sometimes i want it
so
so quiet
a diet of
silence
an anti-violence
an outcry
against the
noise
toys
joys
ploys
subtly slipping through the d'ear canal
when i'm not
looking
when i'm not
looking
when i am
looking
rook-king
cooking my stew
who's in charge of me not
you
but if that leaves me than
who am i
surely not the words
i learned
from listening to you
spin them
spill them
overfill, distill, and misconstrue them
fluff them up or
thin them out
are they me if i say them?
and what if you do?
if you started the question
am i you too?
and while you're busy there defining me
as words i might have said
that you've probably said,
just,
in different combinations,
measuring my history as an assortment of answers in little numbered boxes
probably some in common,
estimating my trajectory as a ratio of your spyglass,
made from the same place mine is,
pretending any examination as such
of every possible known detail
could render even so much as a concept
of what is me and
what is you
as if
the mind with its holy words and mighty logic
is so great a thing of things
it alone possesses the uncanny ability
to draw a circle round the sun and say,
"okay,
you go there."
i throw words at you
like a girl tossing flowers
like a monkey flinging poo
like a prima ballerina of the elements of style
like a saturated pancake
a puppy jumping rope while balancing on an atomic bomb
levitating upon the back of an ice-skating elephant
named petunia
but the triumph is a farce the
feathers just a show
a trained performance
a painted smile
all the while
strained denial:
the sound i long to hear is there
buried in the
noise
toys
joys
ploys
like the white canvas
beneath the mesmerizing splatter of the painting
hidden
yet ever present
"sing us a song, storyteller!
spin us a tale, memorymaker!
we have infused you with words
we trained you with magic!
now give a good show!
delight us amuse us!"
words
words slapped into my head
programmed into my brain
infused into my being
from the moment i am born
"and it's a!"
robbed immediately for the rest of my life
of the freedom
and peace
of thoughtlessness
of wordless mind
words like arrows
at the doorway of the womb
threatening
to breach
my inner silence
my line to god
name is chanted
ego is tattooed across my soul
and i scream
offensive words
angry words
any words
to make it
so
so quiet
a die-it
of silence
a violence
an outcry
to remember
i am not the words
to remember
i am not the words
to remember
i am not the words
who am i, then,
is just a trick
a final battle
when i reach
the exit gates
the lights out switch
when the mind flips on
alert alert
shut down in ten! nine! eigh-
define! define! define!
who am i, then
is just a trick
a question ego asks
at the last moment
when peace is all but won
to make me identify
with words again
until i dare abstain
with none
Last edited by Eos on Thu Apr 02, 2015 9:34 am, edited 1 time in total.
Very nice Eos! Alot of work and thought went into that one - it's my favorite one since Fier opened the topic. Reminds me a bit of poems I used to write in that it connects the reader with the thoughts and emotions of the author; guess I have to put my thinking cap back on and contribute a lil something now
BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the wingèd sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
Here is another I like. Can you tell I am a fan of Yeats?
The Stolen Child
WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
.....An Ode to Family ...................................................
When I was little,
I had a family.
A group among whom I always felt loved.
A group among whom I always belonged.
A group among whom I could be who I wanted,
and that would always be encouraged and applauded.
A group among whom I knew
that if something went wrong
someone would be there as soon as they could
to help me sort it out.
But then a quarter of a century passed,
and as I stood there tallying my credits, I saw,
family had taken debit.
Members dispersed, members passed on,
members changed their minds.
No houses the same, that I could find.
Bits and pieces, to be sure,
but not that great big feeling anymore.
I saw it was now on me,
to be the fountain of this 'family'
that I must project it on my own,
that my heart must be the cornerstone.
But though I am strong,
and give it my all,
I have my moments,
where I wish I were small.
And that's when I see it -
sweet re-definition;
for family isn't a bloodline condition,
nothing is lost in infinite space,
'home' is now simply a digital place.
Family is not the actors begun,
it is the act in which the roles are spun.
It is the playground where I go to play.
It is where I play today.
...you... are where I play!
You are where I go for the holidays!
You are where I vacation!
You are where I play hookie...
You are where I relax.
You are who I come to when I'm too lonely.
You are who needs a hand when I've got one to spare.
The belly that is empty when I've made an extra.
The lights that are always on.
The door that is always unlocked.
The house where I am always welcome.
The best advice, the definite response.
The ones who save my life.
The room that will always be just the way I left it.
The bed I sleep in when mine is too dark.
The backyard I build in,
the neighborhood I run through,
the accent I understand,
where everybody knows everybody's name,
and each wears only the name they chose;
ahhhh,
Excelsior!
A mighty vessel;
an ocean with many waves;
an evolving organism not found in textbooks.
A dream materialized on a plane known only to few,
an eclectic group of matrix-hacking wizards;
who slip in through portals they all share a key to;
united always by the single common purpose
of loving this particular playground.
Ahh! There it is! My little chair!
'Go as you wish, be who you dare!'
'Call if you need us, come if we can!'
This is a place where I know who I am!
A Mom! A Dad! Sisters, brothers and kids!
Home away from home - I know where it is!
Thank you and thank you and thank you the most,
there were some moments where I was surely toast!
if you hadn't been there at times when you did,
I'm not sure I could have kept on and lived.
I only knew crafting, so you taught me 'make friends',
and then how to fight, and how to keep pets.
How to value something and not get it lost,
how to stay focused whatever the cost.
You stayed at my side when I fell asleep drinking,
you carefully heard when I couldn't stop thinking.
You expanded my world, and armored my skin,
you gave me more game than I knew game was in!
I can't possibly list each person by name,
that tweaked and adjusted a piece when they came.
All I encounter, all play a part,
in resurrecting my soul and improving my heart.
And the circle was cast
And the markings along the ground cracked
Fissured was the earth below my feet
Nevermore was a way, for chaos to remain
I called out in a thunderous voice; " Tower over me "
The skies themselves gave up their light
The Dark Holy had finally arrived
Devouring all into Darkness; He became the Sun
A God baring wings, but this Angel did not sing
Despite the first sight of him I retained myself; AbaddonAnd the circle was cast
And the markings along the ground cracked
Fissured was the earth below my feet
Nevermore was a way, for chaos to remain
I called out in a thunderous voice; " Tower over me "
The skies themselves gave up their light
The Dark Holy had finally arrived
Devouring all into Darkness; He became the Sun
A God baring wings, but this Angel did not sing
Despite the first sight of him I retained myself; Abaddon
“No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.”
― C.G. Jung
