Undulating Field

This is a work in progress as I feel something is still missing with it, though I'm not sure what or how...

Desertion has its virtues
Upon the golden corn field
As the scarecrow backs away
Into the get away car.

Lone guardsman on the pole
Observing the yeast go down
And up and down again,
Pretending to be free.

The mindless wheat
Fulfills that which it sows
On the hard brownish land,
A stool to rest the splinter soles.

The crucified has vacated
The post no longer there;
Rot and decay dawdle
At the tall pillars of hay.

On the seasons press
And the agony recedes,
Tumbling down with the weed
Of a forsaken effigy.

On the Bridge

I saw the future once
Walking the bridge
Above the train station,
Phased onto an alternate
Anime world of steam
And electronics.

But the future merges
With an unforgiving past
Only to give birth to an
Apathic present,
Its presence lucid in my
Vision but for its reality;
The present, I deem, is
A conjunction moving
Between us by being us,
Separating and uniting
The undivided, calling
Our names when all we
Seek is the forgetfulness
Of olden days or
The ever illusive promise
Of aftertime.

Aftermaths replenish themselves
On our lost hopes in this future,
Feeding on repercussions we
Dare not avoid and nightmares
We close our eyes against,
All in vain.

The future, you see, is
Already here, lounging
At its pleasure, sometimes
Cuddling, sometimes stinging
Our expectant souls.

What will I see when I get to the other side of the bridge?
How many full circles are there in the void?

Let's Talk

Ok. This one is titled "Let's Talk", though I'm not too sure about the title.

To save my self
And that's not half
The matron must be told
Ere the going gets tough.

I must tell her what is known,
What is long lost and long ignored;
That which I readily fear
Yet here so anxious to reveal.

That which will save me
Will be ignored;
Of that I am sure, mostly,
If truth be told.

I must reveal it all and hide none,
Forever being the obedient son;
Alas, this deed cannot be undone
As I yet favor moon to sun.

The City and I

I wrote this one thnkinh I may enter it into the "In the end" contest on deviantArt. The point is you have to use the given closing lines, in this case written by John Burnside.

I have been to the White City
Though it is cowled in grey;
I have strolled through its peaceful side-walks
Along no cherry lane.

Memories of serenity fill me
Though now I only long
To lose myself in Sufjan's notes;
I remember it just the same:
Young ones riding their bikes
Shouting enthusiastically
What they'll rue in an hour,
A pair of elderly women
Heatedly discussing yesterday's remorse
Telling-tolling today's gossip
And prophesying tomorrow's.

No, I don't have a cigarette,
And neither should you.

I come back,
The city lingering at the doorway
Pausing shyly at the out of place
Refrigerator in the hallway. Finally,
It entered, bringing some grey
And sand and smog and life
Into my room.

Our time together now spent,
Now passing onto new heights
And lows I cannot fathom;
The city still speaks to me
Her voice half heard as something overhead
-- A splash of white against the wavering sky --
Drones through the clouds, mechanical, bereft.

Wondering during Atonement Day or Writer's Block III

So I walked softly
Through the sinful city,
Now silent for the
Agreed upon duration;
Hoping to find inspiration at its mer
I could only find there myself.

The sand is soft and white;
It graters at my skin
Trying desperately to find
A more suitable position.
That salty smell of froth and starfish
Evokes a longing I cannot accurately recall.
Instead, I’m filled with the usual trepidations
Of being.

The sea does not seem a worthy cure for my woes,
Or, perhaps, I am not worthy of the sea.
In here I feel like a second grain, or perhaps a fourth,
Just like in real life.
The sea cannot save me;
Perhaps the rain can.

Afterimage -
The roll of the waves
And its vast thunder
Shall remain with me
Even ere I am torn asunder.

General Update

So, I've noticed it's been quite a while since I've last written something here (that isn't a poem) and I think it's time for an update. Besides, I'm sort of experiencing a creative crisis, among other things, so I'm not sure when the next poem will find its way into this world.

Why a crisis? In a way I think it's also a symbol for what's going on with my life right now, namely nothing. No that that's new or anything, it's just bugs me more than usual, I guess. Take work for example (if this was a movie you'd have a fade and a cross to my work area :-) ). Work is much more chaotic in some ways than I thought it would be. Despite my lack of experience in this field, I cannot ignore my own sensations, instincts and past memories (mostly from my time at the Navy, something I may have under-appreciated at the time).

In short, there are no ordered, coherent, announced and generally accepted work flows and habits that I'm aware of (and more importantly, it seems my immediate boss is also in the dark). As for this guy, while a really nice man and a technical genius, I can't help but feel his managerial skills needs improvement. Of course, his recent confession to me (in a rather awkward conversation on my part and heated on his) that he wishes to quit, did not improve my general mood or desire to stay. I do feel anxious about the future of the company and even started to skim through some wanted ads but I think it's premature.

These events and feelings, which I barely hinted on these past paragraphs, do not improve my mood and motivation at work, and in general. I do have friends there though, and that make a world of difference for me.

I know my writing here isn't all that clear and organized but I do feel rather tired now. I do hope to write something soon; a poem, a story, anything. I really need to. I feel large parts of me are already dying and some have died through recent years. But I must try, while I can.

Writer's Block II

Working long hours has its toll... :-)

I try to write;
I am numb and my mind
Is filled with empty metaphors
Unable to withstand their own
Weight, exploding and
Imploding interchangeably
By the bubbles of void.

Interrupted, I turn angrily
Towards myself, pausing only
To catch a passing glance
At the undying monitor
Across.

The blinking lights
Seem to form a pattern
Hiding unknown mysteries,
No doubt. And yet,
I cannot wonder why
I felt this way before.

At least I have Wes here,
Live. The jazz fills the air,
Healing the stubborn bugs
Plaguing my soul, if only
For a little while. Play!

Writer's Block I

Just scribbled it. Very tired now. Had an awful night and I can't get rid of this smell of cigarettes. Vile things :-( Anyway, here it is...

So I looked at it amazed,
Wondering at what had just
Passed down before my eyes,
Trying to ignore the smell of cigarettes.

The music is loud
But even that cannot deafen my silence.
I look at it amazed and quiet.

The empty spaces between the lines
Are filled with poetic grains of sand
I longer know will come or bring
Or... I don't know anymore.

I am scared. Saying that
Will surely make it go away? Silence!
I am confused, my head hurts
At the broken lines, bleeding
Uneven sentences and paragraphs
That wish they knew better days, better languages,
Better dirty computer screens to be displayed upon helplessly
Like unwanted slaves in a roman market buried just over there,
The other neighborhood; yes, past those tracks.

I am amazed, somehow, still. My head hurts. No.

Silence.

I am afraid.
Help.

Rest; yes.
Rest.

The Watcher

The tower hovering outside my window
Is not a reflection of my soul;
I must accept that.
Neither are the leafy shards
On the pavement across the street.

Instead, I reflect upon song
And psalm;
The rich and the richer,
The poor and the poorer,
Each man to himself.

But my soul is not there.
My dove does not dwell on
Such things;
It hovers, crossing barriers
Existing and non-existing alike
That divide us and penetrate us.

My soul is hidden; yet it is
Right there. I often
Wonder about such things,
Watching, reflecting on that
Tower over there, its windows
Mirroring my scant humanity.

At the Mall

Formless winds are rushing towards my death;
I fly upwards effortlessly on the conduits
Lost in regions and depths of minuscule importance
The chasm is deep within this one

The sights confuse me;
I lie baffled on the floor of my mind
Clad in second rate loin cloth
That had to be mine

The mannequins stare at me all too keenly;
The stage is set but I no longer occupy it.
Instead, I yearn to kneel and pray
At the chapel of the moving staircase.

The exit hole is well marked;
It's right next to the bubble gum stands
And lottery tickets and news magazines
And friendly odd salespersons and brown bags.

I fumble for keys deep in my pockets;
The cart crashes past me and the neon flares
As darkness consumes me and I remember
I forgot to buy my chocolate bar.

Cold July

My echoes reminisce on distant droplets seas,
Spies return from yet a mission;
Cowled in albatross and grey,
The emissaries find their target.

Fleeting shadows mark their position,
Hastening, halting, calculating;
Muscles flow and following through
Like an endless Zeno's paradox.

The blood fills my gaps,
Falling, falling, losing warmth;
Low now, pain is but a memory
Of a surprise neither warranted, nor guaranteed.

They walk away now, briskly;
I slump against the marble crimson notch.
Shadows pass before my eyes
And all for ye, Brutus;
Veni, Vidi, Vici, Abeo.

Day at the office

A steely gaze
Of deep cobalt blue
Reflected far
Across the window
Next building
Or next door.

I stare,
Somewhat teary-eyed
At the dust
Covering the silent monitor
Lounging next to me
Atop this table.

This does not go well,
I think;
I enter the ever falling
Ever flowing state
My mind is so akin to,
So reluctant.

Another song, my player,
Another line of code;
Another minute squandered
Under the Legionella covered air vent
I pray will open and resuscitate us
And then we go home.

Something

Something about the here and now
That aches and screams
In melodious silence;
Something that tears at your heart
Like the daily chicken liver.

Something you've missed,
Something you long for;
Something untold in less
Than perfect tact on the
Soccer field.

You try.
You fail.

There's something else,
You realize.
Something beyond,
Something within;
Something left out.

You finally answer
The uncalled for question
That looms all around:
Yes, it is I.

New poem

Hi, here's something I wrote today (slow day at work so far... :-) )

The Golden Dragon

The golden dragon laid an egg
then left it unafraid.
a warm nest in which to keep
the baby giant there to sleep.

the golden dragon broke the skin
the egg was shattered, broken at the hinge.
a child play born,
bouquet of golden flowers was adorned.

the golden dragon drew its breath
the world he sought high from its cleft.
young and dashing and ablaze
to smite all evil was the phrase.

the golden dragon counts its days
counts and mourns while she's away.
bringing food to the nurslings
atop the ever familiar landscapes.

the golden dragon turneth sage
its youngling gone and he's with age.
its treasure he values beyond count
she is there with him under the mount.

the golden dragon has its horde
in gold and jewels and goddess know
let us slay the wanting monster
crack it open like a lobster.
we, men, know best
and to hell with all the rest.

A golden dragon was there once
the legends say and prance
but now the glory lies aground
beneath our charcoaled town.

I could not resist and nod sadly
hovering above the chasm.

New Piece

Hi, wrote this ditzy one today...

Ho, little talons,
How you rapture my soul.
You purr on my bed,
Cry at my pillow.
We share our lunch
And our supper,
Eating in our newly
Painted kitchen.

O, whisky talons,
How you capture me whole.
Without you I'm dead,
And the curtains will billow.
How can I threaten to punch
The Persian flapper?
Mewing oh so fully
Yet barely reaching.

Lo, tiny talons,
I bleed again and I'm sore.
You make me so mad,
Deflecting my mirror.
My iPod and such
Will not compare to your dapper.
Just trying to pet you, truly!
I remain alone and itching.

Not so amusing anymore

Ok, well, I certainly didn't expect this on my weekend... Another siren and this we could actually hear the rockets falling not so far from us. Still trying to take it easy, as much as I can.

War Sucks

Well, I've just experienced my first siren of this little war... I went to my parents up north for the weekend and though they are fairly far from the front lines, there it was... We're ok and it doesn't look like any of the rockets fell near but it's still a most disturbing sensation...
We'll be alright :-)

The In Between

And so, things are a bit slow at work right now and I'm continuing my recovery from the whole war minor stress thing (recognizing, once again, that there some people who are way worse off than men). In fact, it's so slow I've had time to discover and enjoy some comics! So here it is, my recommendation of the day: The Order of the Stick. Although it will probably be more understood by role playing games people (such as AD&D), I'm sure a lot more people can enjoy the smart and funny plot and characters. I've added a link in the links area so check it out.

So here, in between wailing sirens and falling rockets, is another musical recommendation: I Am Kloot. Check them out, especially "The Same Deep Water As Me", one of the most beautiful and haunting songs I've heard in recent years. Here's their song, "Proof".

War

So it's war again, is it? "All that running around, shooting at each other". What do I feel about it? What do I think about it? There's definitely anxiety, but that's nothing special. It is perhaps a bit more directed, more concrete, more real somehow,
even though we're more than enough miles away. I guess it's not just the distance factor that weighs in. It's also concern for others well-being and safety. Strange that it should come after the initial anxiety, though I suspect it's all mixed together.
There's also a great desire to be somewhere far away from here. This feeling isn't rooted in fear; its origin is in disdain, frustration and getting sick and tired of the situation. There's also anger, multiplied and enhanced, again, by frustration and fear against the enemy. This enemy has a face, unlike many others, and it also seem most deserving of our hate.
When does terror become war? Where do you draw the line? Who draws the line for you? I loath every aspect of this conflict. War is hell, even when it is necessary.