name that poem

Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

Sins of our fathers

Once I do think,
I thought I was--
But that was well before

Those crystal ships
Capsized at sea;
Were lost, forevermore.

But that small fact,
Unknown to me
Made me myself abhor,

And lingering there,
Looked near and far,
But was alone on shore.

Untitled

Narrowing footsteps tread
An ever-widening asphalt track
That goes--
Oh, someone knows where
It goes,
But I am not that fortunate one.
My own footfall,
No longer audible
Amongst the stampeding masses.
Never was.
Will never be?
Or is--
Just only to another one,
One I yet know not.
Before, I thought,
I was alone,
I trekked beyond well-trodden earth,
I was David, standing tall with stalwart heart and even better aim.
But now I find I'm naught but swine,
Trampling pearls
Beneath my unsuspecting hoofs.

sleep

I know I have n't posted in a while... Rather than add a poem of my own (my play went up this weekend, and I have n't slept or written anything for about a week...) I figure I'll just add one of the works of my favorite po et, Emily Dickinson.

Poem 1551

Those―dying then,

Knew where they went―

They went to God's Right Hand―

That Hand is amputated now

And God cannot be found―

The abdication of Belief

Makes the Behavior small―

Better an ignis fatuus

Than no illume at all―

Oracular Perception?

What is it like to look out from your eyes

Your deep-set eyes, overshadowed

And engulfed by the surrounding desert-

parched skin, sun-cracked

with age, with time, with care?

White feather-tendrils fly loosely.

They would appear a halo,

A uniform halo in the light.

But now the mirage lies dormant,

Visible only in the observer's imagination.

The expressed desire is that of escape-

From the cap, the head or the life?

A bended figure like the bowed trunk

Of an ancient apple tree,

One that struggles to remain relevant,

Though it yields fruit no longer.

Inch-thick glasses set gingerly upon a volume,

A volume as cracked and aged

As the figure, the lonely? solitary shade

That shuffles slowly away.

Pages as frail and discolored

As the man,

Himself-

That which is therein contained,

In those fragile pages,

Cannot be discerned from such a distance-

From across the room, the tables,

The valley of death.

The edition doesn't ever matter

Except for the commentary,

The editor's notes, categorically imposed upon the text-

Nothing ever changes

But the font and page-numbers.

Know Thyself, And To Thyself...

It's the creeping, weeping sickness,
That cannot be described,
Or explicitly explained.
A penetrating sensation
Somewhere near the solar-plexus
That moves slowly down the gut.
Nervous energy emanating
From the brain,
The fingers,
The pen.
Can the soul be visible?

A palpitating heart,
Constricted,
But at once about to burst-
Hammering heavily at the breast.
Each pulse reverberates-
To think
To feel
To see
To know.
Impossibilities?
Perception reigns o'er
One's subjectivity.

A feeling, a misinterpretation,
An incomprehensible impression,
Causes physical pain.
Is that true-
Possible?
Thought processes
As coherent as the reflections
Of a shattered mirror-
The object known,
The suggested likeness
Unrecognizable as such.

The precipice of self-evaluation
In the realm of the unknown
Is naught-
Is everything.

A letter to Arlington, on the occasion of an approaching rendezvous.

Excuse me, but
I think you have something,
Some things of mine that
I'd like to have returned,
Please.

And yes, I know
How unreasonable,
Unthinkable,
Inconceivable the task might seem
to you,
to many.

I guess it's that I'd like it,
Them, returned in their original state,
The way they were before
You knew them, before
You received them,
So benevolently,
So gently,
So quietly.

I realize that it's not your fault,
That occasion of welcoming
Your guests to rest by your grassy knolls,
Your well-cultivated bed of stones.

I know you didn't force them to arrive,
To stay,
Ensconced by your fertile earth.
But I mistrust you nonetheless,
For having issued
That open-ended invitation,
Just by being.

But you're not malicious, no,
You patiently wait to receive them all,
And welcome them with open--
Grave, breathing visitors
Stand and applaud your ceremonial entertainment.

I wish your guests
Could appreciate that pomp and circumstance, but
I alone hear the bugle
That they will never,
Anymore.

Think it over,
Please.
I know your volition is not your own.
But I'll see you soon,
Since it remains my pleasure,
My duty,
To beautify,
To violate your pristine grounds
With pre-approved tokens of my undying devotion.

I won't be bringing any flags.

Sonnet - "Doubt"

When I awake to find you by my side,
I'm yet alone, before the crawling light
Has conquered the dull black remains of night
And your face still in shadow does abide.

This separateness must be relearned once more;
Two bodies, interwoven, intertwined
Became as one, as if searching to find
A missing piece of what each had before.

I rise and stir, while you are sleeping still,
And wonder if within your slumb'ring mind
Your dreams do touch on me, our souls aligned
Or if I stand divorced from conscious will--

But then your arm folds me in your embrace;
I'm brought back down to blissful ignorance.

Prose Poem

Queen Mab

The faerie queen only appears at that dark hour, the midnight hour, when unsuspecting deep-set slumbers can be disrupted by her call... She wears different colors by different days. In fact, sometimes no color at all, as, naked as naked can be, she facilitates the introduction: Morpheus, my liege, willkommen Sie hier. And thus that shape-shifter enters on in, and will become anything, everything for which anyone could hope or fear. Usually fear; for, if content, what is sleep but the emblem of happiness itself? These nighttime visions are but malignant hallucinations: There are no dreams here. End the delusion of a mortal masquerade: for in that sleep of death no dreams will come. Will they?

My first blog post ever

Hey all, This is my first ever blog post! More coming soon...