School Started Today

I have been having a fantastic day. School was enjoyable and all of my classes seem awesome.

I have been holding out a good happy poem for all my readers and today is the day to let the world hear it.

Lazy Sun Day

The sun creeps slowly, over the horizon.
First, he swings his gut up over the tree line.
Each leg hefted afterwords, a stumbling accompaniment.
Yes, the morning has come. Sigh and meet the day.

Their are many things he does, in the early risen morn.
Scratch the exposed parts of his belly,
hanging beyond the edges of his shirt.
He yawns profusely and keeps little on his mind.

He consumes a strict diet of sky doughnuts.
Jelly and Bavarian filled, glazed and maple,
All in strict quantities, 80 each, kept in barrels.

He loathes his huffing trek across the sky,
through infinite blue fields of wispy clouds.
When overstuffed cloud-couches drift by he longs
to rest his calves and aching sun-shoes.

But the grunting and moaning must continue.
The sun must make his grueling trip.
For if the scents and sounds he makes,
don't jolt our senses to awake,
we will have no day to rise for.

Happy Fourth of July

I wish all of my readers a happy fourth of July and I hope you have a good time reading my poem. Also, I am sorry that I have neglected to post a poem in awhile, my life is very hectic though.

My Country Sleeps

The location of
this great Behemoth,
built by part and labor,
is lost to me.

My Elders speak
of shining stars, waving flags
and apple pie.
Their dreams and
sweat, the pavement
of these years
but here I stand
in a place otherwise.

No dreams, no pie.
Only things
to make you cry.
The dust to sting
your eyes
and clarify how
alone, how lost
we are.

Where is this
America?
Sheltering the needy
and unique.
Where are the
Dreams?

I can see them,
the shadows of
promises, wishes
all: unfulfilled.
I see fallacies
and phalluses
that rule above.

Where is my mighty home?
I do not see
Lady Liberty
her shield and sword
crafted in my father's
war.

I do not see
what we fight for.

I do not see
my America.

Prometheus

So, first let me apologize. I am very sorry that I have taken so long to post and because I have to put a pause on my composting series. Hopefully, I will throw down on the two more instrumental poems that I want to write soon.

Today though, I would like to share a new style of poem with you. In composition it is the same but, the process is different. I call these sudden poems. These are composed in a fit of emotion: joy, love, sadness, hate. They are undoubtedly the most common poems I compose.

Also, I hope to have some pictures of Beaux Arts posted for you next time.

Prometheus

There he stole my fire.
With Guile and stealth
and treachery

He called me as his friend.
We dined and laughed together;
Yet, when the flickerin' embers
And ruby gleam caught his eye
Our friendship was lost.

There he stole my fire.
The desire and love of my mind,
The greatest possession of my soul.
He took it with wanting eyes,
Where flames and Lust danced within.

Now, the heavens are dark.
Friendless, without warmth and light.
My days spent, watching and loving
An afterimage, of flame he held.

For, I cannot discard my love.

Beaux Arts Coming up

The Beaux Arts Ball, hosted by UK's College of Design, will be this Saturday and I am super duper psyched. Last year I went as Doc Holiday and Fayth went as Big Nose Kate. It was a fun time for all and a freaky time for Lexington. I only hope the same for the Beaux arts ball this year.

Speaking of this year, I have a great costume plan. I plan on being the Doritos Samurai from the Super Bowl Commercial. What can I say, I love doritos, so crunchy and tasty. YUM :)

I have the second of my musical profile poems for you today. This bit of poetry is about the Guitar. If you would like an extra bit of lyricism in your life today: try comparing the Guitar poem with the Horn poem. They are poetry written in series, they do have some correlation between them. See what you can find!

Guitar

A strum begins the battle,
One man grips the neck in one hand
And strums his fingers across the body.
With the rhythm in his grasp he
bends it to his will, no resistance.

His fingers dance across the
pressure points of melody, striking
with precise time. Each fret
and strum: a fainting blow,
each chord a slash of layered steel.
With calculated performance, he
dispatches each individual target.

He carries his Guitar, like
a rogue his blade.
With agility and stealth
it can strike you, unknowing.

Music Class Composting

I have a music history and theory class ( mus 101) every Mon, Wed and Fri morning and usually the class proceeds as a semi-boring lecture with a lot of copying and such. I have been trying to take a more active approach in appreciating the class material and over-viewing my notes and so I have been composting them into poetry.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with composting: it is the process of taking old things you have written, even the most casual and lucid things and then reintroducing them into your current 'pool of thought'. This often results in a greater understanding and analysis of a particular idea, as it has already been thought upon by yourself at least once.

This idea is central in Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down The Bones, I thoroughly suggest you purchase this book if you need guidance in writing. She does a remarkable job exploring the depths of a writer.

I have plan to pull a series of instrument profile poems from my notes. I have one written so far, more to come.


Horn

A breath begins the fight.
One man clenches chest muscles
pushing against, crushing into
emptiness: his lungs and
expelling a vicious punch of wind.

His breath surges down and strikes
through his weapon. His fingers,
stretched to a posture of rapid attack,
engage in a fury of jabs and blows to strike his foe.

His brass beast squeals out a war cry.
Galloping, Breathing, Striking,
a music formed of war.

Haiku for You

Today is an exceptionally sunny day here in Lexington. I decided to do some writing on the porch out back. Well, these little morsels of poetry are the result and they are just for you to enjoy.


Clothes heavy and limp.
They are soaked with cold river,
Koi caress my feet.


A field of Flowers,
All vying to see the sun
Solar warmth abides.


Pure snow, Undisturbed.
White, endless serenity,
Crunching underfoot.


Below me a mountain,
Rocky crags and hills form its veins,
All I see is stone.


Playful spring breezes
Alight petals into dance.
Beauty of Nature.

Sonnetize me captain

At one point I would say that I didn't like Sonnets. My perspective has broadened since then and now I share for you a sonnet I wrote for my English class.

Sonnet #195
Here in the wastes of schooltime splendor I,
The laureate of lethargy, compose
Ballad to delight my readers a sigh.
Thusly words from my fingertips now flow:

Here, keeping meter and rhyme grows weary
As the mind is tortured o’re boredoms racks.
My mouth drawn to yawn, my eyes gone teary,
I wade through conjecture and lecture facts.

Then my eyes are blinded by knowing light.
When I, my home in lazy darkness make,
Remove myself from understanding’s fight.
Now with scholar’s purpose, I my norm break.

Knee-deep in knowing, I now understand
That living a life of effort is quite grand.

Only Words Remain....and kick your ass!

Only Words Remain

Soft lead to paper, it begins.
The thought precedes the action
But the action begins to fade,
Only words remain.

Eternal, Syllabic, the message left,
Emphatic. Inertial, words derive
With design pre-ordained, and strike
The mind with god hand’s intent.

These words, composed of graphite and friction
Hide more than any one could dream of diction.
Characters that can make you snarl, growl,
While others bring a ‘coo’ to form on waiting lips.

Each ‘S’ sends the reader soaring.
Through semi-saline seas
And sighing softly as sun sets.

Each ‘B’ brings barbarous thoughts to bear.
Burly brawlers, barreling their way through a Bazaar.
Bending bystanders beneath their brutish boots.

Do not forsake these scrawled inscriptions.
Do not banish them to paper piles long forgot.
Do not ignore the meaning that they chant.

For, when worlds erode and eons pass,
These words will remain, steadfast.

Red Light Beauty

Red Light Beauty
I can see your face.
Red light highlighting your features,
Each line, composing your smile,
Glows with a surreal ruby gleam.
I can see your face.

You lean in, so close to me.
Intoxicating, your sweet cinnamon scent
And the grip of your red-bathed hand,
Loosen my grip on the wheel.


Reeling, in the miasma of my affections,
Your soft cheeks,
pointed chin,
loving eyes,
delicate ears,
All bathed in a crimson wash that says:
“Go on, Love me”

I can hear the red light screaming to me:
Stop caring,
Stop worrying
Stop needing.
Stop everything, short of love.

In the moment, our lips now touch.
A kiss ensues, erupting joy.
I imagine my features red like yours
Speaking of passion and love.
The blushing lost in ambiguity.

I can see your face,
The comforting rouge, now a jarring green.
I am pulled from you, told to stop.
My hands on the wheel, I drive on.
I hope to see you again,
My Red Light Beauty.

The Room

I saw the Wailers (Bob Marley's band) last night and it was incredible.
I did not take off my shirt though.

Clubbin'

The room was alive with conversation.
Snippets of sentences,
Words with only individual meaning,
And the murmur of the growing crowd
Strike me like a cacophonous punch.
With the chill of night on my shoulders
And the clashing sweaty heat pulsing from
The room, I step through the threshold.

So many bodies, people packed in
Like pythons in an orgy.
My feet draw me closer,
Nonchalantly through the room.
Over crunching plastic cups,
Kicking discarded bottles and PBR tallboys.

The dancing, steaming mass
Drawing close.
A shoulder against my own
A hand across my thigh
It is a disarming feeling.

When music calls, disregard your anxiety.
Shuck it like a sweat soaked shirt.
Bare-chested, now become the crowd.
Dance with eyes closed.
Dance with soul out.

Revised, Dining on Diction

Dining on Diction

Did you know, I like to eat odd things:
Secret, dusty things, kept between pages, sealed between covers,
Exotic conjugated and inflected things, possessing worldly flavors.
I never eat anything sissy like worms or boogers.
I eat words; lovely, tasty, inky, words.

Some words, like ‘Academic’, have tastes unique the world round.
You could call ‘Academic’, broccoli-esque.
Something you throw at your mother from your high-chair
And spit down the front of your clothes.
It drips with excessive preparation and care,
The buttery sauce ladled over to many-a-time.
It is soggy and overcooked, always.
I hate ‘Academic’

‘Periwinkle’, on the other hand, is scrumptious.
Spread it over your Bruschete and crumble it with feta.
Savory and sweet, the word melts in your mouth.
Warming your throat and clearing your sinuses,
It is medicinal and filling but watch the calories.
I could eat this ‘periwinkle’ all day long.

Nothing is more sublime than the interplay of words ala lime.
Let the syllables play on your palate. Savor their assonance,
Evaluate their meaning and critique their usage,
All with your tongue.

Disregard all of your mother’s manners and
Let juices run down your face, stain your Sunday clothes.
Grin ear to ear and show the world what you chew as you
Crunch and Munch. Make all of the noise you want.
Then pick your teeth in front of the company,
flick the Latinate suffix stuck between your teeth
across the table.

Did you know I eat odd things?
I do, indeed, I enjoy the pleasures of eating words.
I enjoy the rules of eating words,
None.

Rape that Continent!

In the Name of Civilization!
The sound of living life fills the air.
Bushes shudder after flowers are removed, their delicate work.
Boughs groan at the un-natural weight resting on them.
There is indeed bounty all around, ripe for plucking.
Ripe for tearing your teeth into and slurping the nectar-blood,
sweet and salty.

When the clouds overhead grow darkly heavy
will they cry for the loss of nature’s
virginity?
Will the cry at the rape of
Europa?

It is those heaven born tears
that will clean the abused earth.
Wash away the herd-sized foot track stain in the dirt
Dissolve the rancid waste and midden left behind.
Revive the grass, like deius workings, that before was
chewed to cud by cumbersome cows.

Settling man, searching for a home to rest,
Do you not care for this cycle, like flaming callous reincarnation,
you make her endure at every rain?

Can we spare this daughter of mother earth?
Sweet Europa’s fate left on the temptuous sea of man’s pitty.
Before, the smell of a Garden,
untouched.
Now, the stank of effluence and
rape.

Europa, sweet bountiful boundless Europa,
left to rot for man.

OM

OM

Release your breath,

Close your eyes,

center your mind.

Take a step back

from the chaos around you

to know OM.

Feel the world dissolve,

Colors become one

All sounds are now one.

a low moan

an OM

Slow and deliberate .

Lips move with purpose,

to mouth syllables

A

O

M.

Soon reality slips away

the soul preserved

and the words you say

A

O

M.

Bring God.

For he rests in the words,

in the breath

of a being at peace

in the OM.

Know yourself,

in peace of the eternal,

resonating with a low

deep in the chest

moan.

an OM

OM

Waves

another bit of verse.


read and enjoy.


Waves

Waves crash on the edges of my mind,

A turquoise spray. Enbrining the walls of my sanity.

The repetitive conflict of the ocean

trapped inside this of my own mind.

Coursing, surging, flowing, growing: exploding,

those waves, they erode me.

Each pass, each pause, back and forth crashing to

conclusion. They corrode me.

Naught but the sea occupies the valley of my thought.

Brought from the goddess of rain, with charms love-wrought.

The ictus of her gift, the crashing, the breaking, the silence left between.

It turns me red, rusting my mind, slowly. Till naught but the waves remain in me.

The solace in silence no longer coveted, nor found.

Only the patter of rain, raising the water:

Louder, the ocean's thunder against my mind.

Too much a lunatic, brought by the whims of a tide.

The crashing, ....

The crashing, ....

This is hardly a poem but rather a letter I wrote to congressman Ron Paul in a desperate act of need.

Congressman Paul,
It has come to my attention that something very bad is happening. It has come to my attention that all I believed to be just and true is evil. It has come to my attention that the document which defines the laws and sovereignty of America, my home and my country, is being kicked about by the well polished dress-shoes of the men I had invested my trust and faith in.
As I am sure you are well aware, the document to which I refer is the glorious Constitution. Crafted by the greatest minds of its time this document is our guardian, our protector and our political change spearhead. But, it would seem that the sly serpents tempt us with sin once again; in that, every day we surrender more of our rights for so-called security. And it is our ignorance that lets us give our freedom so easily, which is our sin.
I can look around and see the wheels begin to spin. Slowly but steadily justice and freedom are being shoved into oblivion by terror and greed. Understand what I am saying, I can see, with my own eyes, unfolding on the horizon before me, the evil empire this country is becoming. The media, no doubt in such intricacies as I can never comprehend, has been making us look at their shiny lights and baubles rather than looking around to see the truth.
Secret Prisons, Torture, Censorship, Physical Abuse, Economic Privateering, Violations of Privacy, it is all of these things, these despicable vile acts, that even as I think of, bring thoughts of sadness and anger to my mind. To know that my country, the nation of people that I am a part of and that I trust to represent me in my daily life, has committed such atrocities makes me feel as if I can never be happy again; I feel as if all the hope I have for the future is slipping away. But, I still believe it is not to late to stop this. It is not to late to restore freedom and liberty and pride.
You are my last hope. I feel as if you really do care. I may have been mislead, you could be as evil as every other person who aims to control government for there own needs but I pray, with what little faith I have left, that you can save us. So, I am writing you to remind you what we can not let happen! It is not a matter of politics or money anymore, it is a matter of life or death. Preserve freedom or let her be trampled to death.

Sincerely,
Daniel Stephens

Pirates and such.

I love pirates, I even have several pirate friends, so I decided to write a poem about pirates and the beauty of having a poignant conversation.

Pirate-Literati.

We are Pirates.
Our exotic plumage addressing the wind head on.
The culmination of the worlds conversations
billows inside our sails.

We unsheathe our rapiers and give a pirate shout.
Quick slices and penetrating jabs are our weapons
as we dissect until the smallest dichotomy remains.

Each word comprised of simple characters
willing their meaning into our mind.

Where they possess us and become our beloved loot.
What can any man prize more?
Nothing but one more word....just one more.

We are Pirates
Seize ourselves on currents of conversation.

A phone and rice dinner

My phone is broke...
It fell in some water (long story short)

so the lady at Verizon said I should try putting it in a bag of rice because that would draw away all of the water.

I am still skeptical.

Well, here is a poem.

Six cans of Poetry, opened on You.


A good poem can make you go
Oh.....
A good poem can make you stop and notice.
Notice, the crazy froth that flows
from betwixt your teeth.

A good poem is like and Angry principle
Detention for a week! And don't ever let me catch you doing it again!

It can rip open your chest like a kung fu, Bruce Lee, flying crane master.

It can hold out your guts.
Hold them out for you to see
just how FAT you have become.

It can show you
Just how much that THEFT hurt someone
Just how fast love goes to RAGE
Just how vile RAPE is

Stop yourself, scoundrel, or the poem police will come

and

slam

your

ass for living in the grocery store tabloid world.
Happy as can be.

No more RAPING!
No more VIOLENCE!
No more DRUGS! (except pot)
No more CRYING!
young man....rest your weary eyes.

A good poem loves you
and, at the same time, hates you
drops a nuke on you
destroys you

Original Sin, says the poem
and no thorns to be found.

Redneck Troubles and a Sad Separation

I think if I was a redneck the phrase to describe this would be "Well, Hell."


I forgot to finish the poem, I wrote it....then I got mad at it.

So I put it aside and forgot it.

but instead I have this piece of prose I wrote recently.

I call it ( I am making this name up right now)

Letter Writing 101

What is the best way to start a letter? There are several options, I guess. You could use Dear or Hey or if you were feeling a bit adventurous you could even just leave off the introduction entirely. But I think for a letter of quality an introduction is a must have. But then that brings about the question of quality, what kind of letter is it. Is it a letter to the city about how you can’t pay the bill for your new water heater? Or is it perhaps a sincere letter to your grandmother addressing her recent surgery. Or is it a gut wrenching letter that conveys your deepest feelings of love and remorse; which is undoubtedly the hardest thing you have ever had to write in your entire stint of time on this earth?

“My Dearest (CENSORED),” that is the introduction I picked, in the end. I hope it isn’t too old-timey. No, it is perfect, it expresses…something good, I don’t know what though. But it doesn’t matter that I don’t know, it just feels right and as soon as that phrase leaves my pen more phrases are in line to escape from the confusing mess that is my brain. I write pages and pages. In the end I write 28 eloquent pages to (CENSORED) about how much I love her yet, at the same time, hate her. It is terrible, to love someone and to hate that same person. Your mind is torn apart, constantly you are getting mad at the person but then forgiving them as soon as you remember the way they laughed.

Peals of laughter were my food of choice back then. I waited patiently each day for the time I got to see (CENSORED), be it gym class or lunch; my dreams or my nightmares. But regardless of the context there was always laughter. Oh, how I miss that laughter. A joyful chuckle, a harmonious giggle, a delighted squeal, picture if you can, a chorus of one thousand angels all garbed in shining white, with their wings unfurled, basking in the glow of the sun and then simultaneously they open their mouths and out flows music in the form of laughter: Crescendo, Vibrato, Legato, beauty incarnate. (CENSORED)’s laughter sounded nothing like that. I can think of no words that describe her laughter.

Actually, I don’t recall much detail about (CENSORED), at all, it has been so long sense I have seen her. Although I do remember that every time I saw her I lost my breath. She was perfect, and that is all I will say because prefect is…just perfect.

I wrote all of those pages telling her how much I love her, but then scolding her for not loving me back. She always told me she loved me but I know she didn’t. I know she didn’t, she loved me not loved me. You see, there is a fine line between love and love. It is the negative space occupied by an e and an l. “I LOVE YOU” is another whole book compared to “Love you too” or even worse, “And I you.”

So I wrote her this letter, and I told her my feelings.

I told her despite how she completes my life, every day I don’t see her I die. I told her I can’t do well in school because she is the answer to every equation. 2x+ |a+87^1/2|= (CENSORED). I told her my thoughts are a museum to the relics of our friendship. I told her every time I call or every time I text and she doesn’t respond a layer of my being is stripped away and exposed to a harsh reality. I told her I am not a stalker; I told her it is painful to write this letter. I told her I love you. I scrawled it across the last page, all alone, just out in the open. I told her…never to talk to me again.

Love is all I am.

Ladies and Gents,
Hello and Hi, Salutations and /w(s). How are you all doing? I really am quite concerned, because if you are reading my blog you are awesome++++.

I am rather sad about my lack of poetry but I do realize it is because I have a lack of free time. I have school, work, friends, recreational drugs (and by that I mean the occasional drink).
But I am rather happy about the poem I plan to write very soon, one of love. Not one of my emo sad poems ( which I hate ever-so much) but rather a poem of true finding.

In other news though I have noticed some interesting things lately.

1. Youtube has become a very...musical website. A good majority of the post are now music, which is a bit limiting. (http://youtube.com/categories_portal?c=10&e=1)

2. If you are as immature as I and you follow lots of childish cartoons October/November has been great for you. I.E. Stweie shot and killed Louis on Family Guy, but she is somehow back (http://youtube.com/watch?v=uZGL8x66qwQ). AND Cartman has finally got Kyle to "Suck his Balls" (http://allsp.com/l.php?id=e165)

WATCH THEM QUICK BEFORE COPYRIGHT KICKS IN


Poem to come later.

Apologies

I want to apologize to Lindsay Clark

I did not know she read my blog and I didn't put here in the acknowledgments last go round.

THIS IS ME SAYING SORRY.

SORRY

=)