some poems

"That Smell"
There was that smell again.
I won't describe to you
the effects,
the cringing faces,
the pinching of noses,
the turning in the wind,
because you've smelled it
before-
that ass-wiped smile,
that time you turned
away
from your neighbor
when he was bleeding
his life
and begged you
to clot it.
That smell, the stench,
your pride.

"Poetry: A Confession"

She has grown tired of me,

Oh Poetry, how weak my voice

Untunes before her.

Yet, she dazzles me

With her words

Dripping slowly into my mouth;

It hurts.

She is not constant,

No, she is not kind.

(By the way,

She enjoys my misery

Knowing she'll win

Unerased.)

Once, I cheated on her

with Prose;

But, she knows.

Oh she knows I can't write

Her out, or break her heart

Without breaking mine.

No, she is not constant,

Oh so unkind.

"Who's the Mirror-man?"

I am the mirror-man.

What man I was, I do not

know slipping away.

Hearing that voice

I suddenly forget

Memorizing each syllable

With an untrained eye.

How often I'm broken

not remembering why

the past seven years

flew by,

And seeing the same man

in the mirror-

Unchanged. Unmoved.

I am the mirror-man.

Running On Silence

Sitting upon the rocks,
(by the fast flowing river,)
the crow mocks, mocks
the movements made
by men on the bridge,
and bends his head
with animal curiosity.

The men move with their feet,
beating to the beat
that no man hears.
The cars busy themselves
like men; mocking
their movements they file
behind each other each
one facing the fronts
and backs of one another.

And sitting upon the rocks,
(by the fast flowing river,)
the crow flaps, flaps
its wings to flight
as another day passes
(the river flows onward).

*This poem was a strange one to me. Though we live in a world that is full of technological advancement and communication is easily accessed, we barely talk to people anymore face-to-face. Nor do we hear our voices in the streets, just the engines of machines running. Have we lost something?

Polluted Words

I have grown old
and to look upon my feet
is like looking
upon the roots
of a willow.

Knotted, you tried
cutting, severing
with your saws
which you saw
effective,
yet those old roots
bite and whip round
endlessly around
the world.

Now stepping light,
I feel detached
from the soil,
that has been poisoned
with the smoked rain.

Those polluted words
sown swell like
the once fresh wells
which are not
well anymore.

Untitled

The ill-begotten dawn,
that time the rooster failed
to call up the sun.

He must have slept and dreamed
a man's dream.

Hoping he'd mate a hen,
Hoping his offspring
might be strong

And not cracked
and not scrambled
in a yellow-frying mess

Like the sun
he tries to call up.

I guess I won't be deleting this blog after all. Even if not many people read it, it helps me to write things out. Therapy, I guess.

Normally, I wouldn't think twice about fighting or self-defense; but recently I've given it a second thought. To be more specific, I've been thinking about practicing martial arts. Now, I'm not a physical type of person, but I want to do something that's fun for me and physically challenging right now.

I looked into several schools of martial arts, and the one that sticks out more is Jeet Kune Do. If you don't know what kind of martial arts that is, well, it's the kind that Bruce Lee started and practiced. Out of the other kinds of martial arts, JKD seems to be more practical and down-to-earth, which is what I'm looking for. I don't want to practice forms and moves that are fancy and over-the-top, I just want something useful and fun.

So, hopefully, after I find out how much it will cost and a little more information about it, this may be a temporary answer to my need for a physical challenge. And if it isn't, then I'll have to find something else. Either way, I think practicing martial arts will be fun and challenging.

Peace out.

Feigning Wormwood

Sitting idly, the waves ran
through, the sluice
spread toward
an immense resolution.

With finality,
no tears were shed amid
the roaring
the thundering
waves of laughter.

Men,
banging doors with
lusty hands, and
children
sucking their dry
mothers' blood.

And today the sun rose
high seventy-five.
My eyes blinked
in the mirror,
I was exhausted.

My Very, Very First Poems

The following poems are some of my first. During the summer between my freshman and sophmore year of college, I began to write poetry frequently. In this time I was experiencing a lot of difficulties. So, poetry became a type of cathargic form of expression in the situations I was going through. Though I don't believe these poems are in any way the best I've written, I believe these poems formed the foundation for my later pieces. Enjoy and amuse yourself with my immaturity.

Colors twirl
Light swirls
Bending, shifting
Movement mixing
Shards of colored glass
Keep moving pass
Up and down
All around
An eye without locus
Hands that change it's focus
-7/11/05

A mist descended on my path
And I dared not to pass
Grey cloud and shadow mourn
A deep thought like a storm

Rested haze
Did block my gaze
Looking for a thought of light
To end this morning trite
Eventually came
From the voice of His Name
And gave me ground to tread on.
-7/11/05

The moon with silver beam
Shown with pale light all seam'd
Reflected in a pool
During the time of Yule
Like cold and crystal glass
Did a light sparkle pass
And before me I saw my life
It's joy and strife
A sight that I wish I did not see
In the mirrored pool of cruel courtesy.
-7/12/05

A storm swelled the sky
Absorbed the sun well dry
Raindrops came, cold to kill
I could have sworn it broke the mill
Murdered everyone inside
Without leaving them a place to hide
Could it have washed them away?
Yes, I saw them the other day
Safely placed in their frames
-8/6/05

When lonely souls go oft to war
Much received and much forlorned
Do they hear whispers of good deeds?
Or hear the cries of their offspring?
Oh what reason do they wander for?
Seeking gold? Or treasure evermore?
Yet blind are those who with no show
They seek to reap
More black gold to keep
What will would keep them home
The wearied man, the endangered soul?
-11/17/05

You're more than welcome to poke, remark, and deconstruct my early verse. This period in my life was difficult and trying. I wrote at least 1,000 poems from summer of 2005 to summer of 2006. And none of them are worth much now.