11=7

My head is in a frenzy and I lie
crippled, deathly frightened in my bed
 My heart is pounding like some bassy drum
And sending shockwaves pulsing through my veins.
My eyes are closed, I’ve slept for quite an hour
In much that same sad anguish you once felt
 But that incessant, flat, and cursed tone
 Of my phone buzzing dully ‘top some book
 Is horrid! And I shake and turn away
to face my three-fold shadow on the wall
and try collecting my grief-stricken thoughts
but then again, that haunted buzzing call!
     A thousand hairy bugs,
    With their horrid little legs,
    Do stalk about beneath skin
    As they hurry in a craze.
Oh! Melancholy! Is it you, who warps my ticking mind?
 To think of moments past that weren’t so proud
I now expect that same spite out of you
 But Wherefore?
     My brain is in a fever
     I fear I cannot rest
     And the red lights of the clock
     In silent mocking form
Shall be my only friend throughout the night.

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.

I sit alone as a man with the cold anxiety of death upon me,

Toes tingling with an icy sting, eyes bloodshot and heavy,

A nauseous surge upwelling in my abdomen and pressing upward

To my throat, where an acrid burn catches me in happy moments

And harks my mind back to my present dreary state.

Ode to the Forest

O dark Forest! Arcane Forest!
What veilest thou 'neath Cimmerian shadows?
What dost thou hide ‘hind lichen mottled stones?
Haunted forest, the home of fairy and elven folk,
witty petite beings to whom none of the trivialities
Of the world have relevance; the home of song birds
with no errands in the day but to fill the crisp air
with gentle melodies.
But too the dwelling place of monsters, crooked fiends
who barge through the woodland snapping branches
and announcing their approach with a metrical
Stride – gongan godes yrre bær, gongan godes...
Beasts who stalk with grime filled claws which scratch
across the soft needle floor, foam trickling down from tongues
and over yellow fangs before coagulating into a scaly
crust on the horrid creatures’ pelts.
O, the wondrous things thou containeth shadowy Forest,
home of the fizzing brooke! How it cascades and tumbles
so elegantly over stick and stone, its pure, crystalline, holy
water a conduit for a solitary speckled leaf, colored a yellow
as brilliant as the sun, but tainted with patches of black.
Your splendor in imperfection, O Forest, umbrage filled
place where man can hide from the trifling quarrels of society.
That thou shall forever maintain thy stygian splendor!

Ode to a Crow

Oh, crow! How thou glidest on
lofty jet wings, floating easefully
across unseen currents before settling
onto the crooked limbs of a piñon, branches
inky against the orange horizon like
snaking tributaries of a river.
If I could but soar as thou dost!

I sit like a lion on his perch, an eagle
nestled on the cliff side, my eyes
surveying the city below me -- a creation of man --
stretching seemingly without end until its path is halted by
blue megaliths, an impenetrable boundary, natural borders
rising majestically and silent in their grandeur.
The largest masses in my line of sight are born of Mother
Nature; all creations of mankind will fade, dissolve into
nothingness, yet the mountain upon which I sit is
eternal, menacing and staring ever downward.

Like the ardent afternoon’s sun, taken
And scattered, sprinkled across the seas expanse
Reflecting in a thousand glowing fractions,
the crests of tiny waves, your smile.
A springtime meadow dotted with
Wildflowers, numerous and diverse, unique
Shades of color, all shining in warm sunlight.
A light breeze, a zephyr, lifts the hair from your shoulders
And plays the charming locks into the air, the strands
Gliding peacefully in the wind, music in motion,
Like notes escaped off the page, tossed
Gently about in the current.
The reddest of roses, robust, its pedals
Fitted so perfectly to one another, one rose pressed
Amongst twelve, a burgundy burst of elegance,
The deep-staining red striking. Or perhaps just a letter,
Everything I want you to know printed, the
collection of my inner thoughts and embarrassed
Attempts to do no more than just be with you.
The fire’s flickering fingers, old joints cracking,
The flame of passion, keeps me warm through the night
And functions as a beacon of hope – for I need hear no more
Than the utterance of thy name and the
fire in the lighthouse of hope is rekindled,
hope that land is near.

Nu

Fall into the ocean, into
The sea, the grim, murky
Black depths enveloping, a thick
blanket devoid of light,
a place where the sun – bright
and scorching – cannot go,
the same sun which slays men
in the Sahara and bleaches
their bones, dehydrating them to
a powdery brittleness.Fall into the ocean
Where the sun cannot reach, where
multi-ocular, electrical creatures
glide along, sliding eerily – effortlessly –
through the thick black ink. The
last unexplored frontier, a
place where man in his
blind insolence cannot go,
much like the sun – two
powerful entities but only
one of them eternal: Amun Ra,
Akhenaten’s monotheistic lord,
The pharaoh’s cataclysmic decision that
The sun was omnipotent, but when
The thin layers of pomp
And panoply are peeled away
The truth is unveiled; Poseidon’s
Trident is plunged into the
Belly of Helios, the sun’s chariot left powerless,
Wheels spinning aimlessly, the sun
Unable to run it rose-tipped fingers
Along the sandy seafloor and
Carve designs and patterns,
Swirl his nails playfully
Like a child’s toes on the beach. No,
The sea remains arcane, a treasure chest, locked and
Without key, the only means of opening which
Has been lost to all mankind, dropped
Nonchalantly from some seacraft, descending for
An eternity until its journey finally
Reaches its finish, the bronze key
Striking the ocean’s bottom,
A silent moment of impact
Upon sand, lost forever in depths of murky blue.

Writer's Block

My brain is dull and drab, gases bubbling
In my stomach, proceeding
Upward to the pit of
my throat where an
acrid burn stings, bright
pale paper glaring upward
with its blank authority,
strength in nothingness, a
type of boredom, mocking me,
teasing with hints of
slowly becoming filled,
black worms crawling and
burrowing themselves into
the white bare landscape,
but then again the burning.

My soul cries out, shouting
And screaming madly
In the midst of a
Great lake, legs squirming
And kicking, arms flailing
Wildly about, every last
Drop of strength expended
To keep myself afloat,
But ever sinking, my
Attempts to tread the
Soul-chilling water useless,
My limbs slowly turning to
Lead, pulling me evermore
Downward, the water inching
Up my neck. I take my
Last breath and let out
One more howl, one last
Cry for help, but your name
Is never heard, drowned and
Lost in the soundless void.

Rage of Achilles

Anger, the blinding rage
of Achilles, my insides churning
and the flame of my hate
Slowly being kindled until it
Glows a vile red, fire,
shaking and tense, an excess
Of pressure trapped inside, wanting
Nothing but to burst, explode
Outward and send the source
Of my anger flying backward, hit
By the force of a boulder,
Graceful in its plummeting.
To smash the skull, bones crunched,
Left limp and crushed beneath the
Rock’s enormity. A scream
Which brings me back, the glaring
Futility of my fury, salt to a wound,
An unreasonable explosion of emotion,
Infantile yet undeniably human,
An imperfection encoded on the hearts of men.

Sparkle

A sparkle – more luminous than
a spark – the twinkling of a star,
a sweet song to put a child
to sleep, an echo of light waves
twisted and warped, transmogrified into
miniature specs of pink and blue, glistening
in a dusting of snow laid gently across a set of
stone steps, each stair produces a new
sparkle, shining and daintily flaunting itself,
lasting only an instant before disappearing
forever. The snow, likewise will not
endure; it will vanish, white fluff turned to water,
melted to a puddle which catches
a ray of the sun – a sparkle once more.

Pangloss

All is as it should be.
The sun still rises,
thewaves crest and fall, some
Far off lunar energy pulling
Them into shore, the
Apple tree still blossoms, soft
Pink petals materializing from
Some insignificant pale green bud,
Nourished by the soil, enriched by death.
Clouds float lazily through
The sky in a place where it
Is still blue, a rich, pure
color, silent white megaliths;
Jays squawk to one another,
Singing a song for no reason
Other than the creation of
Music – vibrations of beauty, a
Song which finds its way through
The pure, crisp air before landing gently
Upon the eardrums of some unsuspecting being:
Man.