Tag Archives: samuel dotson

If It Wasn’t For The Mist…

Good morning! I have a poem today that was inspired by something very dear to me. The one thing that may in fact be responsible for my accession to the title of “Writer”. Fee free to throw out guesses in the comments as to what I’m referencing. I read every one. Without further ado:

The Rite

Ticking tock

Countenance of the clock

In your hands a mirror

In your eyes, a watch

Sitting there

Something queer

What’s that? Just off the pier?

See so far away the light

Never sure in black of night

Whether you or vision’s right

Can’t tell

So overpowering, the smell

Coming from the swell

Pardon me

That’s just the sea

Though still you’ll have to pay the fee

Do you know the price?

Did you roll the dice?

Asking, asking… Not very nice…

To fear a feeling felt so foul

Makes you think to throw the towel

Please just now, secure the dowel

Composed before some ghastly sight

Hide yourself from trick and slight

Gather your things, prepare the rite

You Forgot To Remember

Good afternoon. I’ve forgotten something but I can’t remember what it was. Gone and forgotten. Dust and sand blow over the ruins of ancient ruins, ancient kingdoms. Jewels of the west, of the east, of the north, of the south. Petrified fossils of trees the only remnants of great forests where emperors hunted plentiful game. Where paramours sat by long-forgotten sparkling waters, lakes now hidden by the changing of dunes whose phantom iridescence eludes even the most dedicated explorers, so far removed from water these old bones now lie. I like to think that if I dig down far enough, I’d find those nobles hunting great game in their beautiful forests. I’d find those bustling cities overflowing with goods and frenzied merchants. Perhaps I’d even find those lovers still embracing on the banks of that crystalline lake.

Callback

So far, so well

Come and gone

Numb at the base

Tell me again

about the test case?

Today a day like any other

Today a day, just another

Upset your mother

Unseat your brother

How the tides of war shape you

Someday you’ll understand too

Fare thee well

Peer again into the swell

Find a gleaming agate still

Remember those pretty little stones

How those little hands held them

How those shining eyes beheld them

History forgets

But I remember

Every memory a painting

To each beloved, a sainting

Frère Jacques

Dormez-vous?

Sonnez les matines…

Wake up!

It is time to feed the machine.

Robinson Crusoe

Afternoon. Oftentimes I dream of the high seas. I am an adventurous spirit, an ambitious man. I sometimes forget how easy it is, how common it is, to be lost at sea. To be lost and never find your way again in that wide blue expanse. I grew up on stories of the Bermuda Triangle, Amelia Earhart, Captain Cook, etc. Adventurers and pioneers and even just regular old people losing their way and never being found again. What adventures they had. Having been lost myself, albeit in a more metaphorical sense, I have come to appreciate the ones who got lost even moreso. They take a path we don’t need to. Trailblazers one and all. Some day I think all those lost ones will be found again. No one is ever truly lost forever. Only waiting to be found.

Sacred Isle

Castaway

Shorn, torn apart and scorned

Tatters and rags

Beggars and dregs

Richest man on the island

Though the poorest so too

See how the stars aline

Blood omens line the sky

So allein, a sign!

Hoping to yourself it’s not a lie

Hereafter, maybe a beer after?

Hearing echoes in your laughter

Of your laughter

Bats and bugs hang from the rafter

Fair seas and fair winds

They’ve gone rusty, all your tins

Your hair’s getting long, friend

“Who’s speaking? Who’s that?”

“Oh.”

Just my head again

Little bug, little bug

How you run away…

Busts and Buttresses

Good morning. Nothing, you see, has quite the same longevity as stone. It is ancient when you’re born, it is ancient when you die, and it will be ancient when your great great grandchildren die. When nothing else survives, so the stone goes and lives on. Always there, perhaps changing ever so slightly, but always there. You may not last forever, but your sculptures will. Make your busts and buttresses. They’ll outlive you.

Saga of the Stone

So too, do all things, turn from ash and bone

to dust and stone

It matters not if you atone

For all is ash as dice are thrown

Turning leaves with the rake

Doing all this for your sake

It matters not if you will break

For all is bone as beasts awake

As bricks and timber start to quake

There’s no time and nothing to take

Flee, my child, there’s no need to shake

For all is ash beside the lake

Answer, answer please, the telephone

I only wish you could have known

There is no need for terror sown

For all is stone,

And you are alone

All Stand Before The Court

Afternoon, everybody! Today I have a poem that’ll hopefully make you think. Writing it was a blast and I’ve been excited to share it as it’s in a style that is ever so slightly different than my usual. Big PS: If you’d like to follow for updates or donate to support my work, there are links at the bottom of the home page, as well as follow links below all my posts. Also, feel free to leave a comment if you’d like to get in touch with me as I do not use twitter or instagram.

Effervescent

“Speaker,”

“Speak.”

“What say you?”

“What would you say in your defense?”

“The crowd hungers for an answer.”

Eyes linger on the dancer.

Teeth gnash and chatter.

Mouths yearn for the prancer,

As vile crowd debates the former, and the latter.

Dark faces close in.

“You’ve lost, you can’t win.”

“Tell us what you know.”

“Tell us and we’ll go.”

Ghastly trial in progress.

All feels like regress.

No chance for recess.

“There is no escape,”

says the playback of the tape.

Every figure in the room, sitting there, agape.

Boils and pustules fill this tormented landscape.

Dread trial, already guilty.

Quite the misstep, swearing fealty.

Cloaked in subtlety.

You never know a person, what they will be.