Windows

A strange poem. I'm not sure why I wrote it any more. Ah well, good anyway.

Doorways to the silent world,
Gaping like eyes of a soul begging to be understood.
Yet only the silent world is reflected in those deep empty eyes.
There is a kind of artistic emotion in the nothingness seen through those eyes.

The dwellers stand behind the eyes giving new life where before, nothing.
But still, no soul is reflected in those eyes.
Those deep begging gateways to life.

Still they stare, and still no one sees.
There isn't anything to be seen anyway.

Sleep

Well, here's another one.

Sleep precious, sleep.
Succumb to that beast that wakens the mind but drains the body.
That tyrant that rules a willing soul,
The monster that feasts off all our hard work and endless toil.

Sleep child, sleep.
Do not be fooled by the amiable Wakefulness,
     Who lures well-meaning people to a fate equal to, yet worse than, Death.

The land of the living, wide-awake people,
Ruled by Sleep's nemesis,
Is no place for a living mind to dwell.
Give in to the fearsome, evil Sleep.
Only through death of consciousness can one finally experience life of the soul.
Sleep, precious sleep.

Lonely Looks Back

This is an interesting poem. Kind of about me, but kind of not.

I look in the mirror and
     Lonely looks back;
Surrounded by friends and family but
     Lonely looks back.

Now the mirror shows a playground with children everywhere and still
     Lonely looks back.
Reflected in the mirror is a classroom, complete with teacher and classmates yet
     Lonely looks back.

A few years later in the mirror I see a platoon of brothers and even then
     Lonely looks back.
Years fly by and now the mirror displays a broken house, a broken dog, a broken man, and
     Lonely looks back.

A coffin being lowered into the earth, and a crowd of mourners, friends, and sympathisers are the focus of the fading mirror, and deep below the earth
     Lonely looks back.

Broken Love

I think I must have written this poem after I broke up with my last girlfriend. (Almost six months ago) Ah well, the feeling is still a legitimate feeling. I'm sure I'll feel it at some later date.

A shadow of light,
The ashes of a spark.
That is all that's left over,
When Love dies.

Fragmented reflections of a shattered mirror,
Nothing upon nothing
     Where once there was something.
That's how it feels
When Love fades.

Why? Why must Love exist?
Is Love an angel or a demon?
Is it possible that Love can hate those who love?
Or perhaps Love is jealous.

Jealous Love, leave the decimated hearts be.
Long and tiresome is the rebuilding of a heart.
Too long to be destroyed all over again.
But practice makes perfect, as they say.
So perhaps Love is a teacher.
Teaching people how to mend hearts for that time when the Heart will be ripped and shredded daily -
By children, a spouse, parents.
Perhaps Love is wiser and more vastly aware of Truth than we think...

Clouds

This is the third in the "Airplane" Series. I actually saw this scene out the window. I gotta' be honest with you, I don't much like this poem. It's kinda' cheesy.

Every time I get the chance
To view humans the size of ants -
That is, to be way up in the sky,
In other words, I mean, to fly,
I always look in pure delight
To the window, revealing splendour white.
Or clouds, as they are more commonly known.
I hope, in this passtime, I'm not alone.

I hope I'm not alone because
The feeling I get really truly does
Desire to be shared with many
People looking upon that sight with any
Emotion, or thought, or concept of bliss
That cannot be equaled in hug or kiss.

Indeed this sight inspires peace
And makes me think of fluffy fleece.
Or snowy hills and snowy trees,
Or misty, roiling, frothy seas.
A sight so fine and undeclared
Really truly must be shared.

I hope you've understood all I've shared
And hope that really you haven't cared
That I didn't really say anything
Important, or worth mentioning.
Except to discourse on the only thing
That ever really made my mind want to sing.
If this makes sense to you the viewer
Please clarify for me I'm rather unsure.

6:36

This scene was seen from an airplane taking off.

Yin-Yang in the sky,
Where day meets night.
Tentative birds poke their heads out.
Wondering at the beautiful Dawn:
     Herald of the Morning.

Dawn sings out to the hibernating populace:
"Wake! Morning is coming! Bow in its splendour, open the floodgates and let the flood that is morning come crashing in! Bathe yourself in this purest of air: that which has been graced by the stars."

Dimly the Populace raise their heads
Glancing at this new form of intrusion that is the sun.
They mumble it away, until is is but a mere annoyance high in the sky.

But alas! That Beauty, which is Dawn, has lied to us this day.
The Eye has not opened this morning.
It has stayed hidden behind its grey dull eyelid.
The Populace curses the eyelid
     More vehemently than they cursed the Eye.

Dawn heralds the Eye.
Nothing will stop either of them.
Not the grumblings, the mumblings, nor the Silence.
No. Dawn carries out the same ritual as ever.

Silence of the Exterior

This poem is a reenactment of a real life situation. Literally.

He enters the room and mumbles some vague question of the music.
He waits as I fumble around for the answer.
Even when awkwardness has set in, he waits
For an answer he promptly forgets.
Another mumbled response from him and he sets off on his business.

[I had to trap this moment in writing. It was really strange when it happened. I still remember it.]

Frustration

I tend to feel this way quite often. Ah well, it's a good poem. Soothes the mind just a little bit, and stirs the mentality.

Day-to-day
     It goes on.
It haunts
     My Dreams.
It stirs my mind
     Like a lonely man trying to keep warm.
It comes like waves to crash
     Among the rocks that compose sanity.
It moves in, and peeks out like neighbors
     Who watch through a crack in the blinds to examine this stranger
     That is me.
I am not welcome
     In my own mind.

[The poem continues below, but I scratched it out:]
I stay,
     A stubborn mountain that refuses to move.
Its faith
     Cannot kill this giant.
[I don't like this section, but included it so completeness could be had.]

The Plot

This is a poem I wrote on a day when I was feeling emotional. It was originally designed to get back at someone, but it quickly changed to a more forgiving piece of work.

It was a normal day
Not bad, not good.
     Not yet - at least.
Same thing as usual.
Only this time, it went too far.

Innocence was sitting in the midst of Corruption.
Maintaining as much corrupted innocence as was possible.
But Corruption pushed the wrong buttons.

Innocence leaped out, brandishing his weapon.
Corruption never saw it coming,
     And to this day still doesn't know.

Corruption did not die that day,
     And is still alive and well.
Innocene spilled no blood that day,
     Though desire was great.

But Innocence is more alive.

Absent

Ah, a good poem indeed. This one gives me images of a movie, or a rather decent book.

Eyes that see
     Nothing
Where there is
     Something.
Looking at a
     Blank
Page he sees
     Words.
On a canvas covered with
     Pictures
He sees
     Emptiness.
Looking into his eyes you see
     Life
Where there is only
     Death.

Celebration of Perfection: A Romance

I like this poem. A lot.

A field of grain at the tip of the continent.
Two flowers mark the backside of the burial chamber of dust.
It is a regal chamber looking out on a beautiful garden of tombstones,
All equally aligned and matching,
     Promising eternal love.
A narrow strip of land, which hides
     The Tunnel of Eternal Wind,
Leads to the Valley of Kings:
     A valleyed region bounded by two hills.
     At night, when carressed by pearly moonlight,
     Two towers appear where, eons ago, the two mountain regions warred,
     Building and building until at last, spent,
     They died and left just the natural beauty of their land.
Further south lie the flatlands
Disrupted by one lonely crater,
Formed ages ago when a dying universe graced this piece of land with new life.
Towards the end of the continent lies a beautiful garden,
Abandoned ages ago, yet not forgotten by time.

You

One of my favorite people. That's what this poem is about. Enjoy!

I don't know you
Yet you are.
You are.
Important, real, alive,
Yes.
I don't know you.
Not really, but something
     Ties us all together.
     Lets us all know
          You.
And me. Who is you,
     To you.
All of us are a bunch of you's.
But you.
     Yes.
You are.
     Who you are.
          (That's true, on some level.)
You.
Who are you?
Why do I insist
     On telling you? You
Must know.
Why?
Yes.
You.
You.
     Unique - is what everyone says.
          Cliche. Everyone says.
               Then again... well, nevermind.
You.
Yes. No. Why? No. You.

But seriously.
     Yeah - I mean yes.
Seriously.
It's not about me. It's about you.
But I'm you
     To you,
          Right?
Must be true. On some level.
Yeah - and I mean that.

Death

Here's a mysterious topic. One that gets not enough discussion for being as important as it is. I believe this one speaks for itself:

A skull,
A rose, faded to black,
A raven, a coffin,
The feeling you get when someone touches you but
Means nothing by the gesture.

The end of something put to good use,
Something that paved the way for new life.
In a sense,
The beginning of a new end.

Can death be measured in the number of headstones
Found in the world's largest cemetary?
Or is it
Measured
In the number of children born everyday.
Or is it

The obituaries in the middle of the newspaper,
Hidden where passersby will not see
The large grinning reaper standing next to weddings and births:
New beginnings,
Cannot capture death
In its entirety.
Cannot describe the completeness
In ending and continuity.
Nothing
But death itself
Really can

Let me describe to you what I see in Death
And you will see
The future,
The past,
The present,
All mixed into one.

Eternal completeness, the fulfillment of all that ever was.
Hope for what will come.
A constant,
A guarantee,
In a world where nothing is constant or guaranteed -
Except
Unahppiness
Tears.

All this -
For this:
Death.

The end - a beginning.
It is all
Yet to come.

A Study In Love

I like this poem. Unfortunately, I'm not sure how to interpret the title. A study that is in love, or a study in regards to love. I think I intended it to be read either way. But you can be the judge.

They say it starts with a spark,
But I don't know.
It seems like sometimes it just starts.
But how?
Does it just start at "hello"?
Or is it with the first kiss?
Maybe it's none of these.
Perhaps love is, in fact, like a rose:
       It starts off small and plain,
       But with a little bit of nurture,
       And a lot of hard work and painstaking days digging in dirt
       It grows into something beautiful,
Which just ends up dying. Of course,
It leaves you something when it dies -
It leaves you with seeds for a new birth,
And its remains, for a new layer of dirt.
But maybe not.
Maybe love is just a word.
Something people say - like "goodbye".
Maybe.
Maybe love is all of these. Maybe
It's up to everyone to decide for themselves.
In that case love is like happiness:
       For some it's here today
            Gone tomorrow
       While others have it all the time
       And still others - never.
As for me, I've yet to decide.
Do I love food? Do I love
A girl I've only known for a month?
Do I love my family?
Do I love a young child I've never met?
I think the answer to each of these is
Yes.
But where does it start?
Maybe it doesn't.

Whispers

This poem is about madness, and the voices in the dark recesses of your mind. Not the crazy voices, the other ones...

The whispers. Where
Do they come from?
Why do I hear them? What
Are they trying to tell me?
Should I listen?
Or should I
Ignore?

I choose to
Ignore. But
They persist.
They
Continue. They force me
To listen. So
I
Surrender.

I listen now. And
They
Talk. To me? Why!?
It frustrates
Me.

Sleep

This is one of the many poems I've written about sleep: a very mysterious and overbearing monster, in my opinion.

With lead-weight eyes he walks around
Mumbling mostly nonsense and laughing at nothing.
He begs for sleep but desires it not
It is now that he is more alive than ever-
     Seeing everything as he really believes it.
     Thinking his truer darker thoughts.
Until he hits his place of rest.
Suddenly, the weight is gone,
His eyes spring open and he yearns for something - anything - to do.
As soon as he gets up, the lead is back.
And back to the rack he goes -
     Where - finished - he sleeps.

One

This poem is supposed to capture my emotions when listening to a really good song. Unfortunately, as you will see, it's very tough to do that.

Shutting his eyes connects him.
It becomes everything -
It becomes the air around him.
He is one with this being.
As it whips around him, through him,
He gives himself up to it.
All-encompassing, sweet, devouring,
Absorbing -
      All things are replaced, and he is alone with it.
They dance - a mental dance, unseen by the observer -
Him and his beloved - yet no words exist to describe this non-relationship.
It washes over him, and past him.
And he opens his eyes to watch it depart, and the rest of the world fall back into place.

Maturity

This is one of my first poems ever written. It's what has started my latest and greatest poetry spree.

Why do they expect
Maturity perfect
From me in junior high,
A simple teenage guy?

You're young only once
With not too many months.
You're mature the whole time,
Even past prime!
When in the meantime
You've had not much free time
To act as you are
Not like stiff tar. [some versions say "Not like a star"]

So please hear my plea:
Let me be me,
Mature only part time,
But mainly sublime.