Snow

Here's a poem (somewhat) in the style of E.E. Cummings.

Snow

snow(

(th)in (as) the (p)ages

of a Bible:

the very Word(s)

(and bread) of

God fall-

ing from heaven)

flakes

Sonnet 1

This is my first attempt at a sonnet (Petrarchan, in case you're curious.) Also, my family is in the process of watching the BBC production of Bleak House (by Dickens), and this sonnet somewhat has in mind Guppy's love of Esther.

Imago Dei 11/20/2010
When I do stoop to look on mountains high,
Or when through thickets ambling do I see
The vernal buds where dwells the honeybee,
Which, floating free as if the king of May
Does gorge himself on nectar at noonday
Like Bacchus in his evening revelry,
Or bend an ear to hear a symphony,
Or view the morn with single, squinted eye,
Then do I fear that thy too-distant face,
That surely out of deeper heaven shines
Its light, must be not of this earthly place
And in these lesser lights my heart repines
To know that I am dooméd to debase
What in my heart I know can ne'er be mine.

Redemption to the Unwilling

Redemption to the Unwilling 11/9/10
The trees outstretch their twiggy hands to stop the flow
and vainly try to keep the snow from touching down,
stretching out their tired limbs to hold the snow
which can't be kept from finally falling to the ground.

The clouds give up and move away to show the sun
which falls like swifter snow to warm the winter breeze.
But underneath the boughs, the snow is not yet done
and keeps on falling from the weary limbs of trees.

They could not stop the heavens' plan to cleanse with white
the crimson windblown death that fall of hope bereaves.
The very snow they tried to stop with all their might
now lands delayed and, with the clouds, creation grieves
until it falls to purge the ground and bring forth Easter leaves.

Comfort

The fall soccer season ended this weekend with the MCAA tournament. In our last game we were ahead 2-0 at half-time but ended up losing 2-3. Needless to say, the team was pretty disappointed. Also, I read some E. E. Cummings on the car ride which affected the style somewhat.

Comfort 10/23/10
The smell of sadness
softly settles
among the
silent spaces
between the
blades of grass.

yester-moment's madness is
forgotten in the so
(so so)
oppressive, down
cast eyes around.
and yet that chaos is
the forefront thought
in every mind
in a wilderness
of short-cut grass.

leaden feet remember
the feet of fire
flying past
heavy hands recall
the sound of air
filled boulders rushing by,
somehow distant, like...

in a dream when danger
rushesnearand
you are
paralyzed. to move.
and noone can wakeup
from where our chances fled
and it all comes down to this
to this
this:

are we many
or are we one?

for if despair
can kill the one,
man
y are finished

For islands small are whelmed by waves
But granite cliffs a redoubt make.

and as the minds of everyone
fall
far and far
away
it feels like we are
falling stars
alone in skies of night
no constellations to unite
us.

And miles away,
across the grass
the green clad mass
casts echoes of joy
through hollow air.
And if you squint your eyes
and breathe the humanity on the wind
(not so) deeply,
they almost feel like one...

Tomorrow mourning
we sat around
our cluttered break
fast board
and shared in sad camaraderie
and eggs and buttered toast,
no banner to bring home and hang, merely
One
another's words to pass the time.

And the
man
y green
men
of yesterday
use their phones
to call their folks
to tell them
"what a game we(I) had"

Battle for Beauty

Battle for Beauty 10/9/10
The sunrise smears its colors beneath the clouds
like bread with butter on the bottom...

like Dr. Seuss
remember: all those funny people fought for
nothing,
for butter-side up or butter-side down...

Who would fight
after catching a glimpse
of beauty like this?
Or who could keep from war
after only a glimpse...
For everyone longs for the
better-side down.
Is this why we fight?
For a nothing of a
beauty-chase?
For where is a
beautiful nation?
A unified land?
Is this why we battle
when we gaze at the clouds
with their better-side down?

Facing True Death

Facing True Death 9/14/2010
"That vacuum's getting awfully heavy."
as she wrapped her wrinkled fingers around the wine glass stem,
fingers hard (as the pieces of a fallen ring,)
and soft (as the ribbons of eighty Christmases.)

She glanced out the window towards the porch sipping wine
not thinking about the bigger porch in Bayside
long ago
where they used to sit
in the warm summer sun,
and where too many farewells were said.

She looked at the window and saw only the glass
and her grandchildren sitting near,
polishing off their chocolate pudding,
and she clung all the tighter to the slender glass stem.

For there is nothing past the glass (except the porch)
There must be nothing past the glass (except the porch)...

Then why is the stem about to break
from clinging far too tight
to an almost empty glass?
The bottle's nearly
gone...

And she knows that time is short,
ever shorter
the children's laughter sounds old,
somehow older
like a memory from a nightmare
to forget
and that vacuum's getting
awfully,
awfully
heavy.

Unmade

Unmade 10/2/10
a thousand eyes,
designed by One who sees
all things

whirring wings,
designed by One who need
not rest

an armored shell,
designed by One who cannot
die
for long

And careening into nothing,
Flying in and out of sight,
To land lightly like a leaf
On the very edge of night
Where it lingers for a moment
Till its final fleeting...

Hand.

Sweeping down like a scroll unfurling,
Crushed legs and withered wings
That tumble down, no more to hover o'er the deep,
And the hand goes back to wipe off
One that was a fly; but, rest my soul,
it's dead.