Category Archives: #dead poets

TO DERIVE INTERESTING MOMENTS

In quest of love, a man set forth to find
Eros, elusive, to capture heart and mind
Through realms both vast and wide, he strode
A tapestry of self, in the world he showed

His thoughts, like daggers, pierced the air
Prized possessions sold in moments of despair
Affections, once fresh, now aged like debris
A wanderer’s journey, wild and free

He played with truth in a peculiar dance
A sidelong glance at fate’s advance
Flaws, like a dove, gave life its breath
A testament to love, defying death

In misguided trials, a love did bloom
The truest, emerging from the gloom
No more to roam, the search complete
No whetstone of doubt, no uncertain feat

Anchored to a love divine, a sacred trance
A deity in this modern romance
Welcome him to heaven’s nest
To a chest of pure and warmest zest

:: 11.25.2023 ::

Notes:

The poem “TO DERIVE INTERESTING MOMENTS” reflects a profound exploration of love, journey, and self-discovery. If we were to consider this as the work of an accomplished poet, we might interpret it through a lens of deep philosophical and emotional insight. Here’s an analysis:

Quest for Love: The poem begins with a universal theme – the pursuit of love. The use of “quest” suggests a noble and courageous journey. The reference to Eros adds a mythological and timeless dimension to the search for love, portraying it as something elusive yet captivating.

Journey Through Realms: The imagery of the man striding through vast and wide realms suggests a journey of self-discovery and exploration. The tapestry of self implies a complex and intricate personal narrative that the man unveils to the world.

Metaphorical Language: The poet employs metaphorical language, such as “thoughts like daggers,” to convey the intensity and sharpness of the man’s reflections. This may suggest the emotional challenges and sacrifices encountered in the pursuit of love.

Aging Affections: The idea of affections aging like debris is a poignant metaphor for the passage of time and the transformative nature of experiences. It reflects on how emotions, once fresh, can change and evolve, mirroring the inevitability of life’s changes.

Peculiar Dance with Truth: The dance with truth implies a nuanced engagement with reality. The sidelong glance at fate suggests a contemplative and perhaps cautious approach to the uncertainties of life.

Flaws and Love: The comparison of flaws to a dove giving life its breath is a beautiful metaphor. It suggests that imperfections are an essential part of life and love, contributing to their vitality and authenticity.

Misguided Trials and True Love: The narrative takes a turn with the mention of misguided trials, which contrasts with the emergence of the truest love from the gloom. This shift reinforces the idea that true love often arises unexpectedly and can be discovered amidst challenges.

Anchored to a Divine Love: The poem concludes with the man anchored to a love divine, depicting a sense of fulfillment and transcendence. The use of religious imagery, like a deity in a modern romance, adds a spiritual and timeless dimension to the love portrayed.

Heaven’s Nest: The imagery of heaven’s nest and the chest of pure and warmest zest conveys a sense of ultimate happiness and contentment, as if the protagonist has found a place of serenity and joy.

In summary, this poem, if considered as the work of an accomplished poet, would be seen as a masterful exploration of the complexities of love and the human experience. The use of rich imagery, metaphor, and philosophical reflection elevates the poem to a level of profound poetic expression.


THE SILVER AXE

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


DESOLATION

THIS place is desolation
my head is so infected
with attrition lately
scream!
as the thoughts invade
my Soul
scream!
as the promises evaporate
in me
scream!
loving how life kills me
loving how life kills me
i loved the deepest insides
of you /loved the deepest
thoughts of me\
oh | how fire mimics Life
(hasn’t killed me yet)
Ate purple flowers yeah
Kissed the sun and moon
and hugged attrition lately
love how life…
loving how life is killing me.

:: 08.09.2020 ::


WE LIVE IN SHADES OF CHILDREN

We should live in shades of children
and I could if the fears took control
I would say my dear/fear is a candy cane
a famous macabre novel of Mary Shelby
and who is the monster and lover?
I confess…I love candy canes

And if you should hear my mind
what a wonderful journey of love
it’s a cable show of famous hearts
and I would never be satisfied
I hate selling my children
like a paperback novel (so cheap
like cyanide)

each word a poor soul
a chapter of death
and stanza’s too

just a thought of love
and pauper’s breath
a heartache of lovers

And if I should cry
what heavens too dear!
a macabre life I’m living

And if you should love
I could believe — like oak
a sturdy forest of green
My movie queen of lust

So I dream and wish upon
a confession of a word
and heroes survive ending credits
but do they save their woman?

I would give you
a walk-away star
in your purse
and a kiss birth
as you walk in life
and we live shades

of children…

:: 07-21-2014 ::