If there is something so profound
That it cannot be explained;
Only understood, I seek to find it.
There is meaning in the search,
Along with contentment, yet
I have none of either.
If life sat on the throne
Of a woman's body,
I did not find it there.
If truth and valor
Were keys unlocking,
I was not set free.
If hope, unity, peace
Rested along the feathers
Of this quill pen,
Then I have not done them
Justice in writing this poem.
There is only desperation
In the search, and yearning.
And along with it comes
The need to retire.
Yet I cannot bring myself to
Sleep even for a single dream;
There is only desperation
In the
I thank my good fortune
That through these eyes
I cannot see myself.
When my face is in clear
View, I dread to admit
The number of holes:
Pockmarks and scars
And memories,
Nor the blemishes,
The cracked nose, the
bat-wing ears,
The defeats.
I thank my good fortune
That through these eyes
I cannot see myself.
For there is truth then
When I say that
I see myself as a man
Of honor, of worth,
An immortal machine
Spewing truths: a
Soul with a body and not
The other way around.
I have the courage
To say that I can see
And see others
In the same light, for
No man can dare to
Disprove me:
In doing so does he
Disprove him
I yearn for thee, o fair, fair history,
When my feet innocent tasted much soil
And the sky was a mere arm's stretch from me.
I seek thee for thy nameless dates: the oil
In my machine is a thin, sickly pus.
My belov'd artifice has me betrayed,
I detect, for I had lived naught of trust
Doth proving mine heart so falsely portrayed.
Strong men do from their own strength tire and bore;
Sharp wit doth cut ever so equally.
When in resistance find their bodies sore
And in their brandished gallantry tricked, see:
There be no teacher better than the past;
Those who forget are forgotten as fast.
I find that I cannot write.
My hands are twisted branches that have no grip
And though I seek escape from the mocking scrap
Of paper before me, I find that
I am firmly rooted in my place
On a chair that is of foreign skin.
How running away could have been so convenient
That the rustling of grass composed
By my feet sang a song of repose
And the air that I pierced
With my bullet body proved fragile;
True victory, I came to know.
But the field is now of concrete;
The sounds of each step are
Drowned by the sirens
And the air that I pierced
Proved the same in that plunge.
I found the words that had escaped me just within my grasp
Of mornings, there is ever only one
Kind that wakes us, saying, "you are alive."
It is not the rooster that wakes, nor the sun,
Nor the birds outside when their songs arrive.
There is that voice, that thunderclap whisper,
That tingles our ears like tickling kisses
Bidding us wake from heavenly slumber
And leaving our mouths sing thankful praises.
A day is not merely a day by chance;
'Tis by His many graces and blessings,
Though sometimes late and oftentimes in advance,
That we come to know the worth of waking.
In mornings, there is ever only one;
Each day, one Father, waking up His sons.
The writer is a fortress.
Its blaring horns never rest
In the infinite proclamations
Of expeditions for
Grails, and against dragons.
There is life in each facet of this reality;
That even the granite bricks of the walls
Be stoic watchmen
Whereforth its construction
Each placing of the stone
Bears and indelible imprint
Of character and history.
And the bells would ring and signal
That there are foreigners.
What are epics without intrigues
And tell-tale villains?
There are no heroes without them,
Alas, and no rest for anyone either.
Yet this castle has no need for rest -
It embraces each volatile activity
As its own newborn
I dare not count my time... by beramonde, literature
Literature
I dare not count my time...
I dare not count my time with thee in days:
Time is not forgetful nor forgiving.
Days stretch too long; I cannot count the ways,
My attempts, to redeem all those waiting.
And what with that fundamental measure,
That intricate ticking of the old clock,
Might move to settle this mere disclosure?
Time doth holdeth seconds too much in stock.
Yet creativity is not required
To find the solution to this query;
Though the only answer this mind has sired
Would be to simply count by memory.
For the mind, as Time doth, never forgets
And I, the slave to what mem'ries beget.
Might I not remember this rhyme,
Annexed in the instant
Yet forever lost in time
That when spoken flows as smooth
As if holy words heaven sent
To rejuvenate the tides of lost youth.
Let me forget much as thou would
Escape mine words
Mine thoughts to elude
Whatever ways construct
The usual manners of the world
To serve as though the very strands of luck.
Might I not remember this rhyme,
That when whispered to ears
Should sing as siren's rime
That in each note played by tongues
Sound in every stage unheard eres't
Form in dance songs in songs.
So as in each of those hours
Those rare opportune times
When on the bed of night li
I seek the rain to I, the yearning pasture
Bid'st the seeds of my toil release
From this naked, unchaste land.
There was not the morn' and the fort'night spared
A single measure of the drought's draught
Nor even a mere, imagined pleasure;
This night to be as the prior spent.
Though I be stripped to the skin as to almost bare bone
Thou art the stone to the sculptor's affection:
Whereforth thine image breathes the artist's wish
Then, thine irony prove, move'st not to undo thine portrait
If only for perfection's sake ungrant not his request
And continue thy projected mockery.
I seek the rain to I, the yearning pasture
Let not these
What be this that seeketh... by beramonde, literature
Literature
What be this that seeketh...
What be this that seeketh mine heart dismay,
This that be the shroud to this morning's light
That moveth the unknowing sun away
Who in darkness' gift hide mine tears, mine plight.
What be this that would overturn mine smile
That shackles mine heart from its own beating
Appearing now an empty thing beguiled
Naught of a shadow as it lay dying.
What be it that placed my mind in question
Burning out from all the imaginings
From clearing out all of the illusions
And bearing the pain of those worrisome stings.
Your words, my dear, though sumptuously sweet
Had come to me in this moment's defeat.