Choice

Ambivalence, that overworked device

Springs and cogs, stressed and wrought, imprecise

Mounting pressure as grit clogs the gears

Choices grind against the thrall of massing fears.

 

Armies marching toward the eve of dread war,

Clashing on bloody field reap injuries sore.

Still specters rise among the dead, seek hallowed light:

A haunted mind, besieged, knowing not rest or flight.

 

Perhaps if this barren land were just a dream

I could rip out the thread that binds the seam,

Separate the scraps and find peace in between

A haven where none would dare to intervene.

 

Treaty implausible, so it seems, for contending ideals,

Fractured dreams.  Yet if to one I grant the prize, the other appeals,

Oh, with fervent cries!  Can I suppress this other wish, stand steadfast;

Please, might I deny, forget…accept that now the die is cast?

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Dichotomy

Although, cheerfully, I am feeling better, the muse that governs blog posts appears to be lacking.  I hope that will change soon, else I shall have to force it.  Oh, all right, I usually force my blog posts, otherwise shyness would prevent me from posting anything.  Perhaps I’m merely feeling lazy?

In the meantime, I found this old poem I wrote for a class assignment when I was fifteen, and because I feel a desperate need to post something I’ll offer it to you now with the age caveat (otherwise I’d probably be too embarrassed to post this, too).  Its never had a name before, but I suppose Dichotomy is appropriate enough.

 

Behold the fiery gold of the past day,

Shining rare and bright along the way.

It bursts from soul and fire and spirit free,

Shines brilliantly out for all to see.

 

There meek and quiet stands its twin

Afraid that just to show itself would be a sin.

Its colors silver grey like the moon

It wishes peace to come all too soon.

 

The silver struggles violently with its soul

As the moon in silence wanes and becomes full.

The fire crackles far and burns new ground

Uncaring of the people it does astound.

 

The gold leaves its ashes far behind

It leaves the fertile soil for others in its mind.

The moon spills stars across a velvet sky

Then shrinks below the horizon with a melancholy sigh.

 

The sun will sink; the moon will rise again,

Rays of light will die and then begin.

Silver beams thrive off the burn of day

Ashes that are often far too grey.

 

And when the two do thrive side by side,

Here there one insulted; the other cried.

Where molten lava poured from ‘neath the ground

The raindrops pour and transform it to a blackened mound.

 

But then when ice does freeze one to the bone

The heat dares to save it all alone,

And so one and both do help to save the cause

To discover that without one ‘twould be a loss.

 

And so despite their troubles and their pains

With each other they would make far more gains.

Their time would be by far the best spent

Adding to one another’s accomplishments.

 

If everyone all the same would be

The world would pass its life in misery,

And same would be if all their time was spent

Trying not to be different.

The Well

There is a glass

Towering above,

Perfectly centered in

The middle of the table—

An oasis—

Dwelling among desiccated

Mahogany;

Its depths make

Lustrous the hues of

Worn magnificence

Cracked seams

Creaking joints

Bowing under sleight weight.

Ripples trembling

Across the water’s surface,

Unceasing miniscule wave;

Despite breaths caught

Fluids quake:

Spillover imminent.

I am parched

But the vessel

Tastes of ocean,

Sea spray,

The collective flow of agony…

Personal anguish,

Well of tears.

Shall we drink

To brighter times

The illusion buried in

Salty deeps

Or dive in

Wallowing among

The slosh and slap

Sinking beneath

Undulating aqueous mass

Questing for meaning,

Grasping at the rim: that

Continuous circle,

Repetitious pain.

Poem, Untitled

Do you deny me even now

  my lips declare

    this hasty vow?

Be aware

  my supplication

     is curs-ed hope

Wrenched, thus broken.

Molten pyrope

  drip thee down

    in passion’s inferno

I must drown

  as sweet notturno

    beckons deep

Wax moon floating…

Time to sleep.

Mired betwixt

  rapture and pit,

    I slink amidst

False graven writ;

   must this be

     my epitaph,

All of this, lamentably?

Words suffering thine autograph

  ages passing raise the mask,

    shroud perjured lines:

Permit to bask

  in veiled crimes,

    flagitious past.

Empyreal pearl…

Play is cast.

Son of ignobility

  dashing he, his artifice swayed

    pensive geniality,

from daughter of none, unwitting cade;

  never perceiving all the while

    pyrite aglitter

In his smile.

Bound fast by sacred scripture,

  cord-looped wrists

    I bore the future,

Ignored his trysts

  denied the rumour

    followed his call

Crescent waning…

See them fall.

Then the wee ones

  lying down

    wary of the blade he hones

Quite oblivious to my frown

  beg, have mercy

    take these crowns

Ah, but he was much too thirsty!

All is lacking, all I gave

  fractured cries

    cannot save

Though I see ‘neath his guise

  Flee in vain

    I must comply

Sinking moon…

Tonight we die.