
And begging before kings.
No less suffering,
No more satisfied.
Yet the cure for the world’s pain
Was waiting to be found
Asceticism and excess,
Riches and renunciation,
Under the old fig tree
Near the calm pond
Where the lotus blooms.
My sixth poem for National Poetry Writing Month.
Darkened stormy skies
Humidity is rising
Rain is on its way
My fourth poem for National Poetry Writing Month.
This little black notebook
Is almost full,
Each page covered in
Black ink scrawled verses and rhymes,
Drops of blood in the margins
Mixing with the ink as it dries.
An odd mixture of cursive and print
That would make any pharmacist
Scratch his head.
Memories and emotions,
Thoughts and despair.
Ideas and experiments,
Passions and Pain.
Captured forever by
A mystic binding spell
Of all nine muses.
Like all things
This notebook has an end.
Only so many pages in its binding,
Only so many things to be written.
But for every end there is a beginning,
And a new notebook to open.
My second poem for National Poetry Writing Month.
Glorious kingdom of the sons of Alßiz,
Stretching from the gleaming towers
Of Taran in Falias,
Near the grove where the wise Oak-Knowers
Taught and discussed the secrets of existence,
To the shadowed streets of Twerias
In the mines of Niðavellir,
Where the Iron-Knowers, sons of Đwerȝaz,
Molded metals into treasures
Fit for gods.
So much lost,
Washed away in the waves,
Hidden under Austri’s sea,
Drowned Dvergar mines,
Flood waters cutting off
The sacred cities of the north
From the lands of man,
The abundant Isle of Ériu
Also known as Ynys Ælfar,
Last isle of the Elves,
The Sea Fortess
That would be the home and sanctuary
Of the children of Pritan.
My first poem for National Poetry Writing Month.
ß = “v”
Đ / ð = “th” as in father
ȝ = “y” as in youth.
Æ = “aye”
dd = “th” as in father
Armadas set sail
Missiles locked on target
Egos go to war
Everyone else pays the price
In blood and innocent lives
Poem #30 for National Poetry Writing Month (aka #NaPoWriMo).
Warm green peaceful day
Cut grass scents the air around
No more tears will fall
Poem #29 for National Poetry Writing Month (aka #NaPoWriMo)
This Haiku is my second response to Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge # 31 – PEACE & TEAR
A dull aching pain
A tear tears across your face
The tears tear a hole
Through the middle of your soul
All you wanted was some peace.
Poem #28 for National Poetry Writing Month (aka #NaPoWriMo)
This Tanka is my first response to Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge # 31 – PEACE & TEAR
Angels Ælfar Malakhim
Divine monsters, messengers of truth
Raven whispering in Yeshayahu’s ear.
Arriving in flaming wheel flying saucers,
Transmitting visions into Y’chezqel’s optic nerves.
Fiery Seraphim Ljósálfar,
Flaming sword and mighty scrolls,
Straddling the border between
This world and the otherside,
Underside, beyond the west wind.
Ælfar = Ale-far (Elves)
Malakhim (מַלְאָךְ ) = Mal-a-keem (Hebrew for “messengers,” which was translated into Greek as “ángelos” from which we get the word “Angels”
Yeshayahu (יְשַׁעְיָהוּ) = Yesh-a-ya-hoo (Hebrew, usually translated in English as “Isaiah”)
Y’chezqel (יְחֶזְקֵאל ) = Y’chez-kel (“ch” as in Bach) (Hebrew, usually translated in English as “Ezekiel”)
Seraphim (שְׂרָפִים ) = Ser-a-pheem (Hebrew, meaning “Burning Ones”)
Ljósálfar = l-juice-al-far (Light Elves)
Poem #27 for National Poetry Writing Month (aka #NaPoWriMo)
the same river,
flowing around you changing as you step.
Each moment changing, evolving; growing.
When you step out
you are not
Poem #26 for National Poetry Writing Month (aka #NaPoWriMo)
A while back I wrote a tanka about Heraclitus’ River. Its a theme that has always struck a chord with me, as has Heraclitus’ philosophy in general.
The image is a detail from Raphael’s School of Athens featuring Heraclitus, whose features are based on those of Michelangelo.
And, for those keeping track, this is my 200th post on this blog.
In answer to the question “How does it feel when your muse runs his fingers through your hair, resting his palms bare on your crown?”
Its like being possessed by an effeminately androgynous angel,
who may not have fallen, but definitely has some explaining to do,
As words and visions pass through my brain, down my arm, and into my right hand,
As if whispered in my ear by a one-eyed raven sitting on my shoulder
Telling me about his day.
There’s a shot of adrenaline to my heart, pupils dilate,
And my hand is compulsed to write everything down,
Sensical or nonsensical, until the episode passes.
My cramping clenched fist tries hard to write legibly,
As the words come faster than I can safely write,
Pain surging arthritically through my bones.
In the end I’m left alone, in a post-coital haze,
To finish and polish the lunatical ravings
Scribbled in my little black notebook.
Poem #25 for National Poetry Writing Month (aka #NaPoWriMo
With thanks to Sarah Doughty for inspiration.