In the words of the great Neil Gaiman, "the poems are free." I post them here for your enjoyment.
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." ― N.H. Kleinbaum
|Posted by email@example.com on June 3, 2016 at 1:40 AM|
Here I sit
In the corridors of knowledge
Where others have sat
Where others will sit
From different walks of life
Each with their own
Recorded within these walls
I add mine
|Posted by firstname.lastname@example.org on May 17, 2016 at 8:00 PM|
Walls obscured with despairs of those
who came before us. The Shadow Angel
greeted us. She spoke of who came before,
to pour their absent spirituality, humanity, life
into the bulwarks of the house. Anguished spirits
entombed to wallow in agonies they experienced in life.
Lost friends, lost loves, lost family,
failed dreams, broken marriages,
squandered prospects, endless loneliness,
every torment was experienced by
those who enter this dwelling.
The air was oppressive, crushing
in like an unyielding obstruction
forcing the air from our lungs.
Light could not penetrate the walls,
or our eyes as we stood in its ebony halls.
How, someone exclaimed,
does one rid this place of all this pain?
The Shadow Angel proclaimed
there must be a cleansing and purifying purge.
Only then the spirits can move on.
Oh, how do we release them? they bellowed
Then a single tear born out
of sympathy and compassion fell;
the surroundings slightly and suddenly
changed. We all began to weep
for the miserable dead,
cleansing with water,
purifying with salt,
made up our tears.
One drop rapidly became a tsunami.
The wave crashed and pummeled
against the walls with vehement vigor.
Then, it was gone.
They started to place picturesque
blissful memories upon the walls:
first snow of winter, first flowers of spring
holding a newborn baby, the bliss of a kiss.
The Shadow Angel expressed these walls would
only absorb the sadness; that joy flowed off
them as if they were coated in paraffin.
And they watched as those images
melting down, disappearing into the ether.
Then what was it all for? they cried.
The Shadow Angel declared, ‘Tis the House of Sorrow.
Its purpose is for those to lay down their pain
when there is no one else to annul it.
Tis here they wait till someone arrives
to wash it away for them.
I nodded to our angelic host,
then walked out the door. She called out;
do you not wish to imbrue these walls?
I replied no.
I got what I came for, to see if I
could resist temptation. I can let go
of my professional frustrations,
my solitude from others, my imagined failures.
Yes I, like those before me,
and those who will come after
will bring our personal burdens into those walls,
and they remain as they are;
fixed, in stasis, unchanging.
|Posted by email@example.com on April 29, 2016 at 2:50 AM|
I was born the year
The Fab Four disbanded
and the Voodoo Child died.
It was a cursed year,
to those who survived it,
but many more decades
would surpass it.
The formative days of my youth,
existed in the shadowed aftermath
of Love and Peace, reverberations
of combat torn Boomers.
“Stairway to Heaven” filled our kitchen
and “Smoke on the Water” riffed
its way into melodic infamy.
The harmonious turmoil matched
my ever shifting residential
situations, while humanity
sought to recover its path.
Puberty was punctuated
by the Birmingham five, asking
the question on everyone’s mind
“Please, please tell me now,
Is there something I should know?”
Little did we discern, in the synthesizer
packed prosperity party, in our neon haze
as “New Romantics looking for the
TV sound”, we should have pushed
harder for those answers. They
could have prevented the present
problems, by revealing the core.
Speed metal and grunge ushered
in the arrival of parenthood,
and the grey flannel days.
Sleepless nights, soiled diaper,
endless bottles and clothes
to wash. Life as the decade’s
mirror. Music acting as commentary
on the letdown of aspirations,
for me and my fellow Gen X’ers.
Punctuated by a Seattle suicide,
the product of heroin and shotgun rage.
And as we see some outward appearance
of attainment over the vista,
tragedy befalls a rocky mountain town.
Self-proclaimed messiahs in trench coats
appearing amidst a storm of gunfire.
Surrendered to their selfish deities, blood
must spill for justice to be served.
Omega, the Antichrist Superstar, martyred,
crucified on his Holy Wood to compensate
for their sins. I looked upon my progeny
and felt the first of the fear
for their future that flourished
in years to follow.
Now I exist in an empty household
while the loudest vulgar voices
in the room roar of empty values,
empty journalist principles,
empty political promises, all sold
to the highest bidder in the clearance
sale on the soul of America. I forsake
the hi-fi, like those who come over
its airwaves had forsaken musical
art for the money grab. Video
did not kill the radio star; thy slayer’s
name is capitalism. Empty tunes
drowning out the substance still
struggling to rediscover its volume.