I Wandered Gaily Through the Wood

I wandered gaily through the wood
And heard the chipper chirps of birds
I came to where a gravestone stood
And squinted, trying to read the words.
His years were marked, some eighty-two
“A life well lived upon this earth”
Before he lost his rosy rue
And hastened to his place of birth.
I tried imag’ning who he’d been
Whom he’d loved, what he’d made,
What thing he called his greatest sin,
The games that as a youth he played.
Why laid he were, among the roots
And needled, pine-filled floor?
Often tramped on by the boots
Which one must take off at the door.
Was this his home, this stygian lair
Where foxes roam and make their nests
The sacred realm of grizzly bear
And Mother Nature’s nourishing breasts.
The thought which then came to my head
Standing at this grave, the same
Was that there’s one part I’d not read –
The long dead, rotting corpse’s name.
I bent down at the knees so I could read
The name of him on whom the worms did feed
I read and feared that death was close behind
On seeing that the chiseled name was mine.

Ages Past

I dreamt a dream of ages past
Of fearless warriors, wizards wise
When men held onto omens fast
And gods walked roads cloaked in disguise.
I stood amongst a shouting crowd
Who feared the time was coming soon
When man would take his final bow
And earth turn barren like the moon.
We ran and cried, and sought to hide
And begged the gods to let us stay
Yet one old man just laughed and sighed
While some did kill, and some did pray.
I asked him what his secret was,
How he stayed calm amid the roar,
He whispered to me o’er the buzz—
“Just watch the waves crash on the shore.
At times they’re small, and others grand
But still they roll on without end
We’re but a footprint on the sand
Vanished by the wave, my friend.”
I smiled at those words so true
And woke to feel a hope anew.

Mr. "Kerouac"

A sunlit roof, a busy road
The melancholy does forebode
For there is no companion here
To share my love, my hate, my fear.

I drink my drink, it tastes the same
The same way it did yesterday
I sit and sip, and feel no shame
And if I did, it’d go away

They know me here, and we converse
Sports and cars and news and work
Sometimes I think it’s just my curse
To drink this joe and go berserk

They pay me what they pay the rest
And once a month I pull the weeds
My brain inside is feeling stressed
But I fulfil their gard’ning needs

The people do not look my way
Though I would love to talk to them
I have met some, but they betray
I’m left alone, sad and condemned.

“The loco’s back” I hear pronounced
But they don’t think I understand
My whole existence is denounced
Before my eyes like it’s been planned.

So, I choose to write down every thought
The electronic page my friend
And this curse with which I’ve fought
At last has met its bitter end.

I need a jacket
And I need some pants
And I need some music
So that I can dance.
I’ll take a book
So that I can learn
And share what I know
With those who yearn.
I’ll bring some boots
To support my feet
And an open mind
Towards those I might meet.
And I’ll wear a hat
To block out from my eyes
Rays from that sun
That shine down from blue skies.
Hoof prints will guide me
Up the steep incline
‘Til they give way to those
Shoes have left behind.
And up at the top
Maybe I’ll find a friend
Someone to chat with
With a hand to lend.
Or maybe just me
And the birds and the trees
With the city below
And a cool mountain breeze.

Rome

“The triumphal arch through which I march”
In purple robèd splendor
Shades crowds of men who cheer my name
And visions of my empire render
In my mind, the stretching lands
From grey skied British coasts
To Partian deserts, burning sands
And vassal kings who are my hosts.
All this is mine, and mine alone
Countless souls of my domain
We kill men in the name of Rome
So are the glories of my reign.
Columns of tremendous girth
Hold up marble ceilings high
Parading in triumph and mirth
I see them, slowly passing by
And think of those two awful boys
Raised by a wolf, and quarrelsome
Who were the seed of all these joys,
To think of them makes me feel glum.
For, Romulus his brother slew
For leaping ‘cross his sacred wall,
In England Hadrian’s stands anew
And this same fate I fear for all.
Is Rome eternal, as they said
When glorious Augustus reigned?
Methinks she’ll soon be good as dead,
And like that fire-bringer chained.
My name is cheered by scores of throats,
Patriots with Roman pride,
But Saturn’s sacrificial goats
Won’t save the empire, vast and wide.
I fear axe-wielding tribes of north
Will bring the empire’s ruin forth,
This laurel wreath set on my brow
Will die and fade, I do avow.

Lines Written on an embankment above the Santa Fe River

Upon hard rock, solid and firm,
Ahead of me up on that berm
There stares a face with mystic eyes
A marker of where knowledge lies
Among the stones of ancient floe
A willow lined river below
And all the things one does not know
Scratched upon that cliff.
Icicles cling to molten rock
And slowly damp the ground below
They’re bothered not by I who walk
And tredge my way on through the snow.

That pinky golden glory of
The setting, blazing sun above
Another day has met its end
But many more, I hope I’ll spend
Upon this rock, beneath this sky
With clouds of pink just passing by
One moment grand, and then a trail
Of distant vapors turning pale.
The time has come for sentinels to rest
And me with them, and know that I am blessed.

To A Yogi on the Banks of the Ganges

“Thou by the Indian Ganges side”
Must surely be enlightened sir,
That gaze fixed strongly on the tide
With thoughts of only those things pure.
A flowing robe of folded cloth
Glowing like the setting sun
You wear, seated near bubbly froth
And watch the sacred waters run.
What eastern knowledge do you hold
In those three eyes upon your face?
Musings worth much more than gold
In thy meditative grace.
My dream is this: to with thee sit
And from this river never quit!

Sometimes she’s got me spun
Into some twisted web
I want only to run
My strength slowly does ebb
And fade and drift away
Into a thick black mist
I’m held under a sway
And hope does not exist
Inside my troubled mind
Which argues back and forth
I cannot seem to find
For what it all is worth.
But when I see those cheerful eyes
And hear her voice, my sorrow dies.

Lines Composed in Spanish Class

I started by writing my name on the page
And followed to wonder why;
So often I find my verse trapped in a cage
And I can do naught but sigh.
In compn’y of birds and of pine scented hills
My soul feels as one with all
The open blue skies and the silence that kills
Remind me that I am small.
A pencil in pocket and thoughts in my head
Beseech me to give them life
But my wooden pencil weighs much more than lead
And my soul feels naught but strife.
So, I flee to the mountain and on it I sit
For there is no need for my name to be writ.

Iambic Flu

I have been writing poetry all day
And now I’m thinking in iambic verse
I think it’s time that on my bed I’ll lay
Before this bullshit can get any worse.
Five beats per line is what the teacher taught
But The Anthologist told me it’s six
I’ve tried for hours but it comes to naught!
I think I’d rather sail across the Styx.
I want to read some fiction but I fail
‘cus rarely does prose have five beats per line
If I could find some sort of Holy Grail!
And drink from it! and then know how to rhyme.
From it I’d drink, great sonnets I would write!
A worthless dream, for I am no brave knight.

Wintery Sonnet Written during History Class

White snowflakes spin around my head
And frozen winds nip at my ears
But I heard not the things they said
And snow falls on my face like tears.
A river blanketed in fluff
Disguising the cold stream below
The sun’s warm rays won’t be enough
For soon again the snow will blow.
The land before me looks the same
But not the way it did in spring
For trails that once I knew by name
Are strange to me, and my toes sting.
A passage out! A path to home!
I might escape and no more roam!

Sometimes I hear a demon in my head
Who jeers and sneers and laughs while tricks he plays
My mind is tortured with a sense of dread
‘til once again upon my face I gaze.
I sit up late and burn the midnight oil
Which casts its pale light on the page I read
but still I am tormented by this toil,
And crave that someday from him I’ll be freed.
A thousand stars look down upon the earth
So distant and so numberless they stare
They make me ponder what it all is worth
And why the sunset heralds not a prayer.
Yet sometimes I would make myself believe
The stars o’erhead do nothing but deceive.

'The fluff beneath my feet has turned to frozen crust'

The fluff beneath my feet
Has turned to frozen crust
And sunlight melts the snow
That once was such a treat;
Its glory’s come and gone
And flakes have turned to chunks
Of grey and tainted snow
In the light of dawn.
The spring will soon be here
Or will it? I can’t tell
For a cold chill fills the air,
Methinks a storm draws near.
The Sphinx was hid by sand;
Now with grandeur does it stand.
‘Tis no different with the snow
To water it shall go.

When through exposure to days dark and grim

My hidden thoughts are paused by some cold chill

I try remem’bring brave men such as him

Who marched ‘cross Persia with an iron will.

Although with looks and gazes more than fair

She calls me forth to action, but still I

Am haunted by the myst’ry of the lair

In which her darkest secret hide and lie.

Oh! Curse my soul which knows not what to do

When her enchanting eyes upon me dance

My mind cannot forget her rosy rue;

so back and forth to itself my mind rants.

If I could be like him from Macedon

And be a king! Not one among her pawns.

Sonnet to China

With wonders standing still from those times when

Great sages knew much more than we know now,

A time when stars and innards governed men,

So are the marvels of the land of Mao.

Pagoda standing like a sap’ent soul

And staring down the visitors who come

from ‘cross the planet, great and vast and whole;

to hawkers selling Mao they will succumb.

The wisdom of Confucius preaches still

To billions under Communist regime,

and multitudes upon the Square do spill

Where once was heard an agonizing scream.

In Jasmine gardens where the silk worms crawl,

men sit in peace, protected by the Wall.