Tag Archives: stars

Entombed

Good afternoon, everybody! I’ve got another little piece today. Something sadder than the last one. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Entombed

The writing, my dear.

Scrawled there on the wall;

can you see it?

Those old runes…

What could they mean, my darling?

Chicken-scratch, sure.

But what if?

What if there is something to them?

What if it’s about us?

What if it means something?

All of it.

Can you read it?

Interpret for me the symbols of antiquity?

You always were smarter than me.

I am confused.

Something you’re all too familiar with.

It made me angry before.

Now?

A hollow sadness.

Memories and dreams reverberate through old and decrepit halls.

Could you…

Could you help me remember?

What am I doing here?

Where was I going?

Who are you?

Who…

Who am I?

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

Good afternoon, everyone! I have been so incredibly busy that I have hardly had the time to write though it is with a glad heart that I would present to you a new piece written by, and you may have guessed it, yours truly. While I hope that you enjoy it, I do hope that you don’t relate too strongly to the images it paints in your head. That would break my little old heart. Without further ado…

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

The plight of the firstborn son,

that one,

the only one,

his hazel eyes.

Reflections,

refractions,

green and gold and amber…

Nothing quite like him,

you know?

I look into his eyes,

my eyes,

seeing someone I never recognize;

someone I never fully realize.

His eyes, they change in the light.

If only it were,

that you could tell

what he’s supposed to be.

What is he supposed to be?

All alone

inside his head

through stained glass

I peek and peer.

What is this man?

A boy who sits upon a pew?

A man who lies when you already knew?

No pattern,

I don’t recognize…

There’s nothing all around.

Happy Webiversary!

Good afternoon, everybody! Today officially marks the full one-year anniversary of my first post on poemsbysam.com. I don’t have anything in particular planned for today, but I have a short and sweet poem that I wrote a while ago I think you might like. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Lost Planet

Shining there upon a far flung beach,

two suns and three moons

that illuminate

twinkling gemstones under an emerald sky,

reflections of those things that lie above.

She looks up at those stars,

those heavenly bodies,

and waits for one to return.

The only one.

Perhaps they’d sit under green skies

upon that red-tinged grass

and look out at the spear-whales

flying overhead

and great striders

crossing those shallow,

green seas.

Maybe they’ll have croissants.

An American Dream, Almost Forgotten

Blood-soaked visages and fetid rags fill the space before my eyes. You would have me believe that it’s all according to plan? The blunt-force trauma, the brain damage, the bleeding belly-wound that signals a final turn into the worst possible outcomes… How do you justify it all? How does it sit with you? In rusted manacles and filthy, putrid trousers sits the man, the woman, the Geist. Hardened hearts bely broken minds and haggard breaths, the death throes of a bygone era. Will the builders and the founders save us from staggering one-legged into the apocalypse? I shall await forever those things promised to me in my youth. We’ve all the time in the world.

An American Dream, Almost Forgotten

Lying there

staring out the window

look at things you cannot see.

Those little pictures in your head

reflected in the eyes atop your face.

Not broken,

but whole.

Down below

in streets unclean

where windows break

and saxophones wake

perhaps the eyes atop your face

would find themselves adrift

in one foreign little place.

I only wish,

come hell or high water,

that there upon that street

will your eyes not come to rest

for I wish a different future,

with a fair sight fewer sutures.

Fly, fly, fly

little bird.

It’s time to fly away

right on out the window.

The world awaits

your tired little eyes.

New Year.

Welcome to a new year, friends and all. I’ve not written in quite some time, nearly three weeks to my remembrance. I’ve got something for you that I hope makes up for the absence and rings that funny little new years bell. No more tears, no more fears. I’ll be 23 this year. Everybody hates you when you’re 23. Please enjoy the piece today. Without further ado…

Transience of a Midnight Passerby

One day I wish to wake

from this ever-present, all-encompassing sliver of a dream.

I rest here, without laurels

on remnants of those things left behind

by former residents of the periphery.

It is not that there is nothing here.

It is only that this place is transitory,

it is a placeholder,

a way-station for all those who might find their way.

I lie here,

untethered from the place that comes before and the place that comes in consequence,

on an old bed of straw and linens

expertly and serenely tied to an aging cedar frame.

I’d hoped to find a little more peace here.

Perhaps I’d hoped to divine some meaning from the splinters I’d get sleeping in this worn and tired bed-frame.

Those little wooden splinters tell the story of a thousand years lived in a world so loved that every single lover has died right there by its side

no matter how ancient she might become.

It is only that I lack the knowledge and wisdom required for further reading, lest I might learn how this old cedar frame came to be.

That,

I don’t think,

would be permitted.

Soon I’ll move on,

washing away my time here along with the stains in my bedding and my clothes.

This is nowhere,

certainly not somewhere,

and a place that no one can truly stay,

for only it is no one that lives here

and He I have not been able to find.

Before those wooden halls and vaulted ceilings call me home,

I’ll find one thing so worthy of a King.