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At last in parting ways,
Now there to every world,
My words have firmly left,
My mouth to strangely dwell
In public squares estranged from this dear earth.
A double joy it is to read,
My musings in strict verse,
To let my old self kindly lead,
My praises near to burst,
O painted pictures, all the scenes,
My memories - the dirth,
Of many inmost melodies,
My growing man - the birth.
Old poems as familiar rooms,
Some spacious and a little cramped,
"O here is some inspired rug"
"O goodness, what an ugly chair"
And so in sprawling unward house,
My soul in all its timeswept colours paints the walls.
It's been a while since I have mused,
On writing all this poetry,
But feeling dry, somewhat confused,
I turn to such a trusty tree,
"I've carved so many pages from you now,
Old oak of my prolonging ponderance,
We've seen the flowers and their fields in blue,
The far flung hills and precious starlight coats,
We've looked upon all manners of the race,
Those close and far perfected strangers, such,
Joyed saints in silver crowns and rosy cheeks,
I've seen myself become so changed, old oak,
And you so riddled now with words, my words."
The joys of stacking stack on stack,
Filling piles with scrambled thought,
The generous pen upon the page,
Lies flat upon the ceding pale,
The ink encumbered with a heavy toll,
Becomes a faithful squire,
Carries on my swift reply,
Away to estranged questioners,
Displaced through the time by this same means I lean upon.
Divergent interests harmonise within a life,
Fitting in it dioramas - textured microcosms of the world,
Afforded when the passions roll between so many things,
Although the juggle is a frantic dance itself.
If I were a squire,
Upon the tails of olden days,
If I were a journalist,
Enthralled in all the city and its thrust,
If I were a humble monk,
Thinking on the mysteries of all:
I'd have a different page to mark,
My words would veer through countries far,
I'd have a plot to chase through streets of glass,
Yet here I sit at the end of whimsy,
I'd see the world remains as bright as always was,
I have my words to write.
Words sculpted with aerospace precision,
Dressing parts in glimmers of obligation,
Hard edges to a vacant sense of function,
Perhaps the clarity of the component's reflection,
Is a sense of security though it cools the heart.
I wonder what to write about,
When my thinking now runs dry,
Like smoke wafting from a barrel's snout,
Like sizzling drops that bead after a fry,
A charming sight with all the visuals tells,
Nay, a lonely height without its depths,
I'll find them when the next day's felled.
A poem as I feel obliged,
To discipline myself to strength,
To give a nod to all the joys I've had when pushing through,
To uphold the chain through echoed time,
To craft a banner that I dare to hold out too,
A poem now just broken through the tide.
I won't refrain from writing,
And other such litotes,
The sky is hardly dim,
But golden haze that bleeds into a lilac glow.
The trees are far from withered,
But instead a lively sight,
I scarcely consider this a shame,
Instead a weighty image of His might.
A taste for art, what kind, what kind?
Why, pictures made in words of course,
Why, pictures made in sparsely squares,
Why, pictures in a photo and a sketch,
The art became a techy taste,
Then beckoned me to learn with haste,
How to make art with such a taste,
How to make art at its own pace.
Delay a poem 'till it ripens into theme,
Wandering until the steps are gazed upon,
Searched for quips and rhyming scheme,
Slumped slothful atop some topics forgone.
Writing for the discipline,
To ensure I make at least one thing,
To ensure I tackle tactics of creative sort,
Writing so my mind is taught,
To think along these different lines,
To think upon my gifted humanity sublime.
I'm truly glad you're strung along,
For all my wandering and song,
I'm tickled that you dare to stay,
For my artistic whim and varied play,
I find that when I open up,
My empty head into the cup,
Of wordy thoughts, it crashes out,
A poem on the talk of poems -
A poem found in mental drought.
Poemise the day,
In parcels packaged with pensive thought,
Partial rhymes I posed and sought,
Then I plucked without delay,
Full rhymes and riches from the air,
Plumes and dust from a slow care,
To nurse a slowly day,
At once it quickened,
The cold air thickened,
All is hot and frantic on the way,
A chattered greeting into tussles,
Softballs landing squarely by the hustles,
Always good - great fun to play.
I'll have a poem - two to go!
Please sprinkle in the crazy words...
Like jazzfunkle.
The kind that gives the impression of...
Something rambotent but that never holds a glass -
Of water, never solid but a vapour,
Of something hazy yet familiar.
The beating heart thrums loud unsaid,
From a beckoned chest - an urge to dance,
No, nod your head, your feet like lead,
The world is quiet listening still,
To unlyrics from jazzfunkle's quill,
Deeper than you know is you,
Yet you it is, for you see you move,
Your face turns sombre even stern,
To chew on rambotent lines and turns.
---
Nonsense poems what a laugh,
I see you puzzling at my path,
Its more than fun to walk on through,
I guess from over there I'm quite kookoo.
Old Shakespeare once told me,
He saw a man to the chaps unseamed,
Wait no - He was simply just privy,
To the musings of his quill and ge-
-nius a depth of meaning forcibly,
Made known in plays that march like poems.
Oh, I forgot to tell you that it's me,
You probably guessed it:
You've been Eugene'd,
About that incident yestereve,
I took a supernovella in my arms,
Wiped my brow and steeled my calm,
I ran into the depths of mind to watch,
The flash of definition in the pan,
A light of symbol in the dark,
I watched it delve into the lines of space,
Unseam it's deepest meaning to the chaps,
How did I return to tell the tale?
Do I not look like Mr E. DeGooseman to you?
\- Eugene DeGooseman
Clear out all you with your semantic antics,
This whole operation is reaching critical mass!
Too many poems to search and remember,
Too many poems to contain in one moment,
It's semiotic folds cry halt at the onslaught of words,
Yet this foreboding marks the end,
The symbolic degeneracy pressure falters on its knees,
I hear the rumblings of the end -
A supernovella is upon us!
Pooooooooooommmmmm.. . . . .
Three of fours,
Make way for two,
At least there's only one,
But gladly it is half of four,
A language that does dance in lines,
That makes the numbers merry acts,
That turns itself in knots to do
A magic trick in metred step,
What gift it is this language broad,
It's cry I heeded: All Aboard!
So now it's mine a gleaming sword,
Cut gems of phrase I can't afford.
Plucking a poem from the air,
Wisps of cloud form droplets in my grasp,
Condense to drip down fingers taut,
A chaotic distilling file outstretched,
These stanzas held like dearest dreams,
In ever-refracting light
To stillest rainbows in the beads.
A poem returning to sleep,
A topic for all days...
That end in tumbles down to duvets,
And quiet contemplation in the night,
Eyes closed... or open in the dark,
All's same in this returning land,
Yet tired whispers ring like wind-chimes,
A gentle call to turn in quick,
That crashes into raucous harmony,
And then to silence urging you the same.
...
Poem problem:
It's time to solve another stanza,
Slotting in the words,
Like glossy jigsaw pieces,
That form a not-quite-grid,
That's lined with smooth little bevels.
Sifting through the archives,
What a gift my Lord has laid,
Of fragments of his Glory shining,
In my lap for days and days,
To sit with me and dwell so near,
To mark with me His glory along the way,
On the pages of my life,
As He shows me to obey.
Where is the poem?
Not now I assumed,
But as now leapt on,
I ponder anew,
Is the poem now here,
Unfinished but due,
Awaiting full stop,
Each poem's sole muse,
For every poem must end,
To this end its true,
Where is the poem?
The poem's now with you.
A poem if you please,
Six lines, no more I'm quite busy,
Well if its good we'll have to see,
A time ago I wrote like thee,
But the speare is shaken free,
I am left without such word-smithery.
Poemise the day,
A snapshot for another...
Me or someone not the same,
On a train I talked to a brother,
The divide bridged by our Lord's might,
And talk flowed through the generations.
Walking on a snowy afternoon,
A sight as enchanted as its rare,
It does not deign to linger soon,
Like faeries in the molting air,
I walk on slowly as you do,
Beneath light sift to palest glare,
My mind trots on a little tune,
To make a poem strung and fair.
I'll be down the stairs,
Not fully through but on.
And on I search for words in pairs,
But quickly I am gone,
Back up the stairs for all my cares,
Whisk me away to laughter's song,
To share a thought and off be down the stairs.
I introduce another meta-poem,
That turns reflective on the very act,
That seems to ever ponder why they come,
Come down to greet me in my mind again,
Come down and sit a ductile metal cold,
And that I steer to something captivating,
But never draw out far to scorn its roots,
I find that as I watch a poem it,
Unfolds to something given and received.
Where is here?
A place in space,
A step in time,
A still small house by rolling fields,
A wooden frame,
A seated mind,
A world unto itself that introspects,
But I am here,
This... I cannot deny,
I'll crystallise this moment now,
For another moment then.
A year has passed by in my wake,
And poems flow like water now,
A closer friend to hear my thoughts,
Enshrine the days, imperfect jars,
For me to look and cobble back,
My days, their ends, their troubles, joys,
For me to hold a stack on stack,
Of tales of the wide land between,
Who I became and who I've been.
I didn't have a poem,
But He called me then to pray,
Lord craft in me a poem,
Lord teach me what to say,
For I am like a desert,
That forgets its very thirst,
He'll show in me my needs,
And meet them ever first,
For I'll walk with him tomorrow,
Just as I have today,
And learn to not forget,
My need, my want, my love.
Gift of words,
To make thoughts heavier,
To give them legs and stride,
To place them in the public square,
To pour them in a mold to set,
To grasp them when they are forgotten,
And dress them in a crafted coat.
I once heard,
That poems reach out,
And stoop their shortest,
As a single symbol,
Foreign even to forgotten scripts,
But that's a cop out,
Instead I'll settle,
For blowing hot air about it.
Poemetise my vocabulary,
And it's ductile to my pinching claws,
I warp and worbble words galore,
I write in sounds and whispered thoughts,
It's left me looking at it merry.
Given language, rhythm tune,
Given time to dance and praise,
What tools we have to image you,
What gain we have to seek your face,
And woven to each note and hop,
Are calls to devote them yet again.
Poems to share deep shallow reflections,
To call you to my mental world,
My map of language and shaped sound,
My blooming model for how things what,
Their names, their means, the people too,
I see them and I think and write,
The Lord, my Friend, my Shepherd too,
I see Him and I think and write.
I tinker in creative clatterings,
A mental world conceived, given sound, song,
Melodramatic anthems for reflections,
To the ground in all its fury.
Standing here I tap away,
And wonder how this leaning frame,
Finds balance true in doubtless dance,
From tendons, bones that hold me there,
And guiding brain that seems to pair,
My motions with my active mind,
And on two feet I stand upright.
Too sleepy for a celebration,
But instead the slightest smile abounds,
That tells of satisfaction here and now,
That tells of time invested that seems to wow
Even me the author of these many words,
Praise the Lord, for by grace I write in freedom proud.
Emergent from the ordered mind,
I tap it out onto a screen,
Meditative in passing days,
Sometimes lighter than I glean,
Playful are the rolling archives,
Bursting with my have-been thoughts,
Majestic they flows like echoes of His,
He ordered first and ordered mine.
In the waking twilight,
The sky looms still,
Amused in dying passions of colour,
A school of stars swim frozen in the timeless seconds,
Stalled out of sight behind the withering elation of evening,
Perplexed, the outside world is grasped in overbearing memory,
Locked out by windows then eyelids before it is encased in my head,
I bend it slightly to convey a folded beauty,
And I spill it out onto this virtual page,
Light as paper,
Pen flowing as binary charge.
Busied hands,
Fall tired on the screen,
Limp and sleep-primed,
But first a little more busy tapping,
And then a handy dream,
To rest the mind that rhymed,
And exceed a long time napping.
Hard pressed,
For poems don't seem to flow from a tap,
But grow even whilst I nap,
For such good gifts only fall from His lap,
Into mine and all thoughts and rhymes,
Are a blessing divine,
And I'm left grateful,
That poems came again,
That we carved them out together.
Words are falling out,
Tumbled down and found,
Neatly in long rows encrusted,
Creaking at the cringing edges,
And with a little give they are pushed into place,
Snap.