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.

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.

Canvas and Homeless Men.

I had to go and get my canvas backpack patched today, there were holes in the bottom corners from where books had punctured through. On the way I stopped by another Game Stop. I was very assertive in my interview/application hand in and I think things may go well this time. I am so proud of myself for being LOUD AND PROUD!!!
Well anyways on the way home I saw an old bum walking through the park and thought nothing of it. Once I ate my lunch and went to my room to read a little, Siddhartha by Herman Hesse, I saw the old man walking past my house. He stooped and smiled at me. So I wrote a poem in his honor.

This is an explanation...for the following. I am not schizophrenic. (HOLY SHIT I spelled that right on my first try)

They live in my head.

Meet Daniel and meet Dan; they both live in a side of my head.

It is quite quaint, with only two cabinets and only two beds.

They are usually perfect gentleman and never fight-that is until they speak.

Or that one time when they we on a plane flying to Mozambique.

“Out dammed spot! Get out of my char! 4c is my chair.”

“Fine then, loser, but I get the peanuts and get your bag’s strap out of my hair!”

“Loser, who are you referring to as a loser, twerp?”

“You called me a ‘Spot’ first, jerk!”

“Ha, I was merely reciting some appropriate verse.”

….But of course, this all goes on inside my head.

“Sir, what a superb use of literary prowess that was a beautiful ellipsis”

“Yeah…yeah man, yeah that is a good use of isthmus.”

Of panama.

So anyways, every day I sit in my chair and read in my books

And this strange little man comes by and gives me all sorts of looks.

“He is indeed a peculiar little man, he looks so poor, he just comes and goes.”

“Nah, peculiar is an understatement, you don’t even know.”

He always stops and stares at me, while I read in my chair.

“He is as a leaf taking a break from the relentless summer breeze.”

“Similes?!?! Gosh you are so frustrating, geeze”

I think he is a messenger of what we all want to most, he is hope for joy.

He has become a drifter and to fate he is nothing but her toy.

“He is a bee bringing us the purest honey.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with? I should have asked for more money.”

“You don’t even exist, so how can you have a salary?”

“Ignoring you! Or look a donut has a million and two calories.”

He has a comb-over and the most threadbare of clothes

But he is at peace. And leave me every day; who knows where he goes.

He has accepted himself, his life, and he can see only the beauty in trying.

He sees blue and he sees water in a river. He can sit while s standing and sigh while smiling.

“Brilliant deduction, sir, you make things so clear with your words.”

“How do you make two things into one? Worms and berries become the crap of birds?”

I hope one day he will stop in and talk to me.

Maybe we can discuss happiness over a Pepsi.

“What?”

“I get it.”

Scrabbled

I played scrabble last night, with my grandparents. I was able to make Voltage, with a triple word score. YEAH!! But at the same time it is not to exciting because I was spending my Sunday evening playing SCRABBLE with my GRANDPARENTS.

I have applied to work at a local book store and a Game Stop, neither of them have called me back :(. On Wednesday I am going downtown to pick up an application to work at a Hookah Bar. I found out though, that if they serve alcohol I have to be 21 to work there....NO!!!!

I love hookah.

Bottoms Up

That’s the way to raise a glass,

Drink it faster, he wants your ass

He wants your lips, he wants you skin

He wants to leave his seed within

That’s the way to raise a shot

Naughty girl, you’ll get caught

He feels your hand, and touches your leg

He gives you gold, simply to beg

For your body to cross his eyes

Love is always a compromise

So drop your pants

And open the doors

Find later, the rain, it pours

The above poem was mistakenly attributed to myself, it was in fact written by Joshua Johnston, a charming Half-British midget.

Eating Poetry

Dining on Diction

Did you know, I like to eat odd things?
But when I say odd, I mean ODD.
Nothing like sissy worms or boogers
I eat words; lovely, tasty, inky, words.

Some words, like the word academic, have very unique tastes.
I guess you could call academic, broccoli-esque.
Damp, mushy, overcooked, green, Broccoli
I hate Academic.

But periwinkle on the other hand, is scrumptious.
It is Finger Licking Good, which surprisingly does not taste like chicken.
It is savory and sweet, yet melts in your mouth.
Not dissimilar to a hearty Christmas pudding.
I could eat periwinkle all day long.

Nothing is better than letting words play on your pallet.
Disregard all of your mother's manners
and let the juices run down your face, and stain your Sunday clothes.
Allow them to crunch away while you munch. Make all the noise you want
Then pick your teeth right in front of the company.

Did you know I like to eat odd things?
I enjoy the pleasures of eating words.
The only rule, have fun.

No coments

I realized that I have not been taging my posts right and that may have somethign to do wiht my lack of comments. So because I am kind of sad now here is a sad poem...kind of.

To be cruel

Oh, such grace. Oh, such beauty.

And lipstick and slow kissed

And happy fits and malice.

Oh darling, you know a million ways,

To be cruel.

If I could, maybe would, thought I should

Issue a formal withdraw of all my thoughts.

So many thoughts, about you smile and you guile.

No, instead I'll just go numb with another eighty proof.

Oh darling, I watch the fan spinning round

Tempting me like you then going away, then coming back.

You, you’re so awesome and wonder and trouble and perfect.

Awesome is what you are, Oh, darling.

Want to sit with me and share a juice

A drinky dinky

dinky

drinky drink.

My first post and my first blog.

This is my first ever post, in my first ever blog.
I have decided that my passion for writing poetry should be put to a more public use. Maybe someone else can enjoy my poems as much as I do.

I want to establish a couple rule though; one, I don't like very sad mopey poetry but I may, in fact, post it. So don't expect to see much here. Two, I want honest opinions, I know that is how blogs usually are, but if my stuff is so bad I need to just stop and never write again I want to be told.

With that said I will post one of my Favorite poems first, it is called The Spectacle of Nature.

The Spectacle of Nature

A Chair sits on my front porch,

It is my entrance to nature.

The chair has taken me to such things:

The slow drizzle of nature’s tears,

The violent widdershins spray of malicious droplets.

She is my master when I am in my chair

I hear the orchestra of her cacophonous clouds.

They collide and crash into each other, calling me.

When I arrive my chair is waiting, already wet from the rain.

It is a slow spatter form heaven,

If there is a god, it is in charge of this

Every drop holds the potential of infinity,

It can feed a life or destroy a dream.

Watch it propose growth to a seed ,

A sprout erupting skyward,

Sending bits of dirt tumbling towards their home.

It is the firmest foundation of the Fundamental.

It falls down onto sheets of tine

Making the sound of a beggar’s cup, ting and ping.

It dissolves and removes the molecules and regards the suffers of no science.

Red, Orange and Brown is the fate of all metal at its’ hands

A steaming black slab in a summer city,

Is surprised by the unscheduled air-born assault,

But it responds by turning each drop into steam.

The mysterious mist magically rises in the place of their fallen comrades.

They are spirits of the vaporized returning home.

I sit in my chair and feel the cascade upon me.

I smile and enjoy nature’s spectacle.