Small note on revisiting poetry

I've tried to revisit and revise some of the older poems I wrote.
The problem lies in the feeling I suppose.
I no longer feel what they are, or what they're about.
I can logically say what they are, and what they're about,
but I realize after just how much I don't connect with them.
It is rare where I "judge" a poem to be worth revisiting,
and I suppose it can only be so when I grow fond of the poem
and what it means to me. With my current inept (although improving) ability
for poetry, I will be unlikely to revisit old poems, choosing instead to
abandon them altogether, and move on learning from the mistakes I made.

In essence, I drain myself of all the muck and try to chug out something better.
No sense in polishing muck, unless you want to keep it.

Abrupt

You can have the satisfaction you crave,
that hungering need for fulfillment
that unquenchable bite in your throat.

What you learn will be silk against neck,
drink rolling down a baron stomach,
the simple "pop" of bubble wrap.

Bite into an orange peel
the bitter will satisfy more than this.

Unpoetic poetic philosophy

Pessimism
is the heart
of reflection.

Optimism
is the heart
of identity.

Uncertainty
is the heart
of intelligence.

Purpose
is the heart,
of the heart.

I love you

I love you
like my dog that had to be put down
when he tore into my arm.

Like my old favorite song
that I listened to over and over
until the melody staled.
The lyrics, I now forget.

Like snowfall in spring
after a long, cold winter
after a short, hot summer.

Like that one dog movie,
the one that brought me to tears
and got me so worked up
that I could never watch it again.

Like a bitter medicine
that I had to swallow,
the one that made me better,
the one I hope to never drink again.

Comfort

I sit atop the wind
in black spaces
among ruined valleys
that I built.
The wind licks my face,
teases my senses
for something more.

It pulls me to a direction,
in the pitch of dark
the anticipation nips at my neck,
the dread tears into my guts,
and the uncertainty fashions me a joug.

It is made just for me,
so warm, so comforting.

Stitches

Your love was the thread
stitched into my heart.
A string came loose
and you pulled on it
until it tightened and ripped.
The etch remains, a scar.

Bitter Medicine

Sink into me
like a vaccine,
the way you make me sick
so I learn to feel better.

Forward

The lazy dreams that time doth swallow,
with every breath, seconds die.
Each time that lingers borrows forth
moments thus forever lost.

Restrained to keep on moving forward,
compelled to be forever vain.
No measure, nor book, nor rule unspoken
that guides the course of untrodden ways.

Thus every second of every minute
of every hour of every day
of every week of every month
of every year passes away.
But right this moment, this moment lives,
no, not that one, but this one now.
All you can do: do what you will
for the past, is not to drown.

Villanelle

Rise

Rise, it's no longer time to bow your head,
Do not lose yourself in what's now shattered,
Build monuments atop that which is dead.

If willows burn, there place a flowerbed.
Weep not long for the ashes that scattered.
Rise, it's no longer time to bow your head.

From bleeding corpse, the earth and small are fed.
From death to life, its cold image flattered.
Build monuments atop that which is dead.

Leave weakness behind, build strength in its stead.
Resign not to remain stale and battered.
Rise, it's no longer time to bow your head.

Atop ruined civilizations, new ones bred,
Then build upon the feats the old had gathered.
Build monuments on atop that which is dead.

Let mourning come then pass, and tears be shed,
Then do not linger on what once mattered.
Rise, it's no longer time to bow your head,
Build monuments atop that which is dead.

An Easter Sonnet

He died to resurrect and born anew,
a deed that is not so easily wrought.
In audience of five hundred, not so few,
and even more were the lives he had bought.
Through toil and pain and sacrifice and love,
on the holy cross he laid all our sin.
On blessed day rained mercy from above,
and washed away were the crimes that had been.

So many years later we now celebrate
the great miracle of our savior's rise,
and child's need for shenanigans we sate
with chocolates and colored things for their eyes.

May memory of his rise never faint
through a bunny and eggs colored with paint.

Why I write.

I hate everything I write,
but I do it for two reasons.
One, it's good to vent
with words written.
It's good to imagine
an imaginary audience,
one that might understand
and sympathize with the
good, the bad, the in between.
Two, I write to improve.
I hate my writing, but I respect
the feeling I get when my
thoughts are out and in
the world, ready to be seen.
I value it and anything
you value, is worth honing.
I hate everything I write,
but I value every bit.

Isn't it?

life is
all about
answering
questions,
isn't it?

C

I fear sleep,

terror of reawakening

my waking nightmare.

The thought I must oppress

to move forward, yet, still,

the thought I should confront

to carry on. To look past,

or to press through. 

Either way the pain's there still,

and in my dreams it takes

unobstructed strength,

unchecked reality.

I write to remember 

what I want to forget.

If time is the only

panacea to this condition,

it feels rather like a

slow acting poison.

In the end, her indifference

is venom in my veins. 

Untitled Poem 3/20/15

Entranced and obsequious
to a unifying tyranny,
the one that serves us best.
But does it really?

do idiosyncratic ways
not fit the mold,
are they a cancer,
must the branches be
trimmed so that the fern
isn't overbearing?

Perhaps this incongruity
is a carapace that must be
shed, in order to grow.
The tyranny, it is
self-imposed, so that
everything may flow,
so that the ferns
don't obstruct the paths
and new skin breathe anew.

Sea

We're always given a choice.

The choice to drift with the waves,

and the choice to learn to swim against them.

At any given moment, we always have

the same choice to make. 

Often you may find yourself

swallowed by the waves, thinking,

wishing, hoping you could swim,

but if you could, you wouldn't know

which way to go.

Do you choose a direction

and swim towards no destination?

Do you wait for a beacon,

one that might never come?

Is fear stronger than will,

is will a shrouded pursuit?

Do we all come up with

our own answer, or

is there no answer at all.

In an open sea, we drown.

Quietly

The value of my thoughts are little,
when I myself give them little worth.
I feel I have something to say,
but I'm afraid no one would listen.
I want to say something that can change,
somehow affect those who would hear it.
Yet there are so many who feel the same.
With so many as I, reality takes hold.
Not everyone will make that difference.

Most of us will live quietly.
Most of us will die quietly.

Quietly I press on.

Borrowed Possibilities

If you could, if it seemed that you had to,
would you use the dreams of someone else
as a step in your ladder? Are theirs worth
less than yours? Maybe if they can be used
as a step, then that is in fact their only value.

I don't know.

Who are you?

You are possibilities.

You are the choices you make.

You are the results that you garner.

You are the expression of your complexion.

You are the memories you’ve made.

You are the things that you say.

It is often hard to say,

Who you are.

Describing the news

Collision

The young man cycled on the path

of a Crooks Valley Road morning.

He turned to Winter Street

and met the person who would

leave many, wondering. Meeting by

collision, acquaintance through casualty,

she drove into him, leaving him bloodied

bruised and scarred. She got out of her vehicle

and said little. Her kids, they would frighten,

they must get to school. She left him there and drove off.  

Narrative Poem

He sat there, cross-legged,

with his knees to his elbows,

and his hands to his face,

looking across the lake into

the horizon.What he looked for

I did not know, but I wish I did. 

He looked across the island 

dotted horizon, as if though 

the depth of the on-forward

distance was the very same 

that resided within him. 

His eyes searched for meaning

in the profound and I searched

for the same truth within him. 

He picked up a stone that laid

next to him, and he threw it. 

It skipped across the water

and averted my gaze from

him to it. It made one final

leap and sank beneath,

and so did we. 

"Morning" of February 8th

Poem 1:

Weekend mornings are

not mornings, but noon. The sky

is as blank as the snow on the ground.

The mind threatens to be as they are.

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Poem 2:

The Dirty laundry lies scattered on

the floor. Wash, dry, fold, clean.

The irritants are there no more.

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Poem 3:

The tree looks broken, battered

and devoid of life. When will it

remember to be beautiful again?

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Poem 4: 

It starts out with an empty rhythm

then adds a beat. Then it paints a picture

only my eyes can see. She tries to show

me something only known to her. I can

not see it, but I hear it all.  

On the night of February the 6th

Poem 1:

Outside the window

all is quiet and dark.

Poem 2:

Up above the eyes look to .

the night. Light polluting light,

man desecrating creation.

So much more should be seen.

Poem 4: 

One fan on the desk,

one fan on the bed.

Outside the cold awaits,

inside the warmth embraces.

Writing Plan

So I'm setting a very simple, flexible writing plan. The reason for this is because I'm somewhat of a spontaneous person, so making such a plan would enable me to follow it easier and more consistently.

Basically, the first thing I'll do when I wake up is write. My brain won't be extremely functional at the time and it will serve as a way to regain focus for the day, as well as reflect upon anything I might have dreamed. It is also very quiet in the morning, so distractions will be low.

My next writing session will take place after my last class each day. My room is usually empty at that time so there won't be many distractions. It will also allow me to wind down after classes a bit to be able to do something creative.

My last writing session will take place before I go to sleep. I will likely have many thoughts and ideas to reflect on by then, and being quiet hours there will be minimal distractions.

I plan to do all of this on my PC, the only tool I really need. They all take place in my dorm, although if I get inspiration during the day I always have a pen and paper with me.

Edit: and my phone.

*Title in Progress/Work in progress*

The fruit from another tree brushed against

the branches of the other. The wind, whenever and

wherever it came, pushed it closer to the other.

The fruit belonged to one tree,

the other bared no fruit. But that one fruit

gave color to the other it did not have before.

It was not its fruit, it belonged to another.

The fruit was pushed by the wind and it

did what things do when they are pushed.

It did nothing out of the ordinary,

but it gave color to the other.

One day the wind might blow

and push the fruit back to another

and the other stands without color.

In Front of Shen Hall

The window opens to the scenery outside.

The ground is powdered in snow from the fresh flurry fall.

The fall continues as the wind aids the cold.

The chill seeps in everything, and into my bones.

The snow lies scantily cleared,

As is always the case. Bits and pieces of bare ground

Are exposed and bordered by wet and slush and ice.

Footprints in the snow mark the paths people walk

When treading through the parking lot.

The deepest, ugliest, paths are the ones most followed.

For now however, no one walks this lot.

The trees are bare, just as trees in winter should.

Snow rests on every branch, just as snow in winter should.

The faintness of color in the trees conjure bleak feelings,

They look dead but they only slumber.

The few cars that traverse this lot in Shen

Carefully follow along the track-worn snow of the vehicles before.

The ones that lie parked wear a fluffy white cap

Waiting to be uncovered so that it may go

Wherever it goes.

Were there no fences or trash cans betraying its presence,

Who would know there lays a tennis court?

It waits under snow for the warmth of spring

Where it will once again be used for what it should.

A soul makes their way out to the parking lot now,

Out of Shen Hall and into the snow.

Leather bag in hand

Grey pea coat

Black leather gloves

He makes his way down the deepest, ugliest path of footprints that lay in front of Shen Hall.

 Scene Description Paragraph:

                I opened my window to observe the scenery that lies outside. The ground is, of course, powdered in snow from the fresh flurry that continues to fall. It is windy, and the cold seeps into my room. I can almost feel the chill in my bones. The snow has been scantily cleared as usual, with bits and pieces of bare ground exposed and bordered by a degree of wet slush and ice. Footprints in the snow lay as evidence the paths people walk through when treading through the parking lot. The more frequently the path is used, the deeper, the uglier, and more numerous the prints. For now however, no one walks through the lot. The trees are bare, as is typical of most trees in the winter, and snow rests upon every branch I can see. They are light in color, a sort of faintness in color that reminds me of death, though I know they just slumber. The few cars that traverse the parking lot in front of Shen carefully follow along the track-worn snow of the vehicles before them. Those that are parked wear a fluffy white cap, waiting for the inconvenienced owner to come along and brush it off so that they may get to wherever it is they’re going. Were it not for the fences and trash cans betraying its presence, no one would be able to tell that Houghton has an outdoor tennis court. It hides under the snow until the arrival of spring and warm weather, where it will be utilized again. Someone makes their way out of Shen Hall, bag in hand. It appears to be a small, brown, leather laptop case. It is however, noticeably thicker than if it only had a laptop in it, indicating there are likely to be books and paper inside. The person himself wears a grey pea coat and black (probably) leather gloves. He makes his way down the deepest, ugliest path of footprints that lay in front of Shen.     

Poetry

Poetry. Poetry is to words what an image is to the colors it consists of. It is an arrangement and expression of words that conveys that which the poet wishes to portray. Poetry is a song that is not sung, a painting that can not be seen. It is art expressed through nothing but ideas and the voice that speaks it. It's ambiguity makes it beautiful and sparks the mind to take a hold of it and understand it. Poetry is therapy, poetry is life. Poetry is anything that is beautiful in words. Poetry is a complex business with simple design. Poetry is what we make of it to be.