Wednesday, October 7, 2009


This is my first draft of Masquerade written in the form of a Sestina. I'm not completely happy with the ending word "princess" I chose. Thinking of reworking those lines.


School is no place to haunt from shadows,
So instead I am cast to revealing limelight,
Playing the role of pampered princess.
Much as one would watch and listen to caged songbird,
I am displayed with delight, and joy heard as my music,
As I rejoice in the drama that is my mask.

But can one rejoice in that which is but a mask?
Can one exist in light with such a shadow?
When on display, I must silence my true music,
Each glance yet another terrible searchlight,
Digging to discover I am truly a mockingbird,
As within this molded clay I contain my own secret princess.

But who, you ask, is this secluded princess?
She is like me, for she also wears a mask,
And has similar freedom as those caged songbirds.
Contrary to I, she fights for her desecrated land, smeared in shadow,
And garbed as a warrior, she climbs for the light,
Using her strength, noble Link, and her lullaby's lifting music.

Oh, what I would give to share her melodies, her music,
But caged as I am in this masquerade of pink princess,
I continue to shade my passion from that searing light,
My salacious obsession shrouded and masked.
I fear discovery of my shameful love, cloaked in shadow,
For exposed I’ll be little more than a yard bird.

What I would give to not be this trapped bird!
To be with those listeners of Indie Music.
For my secret to be illuminated, not sealed in shadow.
I could be a whole new type of princess,
And throw on a pristine image and cast aside this misplaced mask,
And guide my illicit love into the scorching sunlight.

But for now, that dream is as distant as starlight,
A castle in the sky to cast out with the thunder birds.
My only hope is to one day find another, perhaps so masked,
And reach out to him with Saria's cheery music.
My own Link hidden in life's harsh shadow,
Ready to save the world of his beloved princess.

Until that majestic dawn whence tepid shadow shifts to warm light,
I stand resolved as both royal princess and jailed songbird,
And lilt my music, waiting behind this glass mask, anticipating more.

Thursday, September 10, 2009


Each fair day I wake to hear the morning lark,
Chirping loud above the babble present here,
Screams that rupture my blissful morning's rare sleep,
Rested state so quickly dissipates as air.

Days continue on in patterns much like this,
Screamo tunes arise from the brothers' dark lair,
Clanking pots and pans from Mother's morning haste,
Slamming doors, the morning's harsh own Reveille.

Yet Today, at last, a change has come about,
Quiet day, I rise to hum from fan above,
Difference found at silence' soft and silky touch,
Clamor finally shushed, yet felt so far away.

I should find joy in euphony averted,
But now I feel as flake's first drop at Fall's dawn,
Drifting, shaking, down into the broad unknown,
I turn on Underoath and imagine home.

Sunday, August 23, 2009


Yeah, never gonna get the weeks done right. So here's a poem anyway. This is called a Rictameter but it's got a bit of a twist in that the letter "a" is unused.

Euphonies rise
Through the sweet solitude
Found strung through roiling symphony
Between bell tolls ringing out rhythmic tones.
There lies the fine truth of sound's hushed neighbor:
Expression muted holds no lure
Devoid sweet unbound
Sound to couple

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Week 18

I haven't felt very creative lately. I think this project is just gonna take longer than a year to complete, haha. But I wrote this to commemorate the lives and deaths of three kings and a queen of media that have passed on last week.

Death in Threes

They say that death shall raid in groups of threes,
And truthfully it seems to me they do,
For this past week was plagued with loss of these,
And so we mourn them all with eyes subdued.

When Ed Mcmahon was lost at eighty-six,
The world gave trembling sighs for his sad death,
For with him gone we'll miss the Carson mix,
As both the ancient stars have lost their breath.

After him, Farrah Fawcett met her end,
Fighting cancer as only angels do,
But though her fight is over she ascends,
As we recall her beautiful hair-do.

Third death to course, Michael Jackson passed on,
A man of mystery, both black and white,
And though he will never see another dawn,
It's those he touched with music that still might.

We thought the deaths were done with Pop's true King
For three is plenty, we all must agree,
But only Billy Mays, the Advert King,
Would give another ABSOLUTELY FREE!

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Week 17

This is based on The Wayfarer's Redemption series by Sara Douglass.
Never Forget My Name

Let me tell you my child, of my own tired life.
I've endured a childhood filled with horror and strife,
My father of falsehood who had slain my mother young,
Tore out my wings when each feather grew strong.

Perhaps it was fear that drew him 'long that path,
But I'm more inclined to think twas the Plow-Keeper's wrath,
The hate of The Forbidden they preached to us all,
But we know now the truth. We've seen Artor's great fall.

My mother laughed with joy as she saw my wings thrive,
And said to me, "I knew your proof of godhood would arrive!"
But sadly the Plow-Keeper saw them far too soon,
And destroyed my life right there in that room.

Oh, even now I can hear her last tortured screams,
As I hid from the sight of the horrendous things,
But his torture of my life was not quite complete,
And he turned back to me with a gaze of heat.

He tore out my wings with his righteous vigor apparent,
Choosing to torment my life, his own became quite errant,
My mother is buried there, outside and alone,
For now only I know where her body was thrown.

Even now, with the Plow-Keeper long gone,
I regret that I cannot hear my mother's song.
Her name is lost, forever perhaps unknown,
So now I request that you never forget my own.

And truth is shown in your bounding light,
For now I know true peace after long blight,
"Azhure!" you say with boisterous glee,
"Never fear mother, I'll always remember thee."

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Week 16

Catch-up week. =)

Fluidity of Motion
-a tale of competition

Mine own heart be wise to 'ware this
Invocation my body speaks now. Its intentions
Nigh but leave hooks upon my soul as crabgrass
Infests the soft sinew of life upon the yard.
More the fool am I to think I can triumph,
And yet, the fluidity I am born shall rise as a
Lion amongst sheep, a strength amongst weakness.
Internal monologue aside, my muscles flare as fireworks
Spark upon dry reeds and the clay home for my soul fixates
Toward the goal, and the promise of wine and merriment beyond.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Week 15


To view a flower such as thee,
to garden home I'd stretch my feet.
I'd sit among the plants all day
and contemplate their windblown sway,
their soft green limbs that climb the sky,
and vibrant petals please the eye.
What use they serve I cannot know,
for waste of space is all that shows,
and while those small lives may still thrive,
for you that path is but demise.
The rose may grow within this world,
as fruitless life becomes unfurled,
but you who naught but see thy self,
in stylish dress and hoards of pelf,
can grow no more than mere seedling,
and be naught but the life you cling.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Week 14

Caught in a Moment

As night the lights give naught but silent shade
and tightness within gives way to new calm.
My hand held out awaiting her feather
touch, and peace stretches long in timelessness.

Glow at last illuminates the dark stage
and brings to light the radiance of...her.
She stands so still, as ice at circle's edge,
but contrast to that, beauty's wings unfold.

I may be stark and black in tux and tie,
but her! She floats within a sea of blue
silk, veins of gold, and ruby stitch. Each gem
sparks as dew on gossamer thread at dawn.

The fine hum of a viol fills the air
and the butterfly takes glorious flight!
Watch her flutter and float, the stage is hers,
she glides as time unfolds to my embrace.

If one were but to view her smiling face,
they'd think dance was ecstasy embodied,
but from seats below one sees performer's
grace, effortless on grandiose display.

A tinckling chime as water's trickle sounds,
and her fluttering by suspends, timeless.
Her long wings presented in flying arc,
perched upon me her leaf, the darkness falls.

And sound of breaking waves surrounds eternal.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Week 13

I think I'm a week behind...ah well, I'll catch it up.

So Wrong, So Right

As scorching sun sets, soft moonlight takes hold
of me, its cool radiance casts shadows
upon my face and the door preceding
takes upon an overwhelming image.

My tie is straight and strong, my coat is strong
and straight-- my heritage presented, proud;
I boldly rap my fist upon the gate
ahead, and await upon the butler's grace.

A slight thrill of shock consumes as eyes wide
I view the profile of Lady Sandra.
Where is the butler? Why would she greet me?
This speaks ill for the night and meal to come.

I wave away my coach and enter, slow
strides across the uncomfortably bare
hall and bow above the Lord's open hand
and join the two to converse and to dine.

Where I expected sparkling jewels, trophies,
and artifacts, instead I find blank space
upon the walls and simple fare instead
of feasts. And yet I am drawn to partake.

We speak in light, my Lady sat beside
a glow within her eyes. Her joy is bright
illumination within these dark walls.
I remain at odds; Is she a pauper?

This dilemma rolls through my mind, jumbling
stores of ill thoughts and abundant queries
lose from the rafters. What would my mother
say when I told her? The respect she'd lose.

I glance again to my courted Lady
And see her joy undiminished. Un-phased
she sips her tea and nibbles her fare,
as I wonder what her beauty is worth.

My spoon dives deep into the simple soup
of country herbs and thin, light, meat--rabbit?
But what is this odd taste? Flavor mismatched
to set in which we act our sordid scene.

Expecting simple fare, as it is seen,
instead I taste a shocking share of suc-
culent sauce and much to my mind's great shock,
I find my meal to be richer than seen.

The joy aside my seat shifts and then I know
the truth in that instant. She is indeed
worth the time, worth the drop, for she may be
plain in substance, but so rich in flavor.

My mother may speak ill of me, my pa
may scorn as well, but in the end I've seen
the light. She is wrong to look down at me,
as she will see, when I pledge life to love.

In end the evening halts with no great scene,
and I'm walked kindly to the door. I find
the night a soft comfort again, and I know
That I'll return, as starlight guides me home.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Week 12

This poem is written as a Rondel. A Rondel is a medieval French verse written in 13 lines with only two rhymes in its three stanzas. It employs a two‐line refrain which opens the poem and recurs at lines 7 and 8, the first line (or, in a 14‐line variant, both opening lines) also completing the poem. The rhyme scheme—with the repeated lines given in capitals—is thus ABba abAB abbaA (B). Although it has no fixed meter, I have a tendency to write with ten syllables per line...Anyway, enjoy. =)


In search of prophesy come look to me,
In sweetened tea, I am the crinkled leaves,
You have no need this day to drop the eaves,
Look deep within my hidden depths and see.

I know you're bound. See me! I am your key,
I am the light in your much darkened eves,
In search of prophesy come look to me,
In sweetened tea, I am the crinkled leaves.

Stretch forth your hand and take safety, I plea!
I, your calm amidst storms and violent seas,
Your shining knight against our love's dark thieves,
Allow a dance for future's jubilee,
In search of prophesy come look to me.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Week 11

Muse From Spirit's Sheets (Acrostic/Vilanelle)

Talent wanders in and finds her time,
How sweet the sound of the muse's beats,
Enjoy it all, the rhyme on rhyme.

Pour your heart out, the time is prime,
Our grasping minds await your treats,
Ecstatic muse! Wander in, it is your time!

Threads of meter, as silent harps they chime,
Silent passion engulfs our mind's long streets,
And all rejoice in the rhyme on rhyme.

Nocturnal passion! From dreams they climb,
Called upon the muse from spirit's sheets,
Talent wanders in and finds her time.

Unheard dreams stretch forth in sound sublime,
Acrostics across the board lure us from seats,
Reflected dreams wander in--it is her time,
Yearning for the beautiful rhyme on rhyme.

The Rise A Series of Haiku upon the life of a tree.

Softly plink a' plink
Mist rises off mother's womb
Life nurtured in peace

Belov├ęd son rests
Warm embrace fosters new soul
Constant beat comforts

Soil shifts as sprouts spread
Shy birth touched by radiance
Dawn breaks on new life

Fierce spirit perched high
Reaches with tendrils of life
Caress youth with care

Orange leaves dance slowly
Caught amid fall's righteous truth
But twirl on in bliss

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Week 10

Thoughts for this piece inspired by: The Lady of Shalott.

Please view all ~~ as a "tab"
A Thought About Shalott

I sit within my walls and brood,
The dark surrounds and feeds my mood,
My eyes at rest but thoughts prevail,
Each image viewed through black veil,
~~Each thought I know is Wrong.
At times I feel as the Lady Shalott,
Her life was hell, was it not?
She was cursed, and it spawns my thought,
~~Who at least will sing my Song?

The Lady knew a curse upon her lay,
Yet peaced she sat weaving each day,
She viewed the world through her large mirror,
And of the curse she had no fear,
~~But even this, it must be Wrong.
She saw the world's reflection alone,
And knew no longing till she heard a tone,
Lancelot singing along, the seeds he'd sown,
~~She found at last a true Song.

But what of me? I live as she,
I sit stagnant, unbound but not free,
While friends and family go on with life,
Some with jobs, others get wives,
~~What is it that I've done Wrong?
Am I cursed as she to live solitaire,
Or is even that curse a curse too fair?
A life as theirs cannot be so rare,
~~I simply wish to share my Song.

Though bound in string I may not be,
Nor true curse I cannot now see,
Yet my feet hold firm to this constant spot,
While they move on with nary a thought,
~~I must have done Wrong.
Soon, I know, my lure will ride by,
And along with her my dreams will fly,
A love with beauty and humor so wry,
~~She will know me and share my Song.

Until that day I still sit and ponder,
What it'd take to make me wander,
To travel out among the crowds,
And find a love that I can wow,
~~This dream cannot be Wrong.
I refuse to end as the Lady Shalott,
Alone upon her barge, begriming a rot,
I will find the love I've sought,
~~Someone to love and share my Song.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Week 9

Nani is my kitty, btw. Figured I'd toss that out there for the title to make sense =)

The sound of elephants romping along,
Its echo potent on the hard wood floor,
Each step a feroce beat in half-voiced song,
A melody hid in staccato throng,
Her paws strike 'long and strong like drums of war.

A poignant pause from the cacophony,
As all at once the rumbling foot-steps cease,
The silence rolls on--then a howling plea,
The yowl evokes the heart of a banshee,
Before again resumes the quiet-the peace.

Her mood pitches much like the roiling sea,
At times so still and sweet--but then a keen.
I'm drawn around the corner to go see,
And there she sits as fine as royalty,
Her low meow as regal as a queen.

She's perched before a portal to the night,
Her eyes stare out with their internal shine,
A silent foe within her hunter sight,
The enemy will fall without a fight,
The door withheld! She leaves no sign.

Saturday, February 28, 2009

Week 8

Warning: Mature Message
Back And Forth

Torn between one lust and more,
Saw myself in your dark door,
Fiery passion in the night,
Love with you is one long fight.

Oh baby sweet I see your eyes,
I know the truth behind your lies,
You act so dark--mysterious,
But your big heart, it beats for us.

Heart, what heart? What is this bull?
In my loins I feel the pull,
What you see behind my eyes?
Thirst, that's what, so feel me rise.

My friends, they say I can't trust you,
And tell me oft' to say we're through,
They preach of how you act the fool,
And how you think with just your tool.

Truth! I swear that looks enthrall,
Chest and leg and lips and all,
Depth in me? You search in vain,
Prize, conquest! I say it plain.

Not true, I say, you know it's not,
These things you say with no true thought,
Your little rose you called me once,
Where are the words of eloquence?

Gone they are, my little tush,
Lord! I strive for just your bush,
Blind your eyes to my poet past,
Now I speak with just my mast!

These jokes you give, oh so bawdy,
They cannot hurt for I still see
You how you were those years ago,
And that's the man that I still know.

False answers are what I give,
Delve no more! As I do live,
Can't you see I need this life?
Need this pain? Need all this strife?

For that, my love, with you I stay,
And for your peace, still I will pray,
I see a change, your memory?
I see us twined eternally.

Convinced me, Love, 'least for now,
Change me, please, for I do vow,
You are all I live to see,
Power of love, set me free.

And so two hearts shall beat again as one,
Despite the wounds they each have caused. Begun
To feel the pain as their due course, Her love
Has last awarded him the needed shove.

The Darkness dwells within us all, but let
It die, it hurts you both. So learn to set
Aside your pain and find true joy in all
You have. Spread wide your eyes, avoid the fall.

Friday, February 27, 2009

Week 7

Random challenge piece that I could not see myself seriously I wrote it with humor instead.

How Dare They Take Our Fun?
A tale of youth lost.

The time has come my friends for us to show
The world again that we are what they wish
To be! To stand against a common foe,
And feed their worthless hides right to the fish!

They've stepped too far, they've said too much,
Their words are lies, their vulgar deeds disgust,
With me you know you'll find your needs, and such
Fine fiends will to the fires of fondue be forced.

With me you get what they forbid, Pixi sticks
And Muskateers, some Milky way and Mike
'n Ike shall come your way. We dare to mix
Our drinks, our bowls of punch we dare to spike!

Indeed you now 'gain hear the truth! They ban
sugar, liquor, and fun! Silenced ditties
And halted dance, they use their big red crayon
To strike away our earned felicity!

The government has 'slaved us all! Their lies
Are far too much to bear. We must, it seems,
Stretch forth our grasping hands to reach new skies,
And in the end forgo our loss of dreams.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Week 6

Rushin' along...

Walk of Shame

My shoes click loud across the misty night,
As sunlight starts to peek over the hills,
The streetlights wink and twink out of my sight,
The morning mist cuts through my clothes and chills.

The walk of shame the world has come to know,
The strut has left my sorry step. Why now
Do I shamble along? Where is my glow?
Next year will be a different tale, I vow.

Oh what went wrong in this dark night? It was
So bright, the mood so right. Why do the stars
Twinkle out of my sight? It's gone, my buzz,
The Valentine's love song fade 'yond the bars.

The length of roses fall from my grasping hands,
Their petals crunch softly on the asphalt,
My steps click on across the shrouded land,
As heart of mine I stash into a vault.


I posted this at a poetry site that I frequent and got this response that I loved so much that I didn't want to lose it.
Polonius: A very evocative verse, [Kai], where you dwell on the sense of failure, the humiliation of rejection, as the factor that makes love lost painful, as opposed to the loss of joy or its promise. The shame is more encroaching, a harsher reflection than the loss of someone we thought we could expect to love us. At the same time, you add to the dark mood with a self-deprecating humour.

Week 5

...ish. Okay, I'm really late, but when the muse leaves, the muse leaves. Maybe I'll toss out a few early ones and make up the weeks, heh. Anyway, this is called a Minute Poem which is a rhyming piece of iambic pentameter that has 12 lines of 60 syllables in the format of 3 stanzas of 4 lines and 8-4-4-4 syllables. My rhyming is flip-flopped, but it felt right, and that's really the most important part.

The Darkened Haze

Tis true I've seen some better days,
Some brighter nights,
Through no dark haze;
Where are those lights?

The lights have dimmed, the days hold fog,
Not thin white mist,
The type that clogs,
The dark persists.

Yet far away through hazed distance,
A golden ray,
Oh how it once,
Lighted my day.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Week 4

A little late but I wrote this last week. I don't really like it as much as I COULD like it, however, so I spent the past few days trying to refine it but it's not working. It's too bad, too, because I love the image of Autumn Leaves...

Autumn Leaves

The autumn leaves dance slowly to the ground,
And look! Another takes his long dive down!
This tumbling piece of life seen from a glance,
A memory--so weak from time long passed.
He viewed the world through rain'd and sunny days,
From tiny green sprout just starting to sway,
To strong and vibrant veins and vigorous curves,
Yet now his days are gone, but still he twirls.
He may forget the day of fog and mist,
The moist air spread across the land like myth,
The day the boys all played amoung his boughs,
Among his limbs they built a sturdy house.
Still yet his dreams of memories will flow,
And Watch him fall, the dreams yet still allowed,
Enough to give him joy and let him fly,
His one last dance before his life last fades.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Week 3

As is often the case with me, when I am reading a book I find great inspiration in the words written. At the moment I am currently enjoying Empress by Karen Miller which tells the story of Hekat, a girl sold to slavery who has more to give in her life than that of a slave. This poem is written in regards to her first feat of might in the light of her god.


"Who are you? What are you?" you ask with fear in your eyes,
As you kneel before her, your she-brat demise,
A killer of chicken, a slayer of sheep,
Who would have thought that she could not be so weak.

Godspeaker, Godchosen, knife-dancer with snake-blade,
Warrior, Warlord breeder, watch as legends are made,
She dances with skill, with precision, with grace,
Her dances are beautiful despite the scars upon her face.

She dances the field, through life, with skill,
Blood-rage upon her, the god will have his fill,
Each slash she deals, each piercing stab,
A tribute to the god for his will to grab.

So watch as she dances the field and with scorpion's strike,
Steals your godspark, your essence, your life,
Before her Warlord kneeling below,
She shows him the future, one you'll never know.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Week 2

Little Red Sneakers

When I was young, I'd run through the park,
All leaping and laughing and games on a lark,
And all through the time on my little boy feet,
My little red sneakers pounded beats on the street.

My pride and joy, the sneakers were king,
And among all my friends, they were indeed supreme,
From Nancy's sleek slippers to Dylan's blue boots,
My sneakers won the pots with aces in all suits.

I wore them both out with fun on all days,
In the sun or jumping in puddles to play,
In forts and castles and fields and trees,
With my sneakers I ran and flew like the breeze.

But those days are done and gone and past,
And I look back now and sigh at time lost so fast,
At games gone missing, and stories untold,
And I mourn the loss of my sneakers of old.

But in the end, I know that time has come,
Their days long over of traveling, to and from,
And today a new day dawns- something new to smile at,
For today my son gets his own red sneakers.
His turn.
How's that?

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Week 1

Unappreciated Beauty

The crab that crawls across the sandy beach,
Does live its days in search among the sands,
It skits and slides within the long cove's reach,
But knows not of the view on which it stands.

Days and weeks the lost soul toils and strains,
And acting out his forever long scene,
To search for life's many scattered remains,
While waves of blue crash on, as yet unseen.

Tis sad, this life- a battle to survive,
Upon the sands so far below bright skies,
And in his war of death and life he thrives,
The joy of life yet hid before his eyes.

But as bright day turns to darkend twilight,
The crab looks up to view the priceless sight.

Friday, January 2, 2009

52 Weeks

A few friends of mine decided to begin a journey over the course of fifty-two weeks. It is a journey of the mind and soul as they pour out their souls in fifty-two short stories and pieces of art.

For myself, I decided that this would be a fantastic idea and something that I'd love to pursue myself. I miss writing, honestly, and I rarely get the opportunity to do more than simply write essays for class. I miss the give and take of a short story and the beauty of poetry.

So welcome to the project. Welcome to the musings of a bard born in a different age...or so I wish. In truth, welcome to my addled mind and the various thoughts that fly through it.