These are my unrevised, originals for my portfolio last year. Please excuse some of the formatting issues, the boxes on Blogspot aren't too large. I would be more than happy to email you a copy of any of these.
Thanks!
Ars
A man sits infront of a canvas,
Its blank slate reflecting his
Blank mind.
He waits for thoughts to come,
Like waiting for that train
That my never come.
He sits in an empty loft,
His mind expanding to fill the space
Letting the vesperous thoughts
Breathe life into the canvas.
The hand meeting canvas
Cues the orchestra,
An orchestra of hues.
Ink collides with canvas,
A song speaking through his painted hues.
Reds of desire,
Blacks of despair.
Blues of unruffled fun,
Yellows of utter surprise.
The song is personal,
Yet it speaks volumes to others.
It is disliked by most,
But cherished by the few.
“Isn’t writing poems similar to
Painting a song?”
The man asks himself.
“One must mix colors and ideas
Until it bursts forth with a
Song from its orchestra of hues.”
Aurumque
Her face,
Radiant in
Resplendent
Beauty.
Her voice,
Sonorous,
Flowing round
My
Naked
Ears.
Her skin
Gilt,
Smooth to
The
Touch.
She is
Lost.
Turned
Away from the
One
Who
Cherished her
Most.
Lost in
The ethereal
Mist.
I
Search
For the
Radiance,
Sonority,
Goldenness,
I have
Lost.
Thanks!
Ars
A man sits infront of a canvas,
Its blank slate reflecting his
Blank mind.
He waits for thoughts to come,
Like waiting for that train
That my never come.
He sits in an empty loft,
His mind expanding to fill the space
Letting the vesperous thoughts
Breathe life into the canvas.
The hand meeting canvas
Cues the orchestra,
An orchestra of hues.
Ink collides with canvas,
A song speaking through his painted hues.
Reds of desire,
Blacks of despair.
Blues of unruffled fun,
Yellows of utter surprise.
The song is personal,
Yet it speaks volumes to others.
It is disliked by most,
But cherished by the few.
“Isn’t writing poems similar to
Painting a song?”
The man asks himself.
“One must mix colors and ideas
Until it bursts forth with a
Song from its orchestra of hues.”
Aurumque
Her face,
Radiant in
Resplendent
Beauty.
Her voice,
Sonorous,
Flowing round
My
Naked
Ears.
Her skin
Gilt,
Smooth to
The
Touch.
She is
Lost.
Turned
Away from the
One
Who
Cherished her
Most.
Lost in
The ethereal
Mist.
I
Search
For the
Radiance,
Sonority,
Goldenness,
I have
Lost.
The Chalice of Knowledge
Every person thirsts to drain the chalice of knowledge of every drop of its ambrosia,
To stand with Odin, he who lost his eye in the search for knowledge and truth.
Philosophers, both homemade and professional attempt to offer this truth.
These people wish to show insights on life and the world around us,
Though sometimes these vistas on life can become overused.
Many examples present themselves everyday in our life:
Socrates’ “the unexamined life is not worth living,”
Dante’s inscription of Hell “abandon all hope,”
Descartes says “I think therefore I am,”
Some say “you are what you eat.”
How can these sayings define
How a person should live
Who a person is?
I simply say:
I am.
To stand with Odin, he who lost his eye in the search for knowledge and truth.
Philosophers, both homemade and professional attempt to offer this truth.
These people wish to show insights on life and the world around us,
Though sometimes these vistas on life can become overused.
Many examples present themselves everyday in our life:
Socrates’ “the unexamined life is not worth living,”
Dante’s inscription of Hell “abandon all hope,”
Descartes says “I think therefore I am,”
Some say “you are what you eat.”
How can these sayings define
How a person should live
Who a person is?
I simply say:
I am.
The “Fun” Don’t Stop
Corruption is akin to Pringles:
Once you pop,
You just can’t stop.
It will start out small,
A miniscule craving for the rush
Of experiencing the seedier side of civilization.
The lust for more control,
More murky connections,
Will make the sturdiest of men succumb.
Suddenly,
It will all become a game.
Who will you blackmail?
How much can you extort?
What lengths are you willing to go?
Your corruption is your “fun.”
Then,
Before you realize the situation,
Before you can close the lid,
Corruption will close its hands around your moral neck,
Closing off any need for sustenance,
Save the shadow of morals you now consume.
Reverie
Is the day a waking dream?
For all I see
Is a haze.
Thoughts pass
Like speeding cars to a drunk.
Laughs come quicker.
Voices slip through my ears
Like an untraceable gas through the air.
Insanity begins to snicker.
I stumble,
Inebriated by the lack of rack time.
A blink here!
Does the psyche receive halcyon slumber
Or must it remain in the daze of days?
I no longer remember
The last time my mind ventured into the darkness
Or if it even returned at all.
Morals and thoughts, conflicting
Remain deadlocked,
Keeping me fettered to this
Unblinking state.
Prometheus my sanity,
My conflicted mind the eagle.
For I,
Like Macbeth,
Hath murdered
Sleep.
The Runner
Through limestone quarries,
Built from toil and strife.
Through forests of spruce and fir,
Remaining to hide the scum within.
Through rural farms,
Where a living is eked out.
Through rivers and lakes,
Unable to cleanse his bloody and tainted carapace.
Through churches and synagogues,
His groveling at the mercy of God being only a pittance compared to his original
Sin.
Through berry bushes,
Unable to placate his deeper hunger.
Through dark corridors,
Where jaundiced apparitions haunt his soul.
From that hole the prisoner wanted
To get far.
He thought life would be much less hard,
If only he hadn’t shanked
That prison guard.
Scanning Woes
A gentle tap on my face and out jumps…
Slang is my tongue.
(Boom, Boom)
With bass as my rhythm.
(Boom, Boom, Boom)
Kicking out sick beats,
(Boom, Boom, Boom)
Along with the slurs, Y(uh)…
…SCREECH!
Overflowing the static,
My lyrics are so pedantic.
Girls never notice me with my gothic coat,
And maybe I just want to cut my…
…SCREECH!
I croon for your heart,
Though I know I won’t get it.
I love my trucks, ladies, and beer.
Babe, I’ll play you a little song on my gee-tar,
And maybe then you’ll…
…SCREECH!
“I like big bu…”
…SCREECH!
“We will, we will…”
…SCREECH!
“This ain’t a scene it’s a god da…”
…SCREECH!
“Girls, I aint good as I once wa…”
…SCREECH!
“Today on En Pee Are…”
…SLAM on my face.
Silence.
The Well Digger
Colder than a well digger's ass
Is the well he digs
In the soft
Rancid
Peat.
Colder than a well digger’s ass
Is the money he squanders
In the abode of
Melancholy
Debauchery.
Colder than a well digger’s ass
Is the wife he keeps
In the inferno of
Monotonous
Drudgery.
Colder than a well digger’s ass
Are the friends scorned
In the digger’s house
Where words become
Sophomoric
Effigies.
Colder than a well digger’s ass
Is the grave digger who
Digs the shallower
Hole
For the shallow
Man.
