Call Me Maybe
In the solemn silence,
I hear your call,
O Lord.
Call me away from the things of the world.
Call me into the light,
call me into the white sky.
Twilight
Hear a song of quiet
that rises acute after the furore
of the heavens has ceased,
when death holds its quiet sceptre
like a song.
As some say of Baldur or Christ,
a god murdered
whispers in the corner
of this dark room underground,
spread like the shadow of blood.
The heavens creaked slightly,
like a ship about to fall.
The sky like a red sea
waves across the scene,
and hides it
spread like the shadow of blood.
The heavens creaked slightly,
like a ship about to fall.
The sky like a red sea
waves across the scene,
and hides it
mercifully.
Room
Quiet
and still,
the lighted adder
slithers away.
It darts away like a light
without a snake.
Like the light of a world around
as you faint and fade to black,
stung by its venom.
Yet even its scales are hidden
behind the light upon them.
Not Much Solace
"Alas," he said,
"My mistress is so cold,
Sometimes I wonder that her heart
is not frozen."
He said this unprompted
in an elevator
with 3 others in it.
Cry
Lost, and calm,
the moon wanders
the solemn night.
The stars are pale
like a hidden crypt
has let out its ghosts
on the screen of the sky.
Like whispers the silhouettes
of far lands,
over the buildings around.
Like silence the speech
of the sky.
Like the silence hung between
you and I.
Sanctuary
A sad song for the summer
laughs wistfully through the trees,
knowing that summer is carefree
for somebody.
It sings in hidden sorrow,
and in anguish.
A song for the winter
mourns apace,
for the shelters that shall hide
those away
as though winter's fierce frost never blew.
They cry out to the ancient Agni,
to set alight the frolicking gardens
that disturb sorrow.
They cry out to the ancient Varun,
to set the frost into an order
that re-arranges the world below.
People celebrate together, yet behind walls,
yet behind the cheers
are only closing doors.
Wisdom is on the street,
yet can find no home,
and no place to scream
those things it must.
Salvific
We recover
when we seem astray
for the Lord works
in other ways.
When we avoid
the sin we rushed towards,
we find compensation
in Heaven.
Set in stone
When Jesus turned
in his grave,
the sound was loud enough to sound
like resurrection.
Sky
This chaffinch flies
surely
as though the wind could take it
nowhere it wasn't needed.
To no white canopy
where it was unwelcome.
White
In the white light
a quiet creeps
while the cry of a hidden, white bird
screams and hides the scene.
Why does Caissa weave
their mystical web
in shadow and light,
when it means so little,
there,
that one is in light or shadow?
Death sings
in dark places
in dark corners
and gives shelter.
A blurb to the only accurate historical novel
The author set themselves, in this novel,
the singular task of being ruler of the 19th Century.
They took 'Bismarck,' actually themselves, and allowed him to form
a peaceful 'utopia' without war,
which Marx eventually praised as, "The sparkling achievement
of mankind,
and the end of history."
However, above Bismarck they placed themselves,
and any other author that cares to dwell
on these things.
The author proclaimed, "I rule you,
and you shall consent to be ruled,
although as you are not able to consent or refuse,
as people might,
this might be difficult."
Although the peasants were up at arms,
they did not revolt,
or perhaps, as in dystopian novels,
they revolt, but were betrayed by -
the author, of course.
Yet for all that,
novels which care for being historical
are pure forgery.
That is not a virtue
that the novel form may have,
and we must all adapt to this.
Show Me
The birds assemble
in expectant flight,
waiting for the starling
to sing.
They may follow
its song to the stars,
and leave the earth.
They pass the clouds
like a woven carpet.
Sometimes it glistens
with the light of stars,
sometimes it glows red.
They watch the empty sky,
and they sing its songs.
Red mist
An intention lost
in venom;
Room
Quiet
and still,
the lighted adder
slithers away.
It darts away like a light
without a snake.
Like the light of a world around
as you faint and fade to black,
stung by its venom.
Yet even its scales are hidden
behind the light upon them.
Not Much Solace
"Alas," he said,
"My mistress is so cold,
Sometimes I wonder that her heart
is not frozen."
He said this unprompted
in an elevator
with 3 others in it.
Cry
Lost, and calm,
the moon wanders
the solemn night.
The stars are pale
like a hidden crypt
has let out its ghosts
on the screen of the sky.
Like whispers the silhouettes
of far lands,
over the buildings around.
Like silence the speech
of the sky.
Like the silence hung between
you and I.
Sanctuary
A sad song for the summer
laughs wistfully through the trees,
knowing that summer is carefree
for somebody.
It sings in hidden sorrow,
and in anguish.
A song for the winter
mourns apace,
for the shelters that shall hide
those away
as though winter's fierce frost never blew.
They cry out to the ancient Agni,
to set alight the frolicking gardens
that disturb sorrow.
They cry out to the ancient Varun,
to set the frost into an order
that re-arranges the world below.
People celebrate together, yet behind walls,
yet behind the cheers
are only closing doors.
Wisdom is on the street,
yet can find no home,
and no place to scream
those things it must.
Salvific
We recover
when we seem astray
for the Lord works
in other ways.
When we avoid
the sin we rushed towards,
we find compensation
in Heaven.
Set in stone
When Jesus turned
in his grave,
the sound was loud enough to sound
like resurrection.
Sky
This chaffinch flies
surely
as though the wind could take it
nowhere it wasn't needed.
To no white canopy
where it was unwelcome.
White
In the white light
a quiet creeps
while the cry of a hidden, white bird
screams and hides the scene.
Why does Caissa weave
their mystical web
in shadow and light,
when it means so little,
there,
that one is in light or shadow?
Death sings
in dark places
in dark corners
and gives shelter.
A blurb to the only accurate historical novel
The author set themselves, in this novel,
the singular task of being ruler of the 19th Century.
They took 'Bismarck,' actually themselves, and allowed him to form
a peaceful 'utopia' without war,
which Marx eventually praised as, "The sparkling achievement
of mankind,
and the end of history."
However, above Bismarck they placed themselves,
and any other author that cares to dwell
on these things.
The author proclaimed, "I rule you,
and you shall consent to be ruled,
although as you are not able to consent or refuse,
as people might,
this might be difficult."
Although the peasants were up at arms,
they did not revolt,
or perhaps, as in dystopian novels,
they revolt, but were betrayed by -
the author, of course.
Yet for all that,
novels which care for being historical
are pure forgery.
That is not a virtue
that the novel form may have,
and we must all adapt to this.
Show Me
The birds assemble
in expectant flight,
waiting for the starling
to sing.
They may follow
its song to the stars,
and leave the earth.
They pass the clouds
like a woven carpet.
Sometimes it glistens
with the light of stars,
sometimes it glows red.
They watch the empty sky,
and they sing its songs.
Red mist
An intention lost
in venom;
in the nettles
a body lies.
It must also be mentioned that,
though soon this shall be stripped,
they had title and estate.
a body lies.
It must also be mentioned that,
though soon this shall be stripped,
they had title and estate.
They died to defend their honour,
injured by barbed words.
injured by barbed words.
Do they still have honour to defend
when they are dead?
Steel
Heavy metal
poisoning
lead-like
stork-like
unfolding
the light
betraying
the glint of silver
like a stalagmite
on a green field,
poison
the veins
in the body lying nearby,
death
folding its ancient wings.
Loled at the Carly Rae Jepsen thing.. Cool poems
ReplyDeleteI'll read them in depth later, currently satisfied with first few.
Hevy metal \m/
ReplyDeleteNice blog again, I was on one you had earlier