Loki Wyrd

Hehe, sure thing, mate.

The ending is a result of my twisted sense of humor and poor sarcasm, I'm afraid.

The very thing that the narrator was so enthralled with for most of the poem turns out to be nothing more than very typical. He (or she, who knows) had seen it before from such an elevated state that when the truth is revealed to him (in a sense) it destroys the image he previously held in his mind. This is when he longs for "it" (whatever you may...) back.

Many poems would end on a "life is so grand" note, but maybe that's not always for me, you know? It's a very poor summation, but I'm not in a very elevated state of mind atm, if you catch my drift.

Rainwater accumulates underneath my windowsill.

A single ray of sunshine penetrates the mass of clouds above.

The wind that blew so fiercely is even howling still,

And ripples on the puddle are dancing with their love.

The countenance of the water is lit up by the sun,

Scintillating gaily now that its time has come.

The union of these, here joined together,

Is sung of in the trees in this blustery weather.

Listening intently to the beautiful melody it carries,

I sway from side to side, drained of my worries.

And I'm struck, as if by the sun!--

Shining in my eyes

Has awoken me from a trance,

Of which I could not realize.

Dashing out my door, I hope to escape;

What exactly from, I can't rightly say.

Yet, soon I come to my little puddle,

And around it, perforce, I blithely do huddle.

But the wind has quieted,

And the sun vanished.

My thoughts are stilled.

My memory tarnished.

It's but water and mud:

What else should I expect?--

I only wish that I could

Take it all back.

Here's another one I felt like sharing. I wrote this last night.

With a forlorn smile

I peer up at you,

Through the locks of hair

Falling down around my face;

The peculiar tilt of my head

Allowing me to see only so far--

As far as I need to

To see you.

Is there any way to space these things so I don't have to have it hugging the left-hand side?

This is about my favorite season--in a roundabout way. It's not quite here, but it might as well be.

An underlying sense of melancholy

Is carried on the wind,

Blows among the leaves--

And, in a way, I am with it.

Resentment of the summer wells up, in fury,

Deepening the darkness of the rain clouds.

My thoughts are saturated in their ostensible bleakness,

But encouraged by the intensity,

The pure feeling of it.

I am the fall.

Wrapping my arms around you,

With a tinge of a chill,

Because you know it won't last.

I just wrote that this morning. Nothing particularly special about it, I just felt like sharing.

I can definitely relate to this one. I always had the feeling that I never truly belonged, even though if I really wanted to, I could have "fit" in any of the cliques.

While I preferred some parts of your revised version, I kind of liked it when it was short (not an attention-span thing, either). Sometimes you can say all you need in a few words.

Better watch out Parmenion, I think maybe he really is there with you...

That flowed very well, 'twas a nice read--thanks for sharing.

The last line, first stanza was intentionally written ambiguously, though it was really meant to be in keeping with the first stanza (to disregard the first line). The two stanzas were written to be dissimilar, as I was trying for a different tone between them.

I hope the confusion didn't detract from it too much.

I wonder:

Terribly vile words

That will cause you to lose your balance

In life, in liberty,

In-and-of yourself.

DISREGARD FOR NONSENSE to be avoided.

He shows a disregard for nonsense

That I find to be quite disturbing.

It is my educated opinion that he should be treated

With the strongest drugs we have at our disposal;

Medication is key to alleviation

Of symptoms for such a troubled young man.

When, to the amazement of all parties present, Vinnie uncovers the den of the crab-people. Video screens line the walls: it would seem they had set up a high-tech surveillance operation underneath The Island, to live out their voyeuristic dreams. Now that their operation was compromised, they became very upset...

Which is when the rain began...

What I see is a man with a beard

Who's intent on looking severe;

Two flowing wings sprout from his back,

And growing from the ground is his spindly neck.

All in the same gaunt stare,

That allows me to be caught unaware

When his face becomes something more,

But nothing less than a flower.

A shrunken head is nailed up on the wall,

Mocking aesthetics and decency.

But while he's there I feel safe; comfortable, in fact,

With the knowledge that I'm not alone.

I hear you on that first one.

Sterling silver smiles permeate my skin

That I once washed daily.

But I've forgotten what water looks like,

Though I remember it tastes quite cold,

Sounds quite alive.

I want something with flesh to it.

Something that can have its skull kicked in,

Only if just to hear the sound that it makes.

And then people would say there is a madness about him--

Something that makes him unlike the others.

An inability to be reached, perhaps. Nay,

'tis more than that. It's the way he looks at you,

The way he moves, even. Why, it's as if...

I've been away on vacation. But now that I'm back, I notice I have geld. How did this come about?

Anyhow, I have a couple short ones I'd like to share. Enjoy...or not (that is the question?).

With these thoughts did she, to shame,

Place her hands upon the blame;

And with her touch did he exalt:

To find her center and her fault.

The prose of nature has its own songs,

In words that shall never be written,

For our tongues could not comprehend

The gifts that they would be given.

Thanks for your comments, they mean a lot to me.

You shouldn't have said my poetry is getting better, though; now I'll feel like everything I write will have to be better than what I last did. It's pretty much hit or miss for me--sometimes I'll get lucky and write something worthwhile.

Thanks.

The first two lines of the poem remind me of something Lewis Carroll (I think that was who) wrote.

Wake from this dream...

Your situation is not wholly without humor.

Irony, it would seem, is the joke that's heard after

It's all fallen apart; from the others

You see mirth, but your eyes hate the laughter.

The sewers below fill with waste;

Even pouring out into the streets,

Where the children play

On their hot summer days,

Pretending they're not bothered in the least;

But something inside

Curls up and dies

When slowly their friends wash away.

What can they do

But be washed away too--

Where are the children to play?

I know, me neither. Sometimes I'm too impatient, but I thought maybe a little emoticon might help in my search for answers.

It would seem in my absence I have returned to my former glories as an Initiate. Last I had seen I was a guest, so I was just curious about this recent turn of events. Has there been a problem with the site, or did I miss out on something? http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif

Happy belated. So does this mean you're going to buy me drink? I'm still not legal.