Psimon Posted July 22, 2003 Report Share Posted July 22, 2003 All works © Psimon 2003 To be a man ***************** The people dance, without money, without prejudice. How curious. I recognized one of them. She used to be mine, now no more. Love dies... or was it simply lust that dies and love that remains? I can never remember. Whichever it is, it goes and the departure is never pretty. Lusty urges give way to poisonous attack after attack, on and on, until one or both cry Enough! I suspect it is this capitulation, this laying down of arms, that will drive a man to ruin. How can a true man permit such a change of heart and still call himself a man? What benefits are there in such a cowardly retreat? We, as men, must rage against this weakening of our manhood. We must! But, yet again, I do not. And she walks away from me. Again. Nothing to do now but go home. Alone. What is it about women? Can't live with 'em... pass the beer nuts. Free ******** Know that I must be free. Watch my life seep through the warm glass Feel the rage slip from my weakened grasp Touch my eyes and close the windows of my soul Taste the salty water of my final tears Hear the soft sigh of the last breath escaping my lips Hear the wail of a mother, plaintive cry Taste the cucumber sandwiches, they're lovely Touch the cold brass handles as you take my weight Feel the pain of a heart, broken and torn Watch me lowered slowly, return me to Earth's bosom Watch a family gather at the headstone Feel the rain beating down on your hunched shoulders Touch the soft petals of the pretty flowers, fresh each year Taste your tears as they flow afresh with each memory Hear the rain striking the neatly mowed grass at your feet Hear the inquest report, read dispassionately Taste the bitter coffee in the sidewalk cafe downtown Touch the photo you still carry in your wallet Feel the love I could never give you in this life Watch the people hurry past, oblivious to your pain. Know that at last I am free. On a pale horse - Part 1 ***************************** When a life is on the line, his, hers, another, a man bares his soul. Reduced to near-hysterical tears, he confesses every sin he has commited in his past and pre-confesses to anything he may likely do in his future. His confessional? A phone booth. No curtains or sliding wood divider to maintain his privacy - his confession before God, his maker, through the conduit of God's representative on this ball of land, sea and sky. His priest? A phone. Where is the warm, human heart that will offer him support in his hour of need? Nowhere to be found in the cold voice at the other end of the line. A plain voice. A killer's voice. On a pale horse voice. His sin? A life built on lies. Salt ******* I was your salt, your flavoring. You said that life was tasteless without me, bland and boring. But that was then. Now I am your meatloaf - your everyday. You say that life is tedious with me, bland and boring. This is now. I have tried to flavor myself You say that I should stop trying to dress mutton as lamb. This is me now. I was your salt. Now I am your old chewing gum, tasteless, to be spat out and trampled on by men. Enjoy your new, fresher meal. I hope you choke on every mouthful of her. Equilibrium *************** Acolyte of Order Priestess of Purity Cleric of Truth Balance Keeper Father of Lies Mother of Sin Son of Chaos Coming home *********************** It's been a while, but now I'm back. With time to stand, despite the lack of bold new verse, amongst my peers once more, my friends. For all the years must seem as naught to age and thus I greet the days ahead of us. I stoop as time doth bend me low but rest assured, no more I'll go. Yes, here I've found a home sweet home, a place of rest, a well read tome. A place I call to mind at times of chaos noise and madness chimes. For here my head can find its peace and savor words, most sweet release. What use words? ********************* If I were to write of my love, what words could possibly express her wondrous qualities? I could try, in vain, to describe her soft skin, clean, smelling sweet as a sparkling rosé, hints of cherry and strawberry intertwined, or, in moments of passion, slick with sweat musty with desire, salty taste. Wasted words. So wide of the mark. I may attempt to speak of her eyes - they drown me at every glance in their hazel hues, softly rustling autumn leaves, gentle-breeze-blown, tumbling over one another as her gaze shifts this way then that. I am swept away on that fall wind, gathered up in the arms of the season, laid to rest there in her eyes. O' for the words to speak true! Her neck! O' her neck! I have seen passion, life, pulsing through her as I steal another furtive look at that sensual oasis twixt her delicate jaw and head-at-rest-inviting shoulders. The sight alone stirs my blood, betrays my lust. What use are words? I am lost. Her lips? I am a forgotten man! I am no more. To see her pout is to be lost forever in the quest to touch them to your own. The prize for which a man would willingly lay down his sorry life - just a moment, just a taste. I cannot go on. My words are as ash in my mouth, dry and lifeless. They do no justice to her beauty, her grace - the angelic vision that is my love. What use are words? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Gwaihir Posted July 22, 2003 Report Share Posted July 22, 2003 I find free very sensous (that is the right one isn't it? ; ) rather interesting I loved the bitter but almost humourous romp of Salt. I think you do really well with metaphors. I thought that on a pale horse was the strongest or at least my favorite, because it uses the metpahor of a confessional in an extremely interesting way. lovely rhytmAlso the last line is very powerful. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
WrenWind Posted July 22, 2003 Report Share Posted July 22, 2003 great to see you again Love My fav is "Coming Home" i like the cadence Ps any word on the poetry contest ? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Psimon Posted July 22, 2003 Author Report Share Posted July 22, 2003 ACK! Sorry, beloved... meant to include these also. These were all entries to a local comp (not the International comp) The poems had to be about local street names. The Block got a 'Highly Commended' - There is an area in the city where all the street names are those of famous poets, hence it is refered to as 'Poets Block' Prizes were 1st, 2nd, 3rd only. One other poem got HC'd, so I think I did ok. Total number of entries was 120. The Block ************ I sit here, the sounds of the valley drifting up to me through sparse winter trees, staring at a blank page while it stares back with a pale, blank expression on it’s face. The page seems expectant, somehow eager - if a page can seem eager - for my thoughts. It must be very disappointed though, because I’ve nothing to give it. I wonder if, in days past, the likes of Milton or Byron had this problem. Perhaps Tennyson sat likewise, head in hands, pondering how Shakespeare, Thackeray or Longfellow got past this terrible affliction. Perhaps I should look to the greatest of my ancestor’s country? Burns would have solved it in a thrice with a whisky and a wee bit ‘o haggis. Trouble is, I don’t drink and I’ve never tried haggis. Yes, it’s hard to write a piece for a competition when you have Poet’s Block. ANZAC *********** I may grow old, but there are so many who will not. Age will not tear them down – the ravages of time a foe to all but they. When I see the sun’s light fade, will I think of them, lying in the trenches or upon some distant field? As I look to the crest of the eastern hills, enjoying a morning brew of hot, dark coffee, and waiting to greet the sun once more, will their final moments spring to mind? They gave so much – all they had, all they would ever have – so that I could live as I do now; so that I could see my children grow as they will never see theirs. A single day is never enough, though it serves to remind me, lest I forget. I will remember them. River Leeway ************* You’ve done it now, you have. Done what? Stuffed it up. Stuffed what up? The river. It’s supposed to bend the other way just there. You’re really for it now. He’s gonna be well miffed with you. I can tell. I know Him better than you. Oh, is that right? Well I’m sure He’ll let me off. Cut me some slack. Allow some minor difference. You know? I mean, it’s my first time with a river and all, so I’m sure it’ll be alright. What’s a wrong bend in a river between mates, eh? And you even spelt it wrong on the map. What?! It’s meant to be ‘The River Lee’, but you’ve gone and put ‘Riverlea’. No gap and the ‘a’ on the end isn’t right. Well, that’s the way I like it, ok? That’s my way… The Riverlea Way! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
WrenWind Posted July 23, 2003 Report Share Posted July 23, 2003 Bravo my love!!!!!!!!! *Hugs you tight * I'm so proud of you. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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