An Awkward Age

sky_in_late_april_1I remember growing older
I remember ages five to ten
I remember being slapped on playgrounds
Walking and never knowing when
…they would come
Never a place to run

It’s what all the teachers call
an awkward age
Well I wish that I
Could find out why
I was
…so uncool
And I didn’t know
why I was hated so
I never even met them
“It’s just the way kids are,” they say
“Grow a spine, wish it away.”

I remember growing older
I remember ages twelve to eighteen
I remember waking marked and bloody
And always wishing I could not be seen
…by a soul
crawling into a hole

Well it’s what all the doctors call
an awkward age
and they call them zits
or pimples leaving pits
but then
…pain is pain
And the scars it left
and all the marks I’ve kept
are more than on my face
Into my soul the phrase I’ll heap
“Beauty’s more than just skin deep

I remember growing older
I remember being one and forty
I remember her being in the bathtub
with bad pen marks darkly
…on her arms
crying over all the harms

Now its what I will choose to call
an awkward age
when her mind did start
to fall apart
and I
…grew so strong
And I managed to
do what I had to do
Never mind my own needs
My mighty shoulders may be sore
but I can always take on more

I remember growing older

I remember ages five to ten

I remember being slapped on playgrounds

Walking and never knowing when

they would come

Never a place to run

It’s what all the teachers call
an awkward age
Well I wish that I
Could find out why
I was
so uncool
And I didn’t know
why I was hated so
I never even met them
“It’s just the way kids are,” they say
“Grow a spine, wish it away.”

I remember growing older

I remember ages twelve to eighteen

I remember waking marked and bloody

And always wishing I could not be seen

by a soul

crawling into a hole

Well its what all the doctors call

an awkward age

and they call them zits

or pimples leaving pits

but then

pain is pain

And the scars it left

and all the marks I’ve kept

are more than on my face

Into my soul the phrase I’ll heap

Beauty’s more than just skin deep”

I remember growing older

I remember being one and forty

I remember her being in the bathtub

with bad pen marks darkly

on her arms

crying over all the harms

Now its what I will choose to call

an awkward age

when her mind did start

to fall apart

and I

grew so strong

And I managed to

do what I had to do

Never mind my own needs

My mighty shoulders may be sore

but I can always take on more

Mist

daydream-1I’m certain that some of you will recognize that this is written to the tune of Time by Pink Floyd from Dark Side of the Moon.  For those of you who don’t know the song, I’m interested to hear your impressions of it as raw poetry.  I can’t read it without the rhythm going through my head.

——————————

Mist

Quoting all day from the writing that pretends to be reason
Blinding the eyes with the muck and the lies there within
Building up rules with invisible tools from your home schools
Casting out doubt and the skeptical shout as the symptoms of sin

Happy basking in the blissful
Ignorance is such a joy
You are right and they are wrong
And in your faith they can’t annoy
And yet one day you find
Most the world is laughing at you
You were aiming with your guns
Not knowing you were blind

The arrogant truth with intelligent proof has ignored you
Reality goes without hearing a word that you say
Your fantasy world, with its circular curls dims the clear view
May crumble and expose eyes to the sharp truth of day

The dance of life has gone without you
So much beauty you have missed
Playing with the phantom faeries
In the truth obscuring mist
Knowing truths and building reasons is the faithful thinker’s way
The book is wrong
The fight was over
Well before you had your say.

Reemergence of Hope

live.pgI  remember being young and full of youth and sprite
And every day I woke up and burst out to the light
And all my dreams and complex schemes to stand on top the world
And every thought a new soul bought to brace a life unfurled

Yet even then the fear of when we show ourselves to be
a non-superstar-istic oh so humanistic vulnerable imperfect being
To be average means so little yet to be normal means so much
Our hands just flesh and bone with no Midas gilded touch

And as the years go past, we fight to hold on to those dreams
but dreams are schemes that reality deems to push off as extremes
and we go along watching death of song begin to rule our lives
and the struggle just to live on must take over all our drives

And then we realize what we lost, and before we give all away
we fight for something we know not what for we know we cannot stay
so afraid of losing all that we forget to give
or so afraid of dying that we forget to live

Confusion

time_confusionOur next exercise tonight was to write either a complete physical description of an object and then relate these descriptive words to a family member, or to write about an abstraction.  When the abstraction, “confusion,” was suggested, I immediately knew where my affinity lay.  I am on intimate terms with confusion.  For challenge, I decided to try to write it as a rhymed poem.  I think it came out okay.

——————————

CONFUSION

I watch the morning sun arise
and bring forth new that day
a sense of hopeless loss and fear
and watching all that lay

about my mind in tangled mess
and muddy thoughts profound.
No simple loss of innocence
could ease that scentless hound.

The morning sun, it never changes
yet never is the same.
The ice of frozen memories
melt little with its flame.

How, and who, and why, and what
the questions all abound–
the rock tied to the rope of thought
tossed random all around.

No home in thee.  No home for me.
My unbound thoughts no rest.
No glassy lake of mirrored sheen
to help my mind do best.

The morning sun now in the noon.
The time goes back and forth.
Scrambled eggs of lunchtime sup
and Eastward goes the North.

And so my face goes upside-down
to match my state of brain,
and the morning sun now rise to night
to fall up-down again.

Lens

rainbow1I was going through some of my stuff on my computer and came across this poem.  It was written in August of 2005 during a rather traumatic period in my life, and I have very little memory of having written it.  I had to read it completely, in fact, before I could even be sure that the poem was mine.

I’ve never considered myself a poet, and I still don’t.  Still, I kind of like this particular work of semi-structured prose.  It’s based on a song.  Which song should be obvious by the time you reach the poems end.

—————————-

Lens

Summer leaves; summer trees

Black shadows

Beneath the murk and mist

And mud

And blood

Where madness tries to fill the world

With its emptiness

A distant song

Where does the bird fly?

Above the mist

Where the sun always shines

And in the mist

When it shines too bright

Paradise on high

Paradise is not perfection

Paradise is peace

Peace within our souls

Peace with the murk and mist and mud and blood and madness and the emptiness

Peace changes nothing

Except for everything

Murk and mud become rich soil

Blood is life

Madness becomes inspiration

And emptiness becomes potential

And the mist

Gives the rainbow

Over the rainbow

Is but under the rainbow

With peace

Bluebirds fly in peace

Our souls can fly in peace

Over the rainbow

Which is under the rainbow

With peace

And the summer leaves

And the summer trees

Cast cooling shadows

The rainbow is my lens

I will look through it

And see what the bluebird sees

A Perfect Place

I’m re-posting this poem as filler from Alphonsus’s Random Drivel. This is where it belongs.  🙂

I wrote the bulk following poem in the space of about 20 minutes. I didn’t consciously think about what I was writing until the last lines. When I saw what the poem appeared to be about, I added two stanzas to the beginning and cleaned up the rest. In total, writing this poem took me less than an hour.

I find the poem to be more than a little disturbing in that writing it had the quality of a dream that I had little conscious control over. The Princess and I spent more than an hour analyzing it for meaning. It is complex, and says a lot about the kind of stuff that my subconscious seems to be wrestling with. It seems to say that my subconscious needs some fresh air, a bit of coddling, perhaps a game of darts, and at least a week’s vacation away from my conscious self to pull itself together.

——————————————-

The Perfect Place

Alone and shy, I hid and watched,
the world as it went by.
And I prayed with all my fervent hope
for a more perfect world for I.

The gods of life did nudge and laugh
as they listened to my pleas.
And with a wink, the world I knew
fell crashing to my knees.

I watched the world, with silenced sound
as it crumbled ‘bout my feet.
People screamed and died, and the gods of life
killed them with flaming heat.

A rock, a gun, two spools of thread
fell in the silent din.
And a single soul, with outstretched hands
reached out to take them in.

“What useless things!” I cried aghast
trapped ‘neith a crumpled wall.
“Why did the gods give these to us,
while all our world does fall?”

A young man, wise beyond his years,
paused to look at me.
His eyes were sad to see my plight
but worked not to set me free.

“Useless? No. These things that fell
are more useful than they seem.
With them, I will rebuild the world
and make it better than you dream.

“The rock? It builds, and breaks apart.
The gun? It doth defend.
And the spools of thread? What use have they
than to bind the world and mend.”

And thus it fell, the world I knew.
And ‘neith the wall lay I.
And the man did use that single rock
to break apart the sky.

And surviving men crawled to the man
with open burns that bled.
The man just smiled, and with saddened eyes,
he shot them in the head.

And then he took the broken shards
of sky that lay about
and with the thread did bind them back
and mended, he cast them out.

And the sky did sparkle, with life anew
and all the dust was gone.
And there I stood, in golden robes
as the bright new world did dawn.

“Here it is, your perfect world,”
And he tossed to me the stone.
“Here you’ll never want for food or drink.
and you’ll ever be alone.”

My mouth agape, he took the gun
and he blew himself away.
and I fell and knelt upon the grass
that first perfect, lonesome day.

A Song dedicated to eating way to much

Fat, fat, fat.
Oh, I’m so magnificently grotesquely fat.
Two deserts tonight, how about that?
Stuffing my face with chocolate malts in a vat
and Ice Cream Fudge cakes. I must stop stat.
And get down to digest by laying flat.
Oh Lord, I feel so frackin’ fat!

Reprise:
La la la
boom boom
la la la la
boom boom
bleah

Food, food, food.
Oh, I ate way to much freaking’ food.
Any more and much dinner would have spewed.
And it would have made me seem so rude
Blowing chunks I barely chewed
Not keeping them in can come out so crude
Oh Lord, help me keep in all this food.

La la la
boom boom
la la la la
boom boom
bleah
tubba tubba toom

And now I digest, ’cause my body screamz
for sleep I need. Sleep and dreams.

La la la
boom boom
la la la la

bleah erp! zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!