Post by Archagon on May 26, 2005 2:59:29 GMT -5
Here are several poems from my poetry unit. Hope you enjoy.
Centrifuge
Begin, produce, perfect, remorse, return;
These words diffuse among our fondest themes,
For as the Earth proceeds to slowly turn,
We similarly cycle wily dreams.
There, in the nearby meadow, flowers spin,
As if to dance to nature’s mellow tune,
And spin the bees, revolving without din,
Beneath the nightscape’s ever-spinning moon.
And in ballet our fractals come to dance
Among the city’s neon-silver lights,
And brick-by-brick leaves nothing left to chance,
Instead preferring fascinating heights.
Oh Intellect, why can we never learn?
Begin, produce, perfect, remorse, return.
Honor
Arise, my son, and see
What metal here
You weld
Inside the echoes
Of your silent
Metal Mother,
Smothered in
Her womb by
Frozen veins…
I know you want to change, I know
You want to reminisce, and bleed, and laugh, and rage;
But there is blood
In iron, too;
We call it rust.
I know you want to fly away, I know
You want to see the night with open eyes again;
But for the sake
Of Father’s cries
Please weld these final joints
And tether our remains.
Remain inside
The womb, my son,
And weld yourself
To Mother’s
Metal name.
Winter
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze,
Falling snow reveals, like water,
Rippling patterns floating in the haze,
Earth and sky combine to frozen mellow,
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze.
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze,
Falling footsteps sink in water,
Frozen from the sky’s deceptive haze,
Silently, some beat away from common meadows,
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze.
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze,
Misty eyes can’t see in darkness,
Shrouded by the overbearing glaze,
Tinted fingers seek new pathways, calmly yearning,
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze.
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze,
Losing many travelers in time
And in their place -- alone, away, afraid,
Freezing chests, and loving eyes, and thoughts of summer,
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze.
Rain
From weary dreams the slush
Of rushing water wakes me,
And so I rise, and without wash,
Proceed to crawl out of my weary den,
For in the gushing rain, the sounds of turning wheels
Result in whispered splashes,
And rend the dream-washed streets of cheer
To tarry for the stray.
Underneath the Boston Bridge (probably too confusing. oh well)
High-rises span the ever-present
Cityscape, and grow with workers’ lifestyles.
Political allies and their defenders do allow
For explanations, while all the shadows
Spare the light from their complexions.
The all is strangely still.
Meanwhile, all aloof and never still
Remain the ragged in the present,
And deep within their fiery complexions
Appear the remnants of tattered lifestyles:
Magic, astrology, and vibrant shadows
Combine to form what politics cannot allow.
Plod over manholes and remains, as always,
The constant, stagnant, and forever still,
Beneath their overarching literary shadows,
Embalmed forever in the dying present.
They permeate throughout the city’s mellow lifestyles
And spare the underworld of their complexions.
The travellers’ fatigued complexions
Reveal those sights which civil life cannot allow;
Forever scarred as formal lifestyles,
They do remain in time forever still
And try to keep their wonders far from present,
Instead concealing secrets in their shadows.
But there is varied disarray as shadows
Attempt to scurry from complexions.
The many people of the dying present
Do not discrepancy in any form allow:
Their interests and forays are very still
And chain to dusty clouds their withered lifestyles.
Those faulty, distant, putrid lifestyles
That so attempt to cower in the shadows,
In fact, retain their vigor still
Despite their enemies’ complexions.
For all that shall not sin they do allow
And help retain the living in the present.
In truth, then, shadows but illuminate the lifestyles
Of venomous complexions; ‘tis they themselves that dare not to allow
Their breaking from the still and separation from the dying present.
Yay. (awaits )
Centrifuge
Begin, produce, perfect, remorse, return;
These words diffuse among our fondest themes,
For as the Earth proceeds to slowly turn,
We similarly cycle wily dreams.
There, in the nearby meadow, flowers spin,
As if to dance to nature’s mellow tune,
And spin the bees, revolving without din,
Beneath the nightscape’s ever-spinning moon.
And in ballet our fractals come to dance
Among the city’s neon-silver lights,
And brick-by-brick leaves nothing left to chance,
Instead preferring fascinating heights.
Oh Intellect, why can we never learn?
Begin, produce, perfect, remorse, return.
Honor
Arise, my son, and see
What metal here
You weld
Inside the echoes
Of your silent
Metal Mother,
Smothered in
Her womb by
Frozen veins…
I know you want to change, I know
You want to reminisce, and bleed, and laugh, and rage;
But there is blood
In iron, too;
We call it rust.
I know you want to fly away, I know
You want to see the night with open eyes again;
But for the sake
Of Father’s cries
Please weld these final joints
And tether our remains.
Remain inside
The womb, my son,
And weld yourself
To Mother’s
Metal name.
Winter
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze,
Falling snow reveals, like water,
Rippling patterns floating in the haze,
Earth and sky combine to frozen mellow,
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze.
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze,
Falling footsteps sink in water,
Frozen from the sky’s deceptive haze,
Silently, some beat away from common meadows,
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze.
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze,
Misty eyes can’t see in darkness,
Shrouded by the overbearing glaze,
Tinted fingers seek new pathways, calmly yearning,
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze.
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze,
Losing many travelers in time
And in their place -- alone, away, afraid,
Freezing chests, and loving eyes, and thoughts of summer,
Winter breaks the landscape’s sturdy gaze.
Rain
From weary dreams the slush
Of rushing water wakes me,
And so I rise, and without wash,
Proceed to crawl out of my weary den,
For in the gushing rain, the sounds of turning wheels
Result in whispered splashes,
And rend the dream-washed streets of cheer
To tarry for the stray.
Underneath the Boston Bridge (probably too confusing. oh well)
High-rises span the ever-present
Cityscape, and grow with workers’ lifestyles.
Political allies and their defenders do allow
For explanations, while all the shadows
Spare the light from their complexions.
The all is strangely still.
Meanwhile, all aloof and never still
Remain the ragged in the present,
And deep within their fiery complexions
Appear the remnants of tattered lifestyles:
Magic, astrology, and vibrant shadows
Combine to form what politics cannot allow.
Plod over manholes and remains, as always,
The constant, stagnant, and forever still,
Beneath their overarching literary shadows,
Embalmed forever in the dying present.
They permeate throughout the city’s mellow lifestyles
And spare the underworld of their complexions.
The travellers’ fatigued complexions
Reveal those sights which civil life cannot allow;
Forever scarred as formal lifestyles,
They do remain in time forever still
And try to keep their wonders far from present,
Instead concealing secrets in their shadows.
But there is varied disarray as shadows
Attempt to scurry from complexions.
The many people of the dying present
Do not discrepancy in any form allow:
Their interests and forays are very still
And chain to dusty clouds their withered lifestyles.
Those faulty, distant, putrid lifestyles
That so attempt to cower in the shadows,
In fact, retain their vigor still
Despite their enemies’ complexions.
For all that shall not sin they do allow
And help retain the living in the present.
In truth, then, shadows but illuminate the lifestyles
Of venomous complexions; ‘tis they themselves that dare not to allow
Their breaking from the still and separation from the dying present.
Yay. (awaits )