Silence

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.

Silence.
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
Silence.

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!

Week 17

...ish
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."

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.

Week 15

Fruitless

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.

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.

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.