Tag Archives: writing

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.

Thereby, The Window

I sit here at this table by the window. I wonder what to write. Another busy day today. Painfully out of sight. I wish to be so found, so desired, as to be the object of such constant praise but at the same time, no, I wish to slink back into the shadows and watch them all walk by. To be apart from it all. How does one reconcile these alternate desires? Someday I’d like to be the one that knows. Please enjoy the poem today, friends. I wrote it just for you.

Table by the Window

Do I ever know what to write?

The very thought

It feels so trite

Something that so seemingly cannot be taught

I’m finding that i think of you a lot

My heart so burns with numbness

I wish that i could go away and find that wardrobe

And be with mister tumnus

For now I sit and stare

At faces seem so bare

A thousand different things to fear

Shed but not a single tear

No sadness left to turn

From that torrent to slow burn

I’m finding now it’s hard to earn

A place now to discern

What option is the best

Why yes! You might ask

“What options might you have?”

Oh, wouldn’t You like to know?

You Know That Feeling?

That feeling you get? That one you get when everything seems turned upside down and inside out? When your intestines twist and knot into a ball of writhing flesh and fluid in such a gross display of angry sadness that you wish that you could just pull them out? Keep them in there. Innards are important. The sickness will pass. One day you’ll learn to untie the knot. Easier if you were once a boy scout, but not impossible otherwise. Enjoy the poem today, friends.

Labyrinth

There within my core

A pit, like an apple

Knowing there is something there

With which i cannot grapple

My core is all in knots

My mind so full of nots

Here I sit and think of all the many empty lots

Where We might sit and think so many thoughts

These words do not release

This tension of declension

A descent so far to madness

That sanity seems so intertwined with badness

Down again into the catacombs

Through all this aching blackness

I look and see a pair of tomes

Filled so now with memories of sadness

A history so obscured in mystery

No one knows but me

No one knows but us

Perhaps we’ll fill a tome again

Perhaps we’ll dream that dream again.

Not Quite So Bad A Day

Afternoon, all. How is everybody? Enjoying the writing so far? It’s important to get a read on things. To understand what’s going on with yourself and the people around you. How could it not be? Take stock of your inventory. It’s your store. Enjoy the poem today, y’all.

Not Quite Knossos

I often speak of castles

Of knights and lords, their many tassels

These halls I walk inside my mind

With tapestries are these walls so lined

Labyrinthine, this fortress

Organic matter rotted away

Steel trap

No words to say

No place to lay

No face today

Delve into these catacombs

Listen to the metronomes

Tick, tick, tick, tick

I feel as though I might be sick

They rock and thrash behind the door

Craving always something more

Shadows billow out from underneath

Can almost hear their gnashing teeth

The darkness calls again beneath