Tag Archives: sam

A Play In Act III

Afternoon, friends. I have for you a poem that I hope would make you think. I hope it doesn’t hurt too much to read. Perhaps you’ll think it all an act? A performance? It sometimes makes it easier for me to visualize the plot line of my life with all its twists and turns and heartbreaks. To see it in the light a director would, perhaps attempting to change the more offensive elements to be more palatable for a more delicate audience. I’ll watch this play in my head, trying to pick out the characters and the plot holes. When one day it ends, who will be backstage?

Graceful Wings

Why’s it always spinning?

Really can’t feel like I’m winning.

Always here and waking up again.

Licking wounds back in my den.

I feel like an animal,

or perhaps a small child.

One whose cranial capacity may be considered somewhat challenged in the mass department.

There’s an innocence in that.

I only hope that when I bleed that it is red I bleed and green you see in my eyes.

Maybe nothing hurts quite so much as now.

I don’t know whether I am a good man or not.

I only know that when the curtain closes over these hazels eyes of mine,

the only one on stage I’ll still see is you

with all your graceful twirls and dances,

your beautiful soliloquys,

and those eyes I swear were glued to me throughout the show.

I suppose I’ll see you at the end,

the end when all the families and friends and spouses see the cast.

I only hope that you won’t fly away from me again.

Into The Jungle

I dream of having adventures in faraway lands with faraway circumstances. Perhaps I’ll leave, taking only my stetson and the clothes on my back. I’ll go and leave and finally be me. I suppose we’ll see. Enjoy the poem, friends.

Friend by the Falls

I see there in the distance

a waterfall

and the road that winds,

leading up to there

through the trees.

I can hear the crashing.

The water hitting the rocks.

Past the point of no return.

Hot sun above

and sounds of the jungle.

How can you feel?

How do you feel?

I only feel that pounding

of that water on the rocks,

resonating through my core

It’s sundown now.

A jaguar stands at attention.

I ask the cat a question as it watches:

“Hello, friend. Who is that reflected in your eyes?”

“I don’t recognize him,”

I whisper so sweetly so that only the ears of a predator might hear me.

The jaguar stares on,

looking as if to speak,

but it turns away.

There will be no answers today, friend;

you must find you yourself now.

“Goodbye, friend,” my words saunter off into the darkness.

In A Haze

Woken up again, I find myself responding to the light and to the chirping. To the stimuli, as I should. To all things, as I have before. Perhaps I must change again? I am too much the same as I’ve been, floundering in that sea of doubt and sameness that continues to rise and rise until it rests just below my chin. It stops there and waits, knowing I know of it and what I feel about it. Knowing the anxiety it causes me. Cognizant of the fact that its sentience and salience terrify me like nothing has terrified me before because, simply, the idea of stagnation is equitable in my mind to an endless torture. I find that hell would be preferable to purgatory in that I at least derive some comfort from knowing my torture, rather than not knowing my fate. Please enjoy the poem, friends.

Waking Up

Sick again

I keep doing this

I don’t know

It hurts again

I keep a head

Always in cycles

Moving in circles

Wondering why I did that same thing again

Why i laid my head to rest on that same lap again

To find my roots amongst the trees

And my legs against the seas

Tired of finding that i have weak knees

I’ll don my tricorne

And I’ll set off

Or I’ll set sail

And go there far beyond the pale

As friends and foes sit and wait,

I find myself not resigned to this fate

For it’s with destiny that i have a date

An Old Ritual

Last night I partook in an old ritual. One my ancestors may have recognized. As an observer I felt more than I can explain, oddly enough. There were not many parts, but there was much fun to be had and many friends to be made. This I think I understand. The profound effects of a ritual always lie in the social aspect for me, the actual God or Gods taking the backseat in my mind. I think I’d quite like to do it again.

Regent of Hearts

I’ve met some great boundless one so far

Who told me how the world’s not so hard

Who filled my heart with no canard

That one who tells stories much like a bard

A sing-songy voice

But not by their choice

I of course must rejoice

They think of me more than a shithouse Joyce

Of gumdrops and lilypads

A fantasy land

Of good moms and good dads

There in that castle just by the sand

Idyllic machination

Psychadelic fascination

A world so full of recreation

And creation

A world so fully embraced the Mad

Princess On A Train, The Train

Today I have for you the story of a girl on a train. The story of a girl of such ethereal beauty, abundant character, and brazen intellect that one could hardly consider her real. The story of our lady, that one who is champion for us so that we may live again in that kingdom of golden plenty. The story of that girl who is the light when all is in darkness. The story of that one who I only hope that someday I can be compared against in half as favorable a light. Please enjoy the poem today. This one means a lot to me.

Our Lady, The Traveller

So many fears

And so many tears

The story of a girl on the subway

A girl crying on the train

A girl with eyes so vibrant and beautiful

The war for Helen of Troy might seem like a playground spat

Were she now to be the focus

This girl on the subway

With jet black hair

And the fairest of skin

Sweeter than honey

Feeling less than sunny

The days for her

Already long

Grow longer still

She waits for her mind to come home from war

For her love to come knocking at the door

Staring out the window

Seeing stations pass by

She tells herself that little lie

“I’m ok! I’m alright,” she’ll cry,

As her manicured nails dig into her thigh.

Recalcitrant as she is

In her rebellion against the crown

She fears now the forces rallied to her opposition

As their war horns sound

But our lady, my lady

The princess and heir

So beautiful and fair

Those horns that sound

Her allies to her aid

Riding down the mountain in that most righteous cavalcade

That girl crying on the subway

She’ll find the words with which to say,

“I’m ok. I’m alright.”

And on that day,

She’ll have the strength to fight.