wb :

Have you heard, have you heard, the cry on the wind?
Borne on the backs of the African hind,
Bellowed in the deep by the big blue whale,
And glittered by glow-worms in the swampy stale?
Told by the toads midst the rustling reeds,
Echoed by earthworms amongst the damp seeds,
Kept by the clam on the bed of the sea,
Yet travelling far to the tops of the trees?
Oh, my dear- have you heard, have you heard?
The laughter light on the wings of the birds-
The chirps of house-martins as they take to wing,
And calls of the crickets as they cavort and sing?
The parrots' prating, while in cages they prance,
The daws and doves, o'er the rooftops they dance,
The young yellow hatchlings sound in bed,
Or salamander's spark in his raiment of red?

The dogs in the kennels all bark out in song,
And chained lions roar out all night long,
While long-bitted horses all neigh out in mirth,
And cats in warm laps purr next to the hearth,
The swallow sails swiftly over the lee,
Sings out to a calf, who returns song with glee-
They laugh, for the tamest animal in existence
Is none other than Messr. Homo Sapiens Sapiens!

Labels: poetry

my first attempt ever at dactylic meter. somehow so much easier than iambs. i've had the first line in my notebook for a very long time, but most of the rest of it came in a mad flourish of inspiration two nights ago while i waited for sleep to deign to descend upon my restless soul. enjoy.

The Ghosts of Malingerers
We are the ghosts of malingerers. All of us
Sullen and swollen and fridgid with fright.
Permafrost envelopes ice-glazed eyes; do we
Realise that we can't partake of the light?

Apathy, apathy, rhyme of our time; and it
Grows and it flows and it blows through our minds.
Honour and chivalry where have you fled?
Into a box under six feet of lead.

Watch us walk - faint glimmers, ghouls of the night!
Watch as we try not to fall on our faces.
Stumbling, stuttering, seeing - but sightless,
Our rancorous looks are our stone carapaces.

And then comes our solace in times of despair;
To a cold cup of coffee we quickly repair.

-- 11th and 13th June '06 --

Labels: poetry

They say we're mice, God's playthings; we're ants, chaos in the anthill running running away from His Almighty Magnifying Glass. Running, running through His Divinely Ordained Maze, watching whitewashed walls, waiting, waiting. How do we know what makes her come, and what makes her stay?

It's ten thirty, the town is fabulous, sitting in a dusty date of a dusty life, looking for the toilet, looking for the one thing that we think makes us remotely happy. The toilet doors say 'homme' and 'femme' like they're so made for each other, brazen tired faces caught in each other's exaggerated gender, timeless, and I think this is it, this is the torment that defines us. This is what makes April the cruellest. This is the cheese.

They say we're mice, God's playthings; I say you scorched it all. Screw the cheese; eat the walls, eat the mice, eat the maze, eat the white. And when you get to His Infinite Pomposity, eat Him.

Labels: prose

Iambic nonameter. I thought I'd never manage to write one of these, what with my obsessive rhyming and all... but >< here it is.

I don't think the lines will format properly in blogger. As such, I'll just split every nine-stress line into 4- and 5- stress sub-lines.

-~-

i have loved many faces of mortals,
        but none remain that stand in flesh today;
old Helen, Aphrodite, all
        but statues left of beauty passed away.
i know not if i ever shall
        forget the sculpt of their immortal clay-
but Venus stands in armless pall,
        and Helen's rosy cheeks are granite gray.

i loved a spirit, loved a sprite,
        and danced the dance of love amongst the fey-
i waltzed with her who walked in white,
        and gambolled on the greens with gamines gay-
yet all the songs and tales and sights,
        all disappeared before the newborn day,
for faerie love is born of night,
        but man must walk the luminated way.

i loved the gods as selflessly
        as i could bring my mortal self to love,
yet i had waited endlessly
        for signs of love from they who dwell above;
i am a man, admittedly-
        not virtue's pure and unforsaken dove-
that love is unashamedly
        a love that loves me back; for that i strove.

yet i cannot describe in breath
        the love that draws, like fire to the moth;
so let love, let her, look like Death-
        for i would gladly give my soul to both.

Labels: poetry

number 5... you know the drill.

-~-

let him who is filled with devouring rage
who walks with the world-conqueror's visage
and burns all living in his footstep's wake
whose purpose is to destroy, to unmake;
let that man, the avatar of blood and brass
be throned upon the Madness of Flesh.

let him whose vision floods with despair
who searched his life, but found nothing nowhere
yet still searches for darkness in a sea of nothing
and finds not light in the blaze of blinding
let him, who seeks for answers to find
be throned upon the Madness of Mind.

let him whose heart is consumed by envy
whose thirst for more grows never weary
who looked on the gods and praised, cursed, and moaned,
that one day he might be a god alone;
let him, who yearns for power, control,
be throned upon the Madness of Soul.

but he who rages against the world
and writhes, entrapped within its folds;
and who despairs at every endeavour
seeks salvation still with a dying fervor;
and who envies above all, the gods
who walked with them in the pathways of thoughts,
in flesh, mind, and soul, he is not mad;
he is rampant, and from death he has fled.

Labels: poetry

I actually dared to start on an epic poem one day. The first two bits are here, presented for you viewing pleasure. Number four from the backlog bore!

-~-

1.

If one were to look upon the plains
Of ancient, scarce and barren gains
Upon the very road to Rome,
One might find a man far from home
Who left his life long far behind
And wandered as a wanderer blind-

Our Traveller (we shall name him not)
Had long the fount of wisdom sought;
From Life to Death, all puzzled him
And Good was but a vague form, dim
While Evil intrigued not his tired soul
He, who had travelled to the worldly poles

Had seen enough of mice and men
That he preferred to abhor those damned
And seek instead on the nomad's path
Perhaps some Light that had eluded Wrath
And clung to the world, still weakly shining
A fleeting stormcloud's quicksilver lining,

But still that poor man found Wisdom eluded,
By all of the wise, and all the deluded-
No mortal he met knew the secrets of Life,
Nor answered the mysteries of Death and of Strife;
They heard but the call of the end of their days,
Those false pretenders to Gods scorched of clay.

In the beginning, he thought they were true-
But that belief he soon began to rue,
For in all of humanity's fleeting empires
For all their stone walls and towering spires
None lasted long enough in endeavour
To convince that their Truth was a Truth of Forever.

Great cities, old ports, vast armies in line
All wasted away before scything Time;
So he left mankind's world of Temporal defeat,
And sought out the castle of Wisdom's high seat.

2.

So he journeyed forth from his brethren fools,
Cut from the World Tree's strangling noose
He blinded one eye, but now saw with the other
A nightness so black that his soul would have faltered,
If not for a moment of faint, fleeting light
He would have believed that cursed was the Sight.

With wounded of spirit and weakened of step,
That glimmer of light he treasured and kept,
And sought out a path in the cloak-covered dark;
The stones of damnation were never so stark
For he in false blindness could but feel the path,
Which, certain, was uncertainty enough.

At length, the stones grew jagged and sharp,
And hellish fires raged ahead in the Warp;
Before him, enveloped in crimson for blood
Stood the Gates of Hell, forsaken by God,
And upon the harsh steel, on a plague hung up high
Read the words of the Love which desired to Die;

"To Chaos! To Chaos! 'tis a downward slope
That offers no soul a redeeming hope;
E'en if one were to claw his way
Toward the sanguine spills of day,
The pit from which every Man is born
Renders all desperate light forlorn.

To Chaos! To Chaos! None can resist it!
The first step off the precipice steep;
And ever and ever into deepening gloom
Where only Fates and Furies loom,
Thus behold! The fall of Man
To be born and to die in darkness' land."

As the fires raged ever higher and higher,
And Demons whispered of cursed desire,
That wretched counterfeit of the Light so divine
So twisted in form, appearing as such malign
Could claim not his soul- he knew them for damned
And knew that the Fallen false burned in this land;

Nay; light such as this was no angel's kiss,
Would grant our Traveller no aeternal bliss;
So left him in horror the Hell of the Shade
To search for a blessed, benedicted glade.

Labels: poetry

Number three from the old BB! Sorry for pushing your post down, Adam, but eh I've got to clear this backlog. Around 4 more to go, if I actually can bear to put up my prose ><

but enjoy! "some structureless stuff", sanity speaks.

-~-

i detest that falseness of the night.
where i sought sanctuary from the light of day,
i found pale imitate, futile escape.
that i would seek respite from clarity,
ask for the age-old bliss of ignorance
perhaps reflects in the night
some incomprehensible plight
i could never see in plainest light.

when too long the eye of heaven shines upon us men,
he turns as scorching as the very flames of hell
but there are those who welcome that illumination.
they who insist that man deserves a day
without rest or respite, or any pause
they are the priests of false shrines to light,
they are those who killed the lady night.

i now cannot find in any place her scent,
cannot trace her footsteps down any path,
except where she kissed the nightshades.
i lost her in the city of men,
she fled the pitch-black tarred roads
into the moon-lit wilderness.
i thought i found her in the fields
as i lay beneath her twinkling children,
but even there
in the middle of nowhere
the lights found us, and we had to part.

the one place where she could find solace
perhaps, a home too tragic for one as her,
was between the homes of the passed.
there was sacred ground,
and there she gladly made her home.
to the world, she belonged nowhere else.
somewhere nowhere nobody would disturb.

but that meant for me who sought her so dearly
that only in death would i truly find her peace.
so banished from the world of man,
alone, amongst those long past living,
night died giving birth to day.

so only in the counterfeit of death
can i be held in night's embrace.

Labels: poetry

Recent composition. I think i need to get back into prose, haha.

Ah!


this is the sound
this is the sound
this is the sound the raindrops go

pitter patter
spitter spatter
on my window a bitter blatter

a scritch, a scratch
a rhyme that won't match
between the spaces that raindrops flow.

------------------------------------------

would like comments, please.

adam

Labels: poetry

A blast from the backlog! This one's nothing much new, actually. Just fiddling with the number of stresses. And general mucking about. But anyway enjoy!

-~-

just think of me whenever you see a sigh to the sun and sky,
whenever a newborn morning's dawn takes up its wings to fly;
forget me not with every thought, and never let me die,
for morning is worth naught to me, if i am naught in your eyes.

just hold me near whenever you hear the heavens start to cry,
and if i am away, the lonesome day shall bid the rains goodbye;
until i return, let your heart's fire burn, and keep your soft eyes dry,
for raining is worth naught to me, if i am naught in your eyes.

just recall my face when the night's embrace engulfs a darkened sky,
let not night's old art strike fear in your heart, though she will surely try;
and never allow on your face a frown, and never heave a sigh,
for darkening is worth naught to me, if i am naught in your eyes.

take the sun and the rains, the night and the pains, as roads to remember me by
but never, ever, let your heart wander, and never let our love die.

Labels: poetry

Second in the backlog bag! enjoy.

-~-

// love is a poison

oh, fairest love! men long have sung your name,
and laud it greater than each man before-
the beauty in the winter's hellebore,
you surely do deserve eternal fame.
oh, lily-of-the-valley, poisoned white-
you have enthralled no end of worthy men
all slaves to you, still now as it was then,
so willingly, they take your aconite.
oh, passion's stem! as bloodroot wracks the soul
you plant on sufferers a nightshade's kiss-
those drown in you, who then seek hemlock's bliss;
you, meadow saffron, many lives have stole.

ah, you false sin!- pray trouble not this heart;
yet, I beseech you- never from me part.

Labels: poetry

my goodness, it's been a while. and i have this huge backlog i never got around to posting -_-;;;

but here's sonnet 20, for starters. i'll hopefully be posting one new one everyday until i clear the list.

-~-

they say that i have wondrous skill with words,
but i say they are wrong who think it so;
for lyric from a writer's pen should flow
but i, with rough axe hew mine out of stone.
for rhymes and meters, all cannot express
the fount of feeling in its flown excess,
but faintly on the readers' hearts impress
the origin of love the writer heard.

as when i sing, i do but imitate
so when i write, my words are only shades
of that which in my heart is luminate,
and all these penned are but stone statues made;

for soul is living, but my words are dead;
while words endure, such passion someday fades.

Labels: poetry

I didn't write this. I saw it in a book sometime back and it hit me like a surprise grapple check with a size penalty. I wouldn't even call it a poem i guess, but that's all there was on the page.

Who follows with the swallows in the hollows of the sky?
It is I, it is I, it is I, it is I.

Labels: other

Labels: poetry

he sat, watching the children play
-long gone was the dolent day
on wings of wax, aflight in flames,
then smashed on a shoal of shames;
left night and wind, silent sisters,
where they walked but wisps and whispers-

alone and dimmed, without a ray
upon his seat of steel, he wrote
upon his paper, his pen he smote
he sat, watching the children play

he hesitated, in silence to pray
perhaps a song to sin and plight
perhaps a dirge to dark and night
-long gone was the dolent day

his honour but a roll of names
its flight a whim of wind and whiff
its flight a step off a cliff
on wings of wax, aflight in flames,

his dreams bedight and veiled in blames
besought a storm, which wept a well
besought a star, which shook and fell
then smashed on a shoal of shames;

and heart and soul two lonesome drifters
knew not where the river sped
knew not where the moonlight led
left night and wind, silent sisters,

in his house a hall of weepers
shades of love now pale and dim
shades of friends that stood with him
where they walked but wisps and whispers-

while he dreamed of death, despair, deceit-
the children played, and watched him sit.

Labels: poetry

They condescend to me, arrogant glares never meeting my eyes,
Glancing at the wares decorating tables, and they do not come
To buy any but whisper behind, relieving not my solitude
Hopeful, but still in an infinite wait
Waiting for shadows of those already past
And unmoving, the fading colours marking the story's end.

But ever so often, the young ones come
Budding bourgeosie smiles that disperse, somewhat, the solitude
Stemming from a fruitless knowing in a fruitless wait
The colour, laughter, fleeting moments go past
The monotony returns, perhaps never to end
And they know this, they do, it is reflected in our eyes

To sit day after day in a multicoloured solitude
A solemn stone in the crowd in a vauntless wait
Reminiscient, still living, forlorn images harvested from the past
And when the neon lights spark the sky, their dances end
So will mine, dancing and dying for the strobes that light my eyes
Glistening dully, like dead milk fish, a day that does not come

Preserved fruit, I am a window shopper, sitting down to my daily wait
Watching candy-coloured people walk past
Vibrant in their sugar-spun castles, meeting a dull, dull end
I know this, yet I devour, envy in my eyes
For mine is gone, behind the requiem that will always come
To sing upon a statue, the colours of my wares to theirs, impress upon this solitude

And yet again where and what past
Past present future tense it is all the same for the purgatory without end
In rainbows that fade to red, sun streaking eyelids and covered eyes
No relief, like Lazarus alive, it does not come
Upon a table, reclining in solitude
A statuette, never statuesque, in a never-ending wait

Who would bid me goodbye if this story should end
Walking past unnoticed, if I should no longer open my eyes
Would they break away, to reach and come from
Whence, to undo the shackles of a distant solitude
Wrenching free the years of rough plastic, this wait
Wholly new, leaving me a fragment, facets left of a long bygone past

No longer will I wait for those who do not come
Never again closing my eyes to leave me blind
To the end and beginnings I created of a past that is left behind.


Cheers!
-Bern

I wrote this two years ago, as part of my mentorship portfolio. It's about a pedlar, in Orchard, selling her wares but never buying them for herself.

Labels: poetry

a quiet one, she -
sitting by the back shade
dancing on a daydream.

-------------------------
I said of this - awaken, miss
she rose; a serpent on her breath
that thrilled through th'air on syllables
that between us died a dreamer's death

she loved the dance; the step, the gyre
she lived only to smoulder and spin
wouldst look at me I said, I said
ere she consume herself therein -
-------------------------

to't, no response
but a hint of song that
whistled by

her gaze on the ceiling
she spent her life
dancing on a candle wick

Labels: poetry

The wind comes to me, caresses me, ruffles my hair, soothes my restless heart.

tonight, he rides not with Norse fury, scremaing battle.
tonight, he wails not with the Banshees, lamenting loss.

No, tonight, he walks with me, with memory, down the old garden path.
Now he raises his voice, gusts over me, rakes my teary eyes.
harsh, sweet, gusts of memory.
Now he sweeps across me with a cleansing no sleep nor shower could give.

He slows, no longer blasts across my thirsting skin.
no, he breathes now with a resigned laughter, laughs and loves.
he dances, whirls about my body,
playfully drops a dead leaf at my feet.

The sun has long since gone down, leaving me with the false glow of man-made lights; but the wind has stayed with me all this while.

No longer is he the hot air of the sin high in the sky; now, he is the breath of warm dusk, old glow spilling across that parched plain of my skin.

Old wind, he carries on him a million songs,
all I know;
I sung them with him once,
and he, tonight, finds me again with memory.

I swung with him in the heat of the morning,
I lashed with him in the gale of the storming,
And now I laugh with him at the summer's mourning.

He rustles the boughs of rememberance,
plays with a leaf as it falls.

but he, has to go soon.
And so must I;

long will I long to waltz with him again,
though each new night, the dance is ne'er the same.

Labels: poetry

alas, you loved too little, loved too late
when you in youth decided to grow old
and let your books to you your life dictate

regret it now! regretfully behold
no passion's roots, no roses' blooms; instead
gaunt spines of autumn, plumed in red and gold

and winter's angry gale of cold and dead;
your studious slavish sacrific intent
to sell your heart, so you might raise your head

too late to rage for years now gone and went
too late to rue, oh you disconsolate
who spent his youth, and now with spirit spent

lament then not, who rode with pride and hate-
alas, you loved too little, loved too late.

Labels: poetry

i hear whistling -
a bird sits high and warbles.
Happiness?

-Terence.

P.s. D, your poem has a last line that seems an afterthought, a tack-on, when i think the idea was for emphasis. Perhaps you could try changing the last stanza to reflect this?

Labels: poetry

I dreamed, i thought, i saw
you die.

You were there, through
the looking glass,
looking back, looking lost.
i saw, and then you died.

You fell, slowly,
through syrup and honey -
landing in a deep pool of milk-white manna.
I dreamed, and then you drowned.

You thrashed, frantically
fast, and terribly.
My breath caught in your throat.
I thought, and then we died.

But it was just a dream,
just a dream,

Just a dream.

Labels: poetry

On earth, it is that Good shall be downtrodden,
While Evil holds his head up proudly high;
And Good, with pallid clothes and count'nance sodden
Can only watch the world and offer a sigh.
Is it that Good can bear no battle arms,
And Evil breaks his back upon his boot?
But men come good- they fall by Evil's charms,
Only when another plots, he lose his foot.
No, 'tis because the hearts of men are soft
That Evil stem the righteous flood of fire;
And where one shineth not, the dark shall loft
And cause the idle hearts of Good to tire.

A pity 'tis, to hear the lesser speak
When mind is worthy, but the heart is weak.

Labels: poetry

I was on the computer, playing a game
At half past seven, or so I swore-
Justice or crime, it was all the same,
Killing and killing and killing some more.

So I played and I played, 'till I found this guy
A crook in his castle, caught by a cop.
Weeping, he begged and he begged not to die
So I let him go free, and I heard a loud pop

And lo and behold! before I knew it
The bugger had gone and shot me in the back,
So I staggered back to that traitorous git
And gives it to him, without cutting no slack.

So he slumps to the floor and says he's sorry,
But I know in my heart he's going to die;
So I say to myself, "old chap, don't worry,
I know you've repented; good luck and goodbye."

I walk through the door that suddenly opened,
Still bleeding from that gunshot that hurt me so dear,
Even as behind me the secret stronghold burned,
I knew that my end drew steadily near.

And as I walk into the corridor,
My vision blackens and threatens to fail;
And finally fading, I slump on the door
And rest my tired arm on the handrail.

When suddenly a rectangle comes into view,
And shows me enlightenment bit by bit-
Things like "Save game?" and "Continue?",
"Load Game?" or "New Game?" and finally "Quit?"

I clicked on "Quit", as I knew it was getting late
And I had to get back to work tomorrow,
But as for my character's electronic fate
I suppose only its fellow electronics know.

But in those many moments, I felt genuine hate
And fear, and betrayal, and some bit of joy
In knowing that some false predetermined fate
Had been carried out again by another teenage boy.

Did the villain feel fear? Or was he unfeeling?
My own processor could not work out that puzzle
And I thought that my useless but ethical thinking
Was leading me down some philosophical muzzle.

Still, I ask the computer if it knows of emotions,
And it answers me with a whirr-click-beep.
So I chide myself for such foolish notions,
As, "Do robots dream of electric sheep?"

Labels: poetry

Over-priced iPods
Making millions from many
Apple is in bloom.

Labels: poetry

a ripple
fills
the whole pond

Labels: poetry

another day in that same old park
stretched out upon the stone bench,
counting the stars with tearful eyes,

looking at the trees
the bare branches of winter,

wishing the night would creep a little faster,
steal his way past the curtains of dusk
and cast his cloak over sleepy sunsets

when i heard a little whistle
coming down the lonely path

there she was;

and she sang,
'i look up when i walk
so the tears won't fall,'

and went away, whistling that old song
even as the curtain drew
leaving me
a muted audience in an empty theatre
the lights dimmed to darkness.

but i was there the next day.
the stone bench stood fast
the trees whispered in the wind
the stars held their silent vigil

while i looked up at the sky,
wondering where beyond the blue
lay happiness

and i wished that dusk would tread a little slower,
wished that night would take a little longer,

so that i might catch that wandering whistle

one last time

Labels: poetry

and i sit in the school library-
all the books around me,
all the people i can see,
but not a soul who speaks as though it were free.

a muffled murmur echoes within its walls-
words and whispers, answering silent calls
and yet within these vaunted halls
not a single soul speaks as though it were free.

a barely palpable tingling of my ears-
not silence, all alone with all my fears;
not loudness, engulfing all it hears;
just souls softly swooning, none of them free.

and i tried my best to break from that spell=
to free my comrades, ring liberty's bell
but alas, twas but a raindrop in a well;
and those souls still silently clamor to be free.

so did i join them in self-imposed slavery;
gently struggling, never to be free.

Labels: poetry

Let's start a collaborative poem! Below is the first stanza, add on to the poem and title the posts The Golden Box.

i once spied a golden box
beside the lonely trail;
amongst the grasses' swaying locks,
rustling in the autumn dale.

Labels: poetry

Recommended reading!

It's a singularly powerful work, and reading it is made easier with this site. "Werther" is a collection of letters sent by the main character to the reader, and this site will send you an e-mail in the order of the book. Be sure to enter your real name, as Werther will often address you in his letters.

Site is here:

http://www.the-sorrows-of-young-werther.com/index2.html

Anyone aspiring to write descriptive prose should read this at least once.

Labels: other

Seriously, for the longest time, i've been trying to figure out what 'yesitsapun' is supposed to mean..

Enlightenment?

-sits under bo tree-

Labels: other

Gotta love that poetic form.

Roses are #FF0000, violets are #0000FF;
4|| m1 b453 4R3 b3|0N9 70 j00!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
In Soviet Russia, poem writes you!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
I forgot what comes next, and Poland too!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
Being a ninja, I have just killed you!

Violets are blue, Roses are red;
But I like the colour of babies dead!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
I didn't expect the Spaniards too!

Röses äre red, viölets äre blüe;
My fävöürite bänd is Mötley Crüe!

Labels: poetry

The silence, it only needs to remain
Unsaid, amber-yellow streetlamps, broken by red
Green fairy lights, dancing on your skin, an ice-ring
Murderous kiss, with no where left to run to. Nothing
Left, but small red numbers, ticking your fare,
Minutes, cents, ten cents a minute, half a minute
But you don't care (just watch the road, mister). Nothing
Left, but half-drowned static muted wires, same radio stations,
Your life, in one single chair. Cigarettes, side pockets, stealing
Five seconds to breathe. You've seen them all, once, twice, even
More, watched them trash breathe slide over each other drunken in
The back seats, watched the women cry, weeping on a shoulder
Glued to crumbling dead leather and dead jade chains. What about you,
Little angel? Sing your Hosannas and pray pray pray but
Your priests and gods don't hear you anymore, above the din of
Chinese pop, love lost, love found, sex on the back seat. But
After the perfume stops smelling like a funeral (your funeral),
Rub the salt from the deltas around your eyes
Ask yourself who you go home to, even the night
Stops, for worker ants like you.


// I don't like Christmas, but I like taxi drivers. Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye, I still think just one planet's sufficient...

// Incidentally, off to Bangkok (NO STUPID FREUDIAN JOKES, PLSKTHXBAI), 14th to 19th ish, any souvenirs for y'all? Would gladly appreciate hawt swiss boys if any of you can bring back any.

Labels: poetry

Every good story needs a good setting.

Having a common setting would be a unifying factor in the many writings and poems that we create.

Does anyone wish to cooperate in creating a setting that we could use for future (or past, if you'd like) stories?

-Terence.

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Labels: poetry

Labels: poetry

Short stories, anyone? As suggested by Cheng and Adam. Don't like 'em much myself. But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and revive this dead blog o_O

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Labels: poetry

my room-
filled with
magazines- newsweek, popular science;
books, both old
and new- boccaccio, dante,
to goethe, then gabriel garcia marquez,
asimov, nietzsche,

and the bed; beside it,
music through the ages- bach, bach, williams,
the heart asks pleasure first,
danse macabre beside canto alla vita,
but we're all living in amerika anyway.

then the computer.
chock full of useful junk,
useless thoughts,
games and games, and
my link to the other world out there.
my other link to the world out there.

but in my room,
what is really mine

but these words?

Labels: poetry

Directions

Red light green light angry red and orange lights blaring in a traffic jam. Don't walk, walk, no u-turns, slow traffic, 70, end of school zone. They say it's like clockwork, I say it's more like music, with a conductor armed with a giant whip. Tempo is king, if it's your time, it's your time. It's cleverly strewn together; sometimes dancing with fluid graceful headlights, sometimes a moving paradox like 'expressway'. This is the river where the blood of a city flows. It scares me, because a road is a place of mortal peril: always looking for toes out of line to smash-crush-destroy in a spectacular story spanning news agencies. I saw it coming. A road is the place where individuality goes to die, replaced by - they say it's clockwork, I say it's more like music.

So this is it: the smooth new cigarette between tired lips, the metallic click of the lighter, the ghostly, wispy sigh of a tragic collision of karma. This is how it ends; after the rain, the park probably wouldn't burn if I dropped my cigarette on purpose. A civic minded shoe smothers the fire, a first step of a long journey on a completely different path towards the sunset. Maybe the giant 'The End' appears only when you reach it. Lately, I've let myself go, checked my teeth and tie in the rear view mirror too many times. Sultry was the name of your smile, and the showbiz was too much for you to take. Dead-end, no-go, because we've reached the metaphorical place between the devil and the deep blue sea. Where do we go from here?

I'll be walking, running if I have to. I'll be fine, with a briefcase full of manuscripts in one hand, unimpressive scars in the other, and the wind rubbing shoulders (please stay in Lane 1). And when we (inevitably) reach the same crossroads again, please wave hello, because green men get very bored with their thankless cycle.




P.S. Sorry for spamming.

Labels: prose

to think that I would fear the hand of fate!-
and I, instead of faithfully awaiting
death, who then in turn replaces life;

still seek escape from prisons of the soul!-
but as they say, just is the fate of fools; and
death, who then in turn replaces life,

will see to it that I shall meet my end!-
in time; but no-one can withstand sweet
death, who then in turn replaces life.

so am i but another hypocrite!-
but these deceiving eyes of mine will cheat not
death, who then in turn replaces life!

In the room, the women come and go,
But no more is Michelangelo.

Labels: poetry

I was bored.


It happened again, while they stood at his door.
The neighbours were smart, they already knew, and
Turned up the sounds to drown out the silence
Drew their curtains across dusty windows,
Shut their gates, locked and barred. He
Always, always had a smile like sunshine but
A tongue that cut too deep like how his hands would, sometimes.
She wouldn't stand for it, clothes cluttered in musty boxes,
Strewn across the coridoor, five years worth of them.
She stamped her feet, palms crashing across an unshaven face, his spit
Biting her eyes, running down her cheeks,
Like how it used to, between her legs.
What could/would/should they do, other than play along,
Throwing her set of keys on his living room floor,
Next to her/her? earrings from the night before.
His last sight of her will be her torn sundress,
Dior, he spent a whole fucking month's pay on that, but
Frankly my dear, he couldn't give a damn. He couldn't love her
Like she couldn't love him, a four-letter word he swore never to
Say. He knew she'd say yes, if he'd run after some fleeting silhouette
Chasing dead butterflies. But
That could be done tomorrow, after he skirts around the
Broken glass, dead telephones, Dior dresses sunbeam smiles
Varnish on a funeral pyre, stepping and bleeding from
Her set of keys on his living room floor.

Labels: poetry

Sleep

It's on days like this that I sit down and think about it. It comes in waves; I think about how long it's been since I've had a real heart to heart with Someone: pouring emotional truths, stir at low heat until we're simmering and made of glass. It's difficult to share a secret. I'm one of those that don't cry when it rains, because when it does, there's so much more to think about.

I love seeing the city geometry dissolve like this. Not much of a loss anyway, it was Them that outlawed sleep long ago: to Them, I'm just part of the dissolving city geometry, and in the cover of rain, I might close my eyes a bit. Life is good after all - I never expected much - and everyone's trying their best. What the rain didn't cover, the frosty window did, maybe windows have a purpose after all. I can see myself differently now, and I'm different from everyone else. It's the twenty-first century, the age of the preposition.

I like to watch people sleep. It's as if they've built windows around themselves, a sanctuary from hot-off-the-press and moral-of-the-story. Inside, they're looking at themselves differently, at peace and dreaming, searching for that emotional truth. I also hate it when people wake up. When they stop sleeping, it's only/always the P.R.O. talking. Maybe it's rude to want. Maybe etiquette has outlawed silence too.

Do you remember the morning? You were sleeping on that uncomfortable bench, and you asked me to join you. The uncomfortable bench prodded at my back, but I didn't notice. Because I was in your cube of windows, two dreamers, reaching for emotional truths, until we were made of glass. You stirred, mumbled something about being happy, curled up into a ball and continued sleeping.

You stocked up on midnight oil - I miss the dinners, I miss walking past mall after mall, two drifters in a sea of sensibility and stocks. I miss keeping each others' secrets, I knowing what you know, you knowing what I know, talking over coffee and under moon, while angry shapes with headlights cram in two straight lines to nowhere. I miss feeling sad when the androgynous voice on the train puts an end to the conversation, watching you until you dissolve into the geometric crowd. I miss the feeling that the moment right now, even in silence, is worth more than sleep, and telling myself that "so what if I'm tired tomorrow, because it's completely worth it"

Because every single time it was.

Labels: prose

just to clarify some terms writers often use and which are woefully misinterpreted.

Word or Phrase:

"was/is inspired by"

Meaning:

"Would not be outdone by, and therefore copied"

More to come.


sixtimesnine productions.

Labels: other

Haiku Love Song, by ryan d.

A short, poignant vignette about love in a field under the night sky. RonHermione. Rated T for mild adult themes.

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Song-based prose based on Damien Rice's "The Blower's Daughter". Was aiming for semi-melancholy, bordering on vague angst. Pardon the atrocious syntax. For those unfamiliar with the song, the lyrics are in italics.
------------

I watch her standing by the sea, just slightly beyond the borders of dried, sand-abraded grass, swaying in time with the crash of the dark-blue glass-waves embracing the shore, embracing the sparkling spirals of quartz and shell and the aged rocky-cliff faces of the limestone towers.

I taste the cold sea-spray on the tip of my tongue, but I am not sure if it is the dead salt on the white-foam crests, or the remembrance of a memory of the taste of my own tears.

She is still as beautiful as ever. I know that. She always has been, and always will be, standing by the ocean while her hair fans out, caressed by the zephyr breeze. Yet I wonder if she still sings, sings for me.

Did I say that I loathe you?

I stand beyond the borders of the sand-abraded grass. Beyond the gold light of her hair, the soft crying call of a voice.

I can't take my eyes off of you.

I feel the same path on my gaunt cheeks being cleared, by the same acid tang of the same substance that flows from the oceans into the heart. The heat of summers long forgotten and the catch of autumn air burn my skin ochre and red and blood-deep as it always has; maybe if I close my eyes I will stop the rivers from flowing back into the sea.

I feel the soft crush of sand beneath the soles of worn leather shoes, the border grows ever closer, and the sand-abraded grass brush past unfeelingly against calloused, torn fingers.

I can't take my mind off of you.
I can't take my mind off of you.

I want to touch
You.
Again.

The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial.

I can catch the scent of calla lilies and soft vanilla. I wonder if her skin still tastes the same. I wonder if she still thinks of me, like I think of her. I wonder.

Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I wanted to leave it all behind?

Did I say that I wanted to leave it all behind?

The sky turns pale sepia, like an old photograph, stained with rings of old, cold coffee. I want to reach out for the gentle slope of her shoulder, like I used to, but I am afraid that if I do she will disappear like the fragments in a dream.

Fragments that flow with my tears to the sea.

I can't take my eyes off of you. Most of the time.

But I know she knows.
I know she knows that I know.
And I know that I
can't take my mind off of you.

Did I say that I wanted to
Leave it all behind?

But now she stands facing the dark mirror of the sea and she is her own river pouring the waterfalls of her heart back into the ocean where they become my own lake of sorrows.

In the distance of two feet, in the distance of years long past and an aching void left in repayment, we've both forgotten the breeze. The kiss of the wind atop the same limestone cliffs we used to overlook. The breath of our faces close together, in sweet silent bliss.

She is beautiful.
You are beautiful.
You have always been beautiful.

No more promises, I can promise you no more.

No love, no glory.
No hero in her sky.

Just like you said it would be.

Not one of my better pieces, so, R&R!

Cheers!
Bern

Labels: prose

“For who art thou mourning?” the western wind whispered
To me while I sat on the rolling green grass;
And day took its wings, and then nightfall had landed,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last;

The spring and the summer, the river rebirthing
Was parched from the toils of the land it had passed;
But there in the river was blood that was flowing,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

The autumn and winter, Demeter’s lamenting
Was warmed by the cold that the streetlights did cast;
And there on the trees, not a flower was blooming,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

The forests of green, and the rivers of azure
Had faded to memory, a faraway lust;
And all was just grey, where I once saw the colour,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

And streetlights were burning in somber resplendence,
The blinding bright beams, and my limbs they held fast;
And there sat my body, in bitter despondence,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

For Death and for Dying my heart then was bleeding,
The garden of green in a city of dust;
The last of the life in dystopia undying,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

Imperator Sancti, you know of my weeping,
O tell me; I know not the beautiful past;
And say why before me was just a grey ceiling
When I saw the answer, the answer at last?

Labels: poetry

Getting there would take a while, when you're running your paws off. It's a cycle, from dawn to yawn, bed to bed, kiss and tell. With fluctuation comes monotony, it's in anomaly and concerted variation that breakthroughs come forth. Saving the world, climbing Babel high enough to hear the choir is a lovely idea, but as you climb higher and higher, you'll find that the ladder sinks beneath your feet, maybe faster than you climb, you'll also find the sweet tinkly laughter of the stars, and the delight of Mars as he nonchalantly goes in Virgo's court.

How does it feel, way up there? Up in space, where no-one hears your cape flutter. Maybe up there where things are as cold as you are, you'll find home. Maybe it's because you're so high, because no-one hears your song, you can sing all you want without the underestimated danger of interpretation. Idiot; when you've seen the planets' singing,

can't you see them fade into silence?

I can see that it's just another discrepancy. You want results, you want games, you want your childhood, you want up, you want out. I'll just have to swallow my ambition and lose my head remembering the echo of your guitar. Nothing to worry about, even up there, even if frostbite pinches your face like a butcher at a slab of pork, you'll pull through. Because you're strong, because you're a big damn hero.

Labels: prose

Three by three they come intent on walking,
And three by three they go away again.
And in pairs keeping up their chattering
To hide their tortuous sleeplessness; their pain.
Talking to hide their agony; in vain.
Fighting for an unimportant label,
And trying till their death to catch a train,
And they dance around an upturned table.

"I'm different," they all keep insisting
Till all of them enter the human drain.
Then on and on all of them keep swirling
Nameless entities that we can't sustain -
Some leave to try philosophies arcane.
Towards a dreary future they scramble,
Going through rituals over and again,
And they dance around an upturned table.

On the sea of life their heads are bobbing,
Necks crane to look at outliers; disdain
Evident on soggy faces frowning,
Though in their hearts all of them still maintain
A little spark of what once was humane
A little child with innocent babble -
But they all reek of maturity feigned,
And they dance around an upturned table.

PRINCE, save them from a straight and narrow lane,
They're locked in their own straitjacket - mental.
They're manufactured one and all the same,
And they dance around an upturned table.

-- comments plz. written over 02-03 Oct 2005 --

Labels: poetry

The spring of life whence came Demeter’s child
Brought warmth and joy to all the barren land;
Where flowers blossommed in the weather mild,
The beauteous fruits of Nature’s loving hand-
The overture to Life’s symphony grand-
But now is grey where green once made its home;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

The summer, warmth and beauty undefiled
When Hades, cold and lifeless, sought her hand;
No more the youthful innocence so mild,
The solemn silence where the trees now stand-
The empty plains, without a foe or friend-
Out of the land the happiness has flown;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

In autumn was Persephone beguiled
By six small seeds, by scheming underhand;
As woe upon woe in her heart was piled,
The falling blossoms yearning for the land-
The age-old round, beginning and the end-
The schemer for his sins will now atone;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

The winter cold as Hades’ heart defiled
A bleeding wound which time could never mend;
Where frozen sheets of snow the earth once tiled,
The haunting wail as life comes to an end-
The death upon which rebirth does depend-
Now all is warm where wind once chilled the bone;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

//I know the rhymes sound ridiculously contrived. I was writing with twice the number of lines and half the number of rhymes, and this was the best I could do without consulting a thesaurus or similar tool -_- It definitely has loads room for improvement! Suggestions plz.

Labels: poetry

i vote that this month's project be ballades. cool things. shall write/post one asap.

http://www.noggs.dsl.pipex.com/vf/ballade.htm

Labels: other

A raindrop-
Ripples in a lake,
Drowned by the downpour

01: INTREUX

the spring that lightens steps upon the soil;
the sun that brightens faces wrought in toil;
the unawareness of the mortal coil,

will soon give way to summer’s scathing eye;
will feel the fury of the vengeful sky;
will parch the earth and turn the rivers dry,

till autumn brings its blissful tranquil touch;
till cherry blossoms fall in their deluge;
till sunrays slip away before your clutch,

when finally, winter waits upon the world;
when nature, weary, from her toils untold;
when wasted, life retreats beneath the cold.

so goes the age-old story of the earth;
the treasured tale of death, and then rebirth.

Labels: poetry

Structuralism, or maybe.

Crystalline pink,
the fire chills me to the bone.
I start to mumble,
talking to my imaginary friend.
He wants nothing more,
but,
to kill me.

'If language is a construct of the mind,
are emotions, then, a construct of the heart?
What about the soul?
How do souls touch each other,
with tangible, harsh fingers?
Is that what bodies are for?
When we tingle, touch,
caress,
stroke, grind, hurt,
smash,
is it Us, or is it our souls?'

My friend replies vaguely,
nodding, shrugging, or a combination of both.
He's got no body,
you see.
It's hard for souls to communicate,
without being able to hurt,
without being able to touch,
they mumble something,
hear everything,
but,
are nothing.

-Terence.

Labels: poetry

I have seen where it grows, the moon, whirling across its celestial ballroom. A forgiving circle, the world's coin. Sometimes I see your face, pockmarked and overflowing with youth. You never tell me what's written on the other side of your face; I ask why and you say the answer's written in the clouds, but the pendulum sweeps them away before I read them. IT HITS ME

You can only see what you want to. I say a song, you say a badge; I say a boy, you say a king; I say a smile, you say a gun, then you shoot the world into a million pieces, knowing full well that I'd cut myself picking them up. I apologize for the red on the wrapping paper, after all we wouldn't know it was brittle otherwise, now would we?

No matter how well we comb our hair, what they see is always a reflection of what you think you are. Is that what you're worth? Searching for destiny in the news, a tiny column at the corner. Constellations are a child's sketch, Barney-esque imagination, the bastard child of fools too busy to be concerned with what really matters. In the end, they're just stars, just like any other celestial object. Like the moon. It hits me again: you have no other side. In my eyes, you're just a paper moon.

Labels: prose

Written in 04, for a school assignment.
-----------

Hey there Mr. Bartender, couldn't help but notice your pretty fingers grasping that cocktail mix. I like the way you move, man, that old velvet vest sparking dust and cobweb-like filigree string in the neon red lights arcing through brightly glowing cigarette smoke like a London fog. Watch your stoic, silent face smile at the ladies at the greased bar, reflected off the tainted varnish worn thin from years of mug-sliding, swipe-wiping and coin-scratching. Whip and toss the decanter behind your back and twirl like a ballerina, then serve with a dash of loneliness and uncertain tastebuds. Garnish with a re-used pink paper umbrella from the broken trashbins outside the lights sounds smells and dance-floor sex. You're so used to this, and so unsure of everything and anything else. Were you like them once, rubbing up to strangers on strobe-lit dance floors to get your fill of physical contact in the midst of cheese-techno trance mixes from the half-drugged DJs on the turntables. The same Van Dyk, Tiesto, Kosheen tracks mixed to hell and back.


Did you go to hell and back and decide that here was worse. In the humid stale heat of 3.00 AMs repeated here daily take off that vest and run fingers through hair that'll smell permanently of cigarette smoke, rum and kahlua, and Absolut Loss.* Rub the sweat from your eyes and smile at the lonely lady across the bar with her overly made-up face, and tell her everything will be ok.


I know you hear stories from them, and you know everyone's stories, whether you like it or not, because you're a bartender, and that's your job. Give them their poison when taking away the bottom of the glass bottle will lose them in disreality, and let's see how far you've come. Sneak that shot of vodka before you leave and walk in rain-lit alleys that smell of dead trash and the renmants of technicolour noise. And feel comforted by it, when you fall into beds of disused linen sheets and pray for this to be over. But I know I'll always see you there at the bar with a smile ready for the next dude that's just broken up with his girlfriend, or the next chick that's just broken up with her boyfriend, but never with a smile for yourself. A matter of mere expediency.


You've come a long way, baby. You've come a long way.






Cheers!

Bern.

Labels: prose

I think this may be the last haiku you'll see from me in awhile. I'm going to go read up and study some technique (as well as my CTs. heh.) ... so. Tell me what you think. (this was submitted for the Expressions publication btw. You may see it on paper in the near future!)


passers-by
heads bowed down by the weight of
raindrops




- adam

Labels: poetry

Something I wrote when strived to, well, see if I could make anyone cry with one of those soppy love stories you get in emails and see on blogs. Inspired by a tragic love life. I also warn you, it's two and a half pages of size 12 Times New Roman. Be prepared to read.

***

Every day of his life he could remember, Peter had known he loved her. He loved her long black hair, the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled, her elegance when she walked, the eloquence when she talked… She was perfect. He would dream of her at night, too, holding his pillow and longing for it to be her. Oh how he wished… But Peter had a problem. Sarah, the love of his life, was not his to love. Whenever he met her, she was smiled and waved. It didn’t mean anything though, for Sarah had a boyfriend, whom she loved with all her heart.

As children, the two would spend their weekends together; building sandcastles at the beach, sliding down slides and climbing trees, running around in the sun for no reason as kids do. She had saved his life once, too. She had taken swimming courses since she was five years old, and when Peter had slipped off a log he was balancing on and fell into the river, she jumped in and rescued him. Their parents had come running (or so he had heard) when she screamed to them, finding him unconscious, and he woke up in hospital a few hours later. He had become very close to her after that, but by the time he recognized what his feelings were, it was too late.

Peter would walk to school every day. He would always arrive just in time to see Sarah and her boyfriend sharing a kiss before leaving for their classes in the morning. If he was early, he would see them walking to school ahead of him, his arm around her shoulder as she leaned into him dreamily. Whenever Sarah wasn’t with her boyfriend, he was all she would talk about. She would tell Peter about what they were going to do on Saturday, and how he was going to buy her that top she had wanted for ever, or how they were going to get married in Hawaii as soon as they got enough money. It tore his heart, but Peter simply smiled at her and answered,
“I’m happy for you.”

And he was. His heart wept, knowing she could never be his, but it made him smile, despite the tears, to think she was getting all the love she deserved, and more. Love was not selfish; he knew this better than anyone.

One night, Sarah and Robert were walking home together from a fun night at the movies, and decided to take a quick detour through an alleyway. Robert smiled and grabbed her suddenly, pinning her against the wall as she gasped, but he just kissed her deeply. She grinned and closed her eyes, murmuring his name, but just as she was beginning to enjoy it, Robert suddenly pulled off her. Opening her, the first thing she saw was the barrel of a gun as someone held it to her forehead, another of them holding her beloved.
“Give me all your money, or I’ll shoot you and take it anyway,” came the icy voice.

Meanwhile, Robert bowed his head forward and snapped it back as the thug dropping him and clutching a bleeding nose. He jumped on the back of the one with the gun and tried to wrestle it off him, screaming,
“Run Sarah!”
Her legs were shaking, but somehow she stumbled away, running blindly through the darkness. There were gunshots behind her, but she just ran and ran and ran until she was at home and threw herself into her mother’s arms, sobbing heavily.

She didn’t hear from Robert until his name came up on the news. He had been murdered, with six gunshot wounds to the chest. As soon as Peter heard of this, he ran flat out to Sarah’s house and didn’t stop until he was standing outside her bedroom door, catching his breath. He opened it quietly and saw her crying in bed. Closing the door behind him, he put his arms tentatively around her as she looked up at him, her eyes red and watery. Without a word, she embraced him.

Seconds turned to minutes, and minutes turned to hours when she spoke next, her voice shaky and weak from the long hours of crying.
“I can’t live without him Peter.”
“Yes you can…” he whispered back. “You have to. Don’t live for him anymore…. Live for yourself… live for me. Please Sarah…”
The look she gave him was so full of sorrow, loss and suffering, his voice trailed off. She seemed to be saying, “You can’t help me now,” as she shook her head at him and lay her head on his lap. Any other time, he would have treasured the moment, but presently he had a lot on his mind to worry about.

The evening wore on. As it became too dark to see, weariness overtook them from the long events of the day, and the two of them gradually fell asleep, holding one another. The night was cold, so they snuggled closer for warmth in their subconscious, and a smile crept across Peter’s face.

He was dreaming. Sarah was lying in his arms, just as she was in the real world, but it was early morning. They were both awake, though everything seemed dreamy because of the hour. Peter gave her a loving squeeze as she looked up into his eyes. She smiled sadly as she brushed his cheek with her thumb softly, shifting closer to him, and said,
“This can never be.”
He looked questioningly at her, but she had vanished.

His eyes opened, and the bed beside him was empty. The note on the pillow read,
“Goodbye Peter.”
He didn’t spare a moment as he bolted out of bed and ran as fast as he could, leaving the door of the house wide open behind him. He knew where she was. It just a matter of whether he could get there in time to stop her…

The early morning was freezing, the dew numbing his bare feet, but he barely noticed. He stumbled through the brush, ignoring the scratches from the thorns and branches, until he came to the river he had fallen in all those years ago. His eyes raced across it, looking for any sign of her, his head spinning. Putting his fatigue to the back of his mind, he ran alongside the creek until he saw her white shirt and black hair floating almost peacefully in the currents.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he dove into the water, the iciness stinging every inch of his skin, but he continued to battle against the flow until he gripped her arm and tugged her to the surface. Gasping for breath, he dragged her onto the ground nearby and checked her heartbeat with shaking hands. It was slow, but existent. Rolling her onto her side, he pat her back forcefully until she coughed out the water weakly and gasped in a breath. Rolling onto her back, she looked up at him.
“You shouldn’t have come… just let me go Peter.”
“Never. We have to get you some help…”
She shook her head at him, her skin a faint blue, before she passed out.

Wasting no further time, he eased his arm under her legs and back and lifted her gently from the ground. Despite the fact his arms were shaking, he would not drop his burden, and so it was he made his way carefully but hastily back to the town.

***

The first thing Sarah heard was a man talking.“She doesn’t look like she’s going to make it…”
She heard a voice she recognized… it sounded so familiar, so… sad.
“She has to... She will… Don’t you dare say otherwise.”
“What I say isn’t going to change anything. If her body doesn’t start fighting back soon, she’s going to-”
“Don’t you dare say it!”
There was a silence, before one pair of footsteps trailed away and a door closed.
Her eyelids felt heavy, but she forced them open with a groan.
“Sarah! You’re awake!” That voice… It was Peter… oh no, that meant…
“God damnit Peter, I said let me die...” it hurt to speak; her voice burned with every syllable.
“Just rest. You need to regain your strength…” She shook her head at him mercilessly. There were tears behind his eyes, but he was refusing to let them fall. He looked like a mess- his hair was dirty and he was covered in tiny cuts, but somehow, he looked handsome…

Her breathing was becoming strained, her chest feeling heavier with every passing moment. It was when she started to cough but could not gasp in a following breath she realized she was going to die. Sarah looked at the boy who loved her so dearly for the very last time and managed amongst sobs two final words.
“Goodbye Peter.”

She went into code blue.

Peter was ushered from the room as doctors rushed in and tried to resuscitate her, but the life would not return to her body. After a few minutes, there was silence in the room, and one by one they all filed out, avoiding his gaze. The one at the end just put a hand on his shoulder and whispered
“I’m sorry.”

Peter seemed to see for the first time. Fearing what lay inside the room, he took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. All that was in the room was his soulmate, lying peacefully in the white sheets. He wanted to wake her, to do anything to make her get up and scold him for worrying, to do anything, but she did not.

He knelt before the bed, his body shaking violently as he tried to choke back a sob without success. At last, the tears flowed, and he cried and cried and cried, raising his shaking hands to close her eyes, curling his fingers in her soft black hair, still littered with leaves and twigs.

“Why Jesus, why?” he asked the crucifix on the wall, but the wooden face gave no condolence and simply stared sadly at him. He turned away and pulled himself to his feet, standing over her and brushing her forehead softly. If only he'd been a little faster, or if only he hadn't fallen asleep... Leaning over, he kissed her, for the first and last time, and whispered to unhearing ears,
“I love you.”

He was never heard from again.

***

Labels: prose

This night-
a room,
a chair

Labels: poetry

Labels: poetry

I was bored one day, and so decided to write an alliterative sonnet.
There were two versions of the last line, and I couldn't decide on which to use.
Additionally, I vote that September should be the Month of the Sonnet. XD
-------
learn to love the cruel lash of fate,
the slithering snake whose wounds will not abate;
the scars which smoulder still upon your skin,
the lance that lodges in your life within.

learn contentment, to your soul deny
the foolish thought that you might fate defy;
the flame of hope that favour falls with you;
the cold that winter brings you life anew.

yet;

learn to hate the hour of your death,
the winds that wail and whimper your last breath;
the wire that wraps upon your broken neck;
the highest hell that ‘waits the heretick.

so learn to live and laugh and life enjoy;
or dead and dying you yourself deny.
//or death and dying to yourself deny.

Labels: poetry

hey... we should have a regular "project of the *unspecified period of time*" feature. like the haiku thing (which only cheng and i have tried so far :P)... say someone comes up with a general topic and we all produce pieces on it in the *unspecified period of time*. this is for poor sods like myself who can't think of anything to contribute on. sigh.

Labels: other

i once found me on a bluff,
overlooking the sea so rough;
where i saw an eb’ny sail,
from whence came a deathly wail.

and on that morbid ship i saw,
a sight which left me rapt in awe;
for on that vessel clothed so dire
did i see my funeral pyre.

turning then i saw before me,
sheets of ice enshrin’d the sea;
where no life was wont to dwell,
where only ocean currents swell.

turning back to ship, i heard
my name; a second time; a third;
i saw the wooden pyre blaze
outshining even the sun’s rays.

and yet those rays of gold; upon
the icy cloak didst break the dawn;
and yet the flames did ever rage,
a fruitless war to ever wage.

and so did sea and ship and soul
upon that bluff myself console;
for now i knew i had to go,
away from land and life to row.

“cast your body”, did i reckon
the ocean to me did thus beckon;
“immolation”, whispered tongues,
the flames their soulful song thus sung.

so my soul to west didst turn,
even as the fires burned;
so my soul from land did fly,
underneath the azure sky.

and as the ship approached the bay,
so did the current make it sway;
and as it neared the shore i knew
i had to pay my mortal due.

and thus my heart is now in ag’ny,
for the sea cries out to me;
yet i cannot the wail forget;
glory’s spell enthralls me yet.

to live in cold or die in fire;
shall my lifeblood stain my pyre?
or shall i live for life alone,
shall my soul the ice entomb?

Labels: poetry

responding to adam's call. i intend to do better ones with more time; this came out in a minute or two.

NOSTALGIA
Two times five was ten;
But what is math to us now?
dy by dx.

comments plz!

Labels: poetry

Ah! the silence, darkness, peacefulness that comes with night
No more noise, no brightness, foolishness- the daytime's plight.
Night bequeaths to dreamers, grievers life impossible in day.
Her cold embrace comforts, stills the pain our hearts display.

Night! the cursed maiden, still is grieven for the world
You comfort! But you weep, and we sleep within your hold.
Glory past! Twilight years. All our fears, our dreams are made.
What we were, we will be, we will see in your dark shade.

Fair maid of the evening! Weeping beside mankind's bed
What you can do, doing, giving hope to lifes long dead
Nurt'ring, tender loving dreams beginning, hopes at dawn
Then to daylight relinquishing, so they may be born.

And for this selfless gift, we fear! We hate the darkness
Wishing for the daylight! That we might see for ourselves.
Then our dreams disappear, and we live in day again.
Live in daylight, sunlight, living light and day and pain.

Weary then, at the end, of the day we will return
To your bosom, your heart, And our memories in turn
Fade to black. And our dreams, and our hopes wil be beginning
In the night. In the dark. And our dreams, begin to sing.

Labels: poetry