Words Much Like Poetry

tell me what is to be done with this half-heart, how to cope with Time while awaiting Destiny's verdict? will Destiny speak the words, words much like poetry, that will return me to you; words of potent conviction that will cause the ocean to fall away and no longer stand against me? I cannot fathom what possible offense I could have committed against the briny deep that it saw fit to punish me with its very expanse. I lay nightly upon the dwelling of my lonely stretch, my lonely patch of shore, contemplating my bruised portion... it aches where I tore us asunder. Image: Petr Kratochvil, Ocean sunset, Public Domain Pictures.net

This poem began as a short story written as a class assignment. I was a junior in high school, so the comprehensive editing that I've put it through over the years has been necessary. I wouldn't say that it reflected an immature tone of voice, but my writing style has changed drastically over the last decade and the story is one of my favorites. As I am presenting it here, it has been revised once more. The Intruder on the Beach I have traversed this beach for what seems eons; yet, time upon time, what I seek always eludes me. I seek it in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell of the salt air, the feel of the chill wind— which whips against my weathered face. I walk farther from the water’s edge. eyes scanning the distant horizon, searching an elusive peace of mind in the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green surface of the ocean, I walk. walking on sand that bares much witness to my habitual walks, and those of others, as evidenced in the footprints that crater nigh the ...

by Cedric Pierce Rufus Tooks was sixteen when a stray bullet pierced his forehead, cutting his life short. I was fourteen and forever changed through witnessing his murder. While everybody ran, I was paralyzed. I still remember the half cloudy moon, the barking of dogs, rapidly overshadowed by police sirens. He didn't die instantly, with his eyes open, sporadic breathing. I could hear him in pain. "Help me, Ced." Rufus died within 20 minutes. I've been constantly haunted by his demise. I'm unable to shake the image of his body lying on the cold gravel road. I still see the small bullet hole, with a slightly larger hole, with pieces of his platinum brains loosely hanging from the back of his head. I waited while the ambulance hauled his body away. Hypnotized by the white chalk lines. Where not long ago, a living, breathing human once lay. At the time, I was confused. Where was his soul? I half expected to see his soul exit the body. His precious soul, the essen...

they lie in wait below the floorboards of my consciousness they try to find their way up through the cracks they try to seep through through the damp porous walls of the dungeon of my mind their long dragging fingers reach for me through the rusted bars of their cage the cage i banished them to long ago the cage of my dreams they will not let me be they will give me no respite they will grant me no surcease until i turn them loose until i cry 'havoc!' and let slip their leash these words words much like poetry Tuesday, 17 nov 2009 05:46:27 hrs By Michael Maina

Wishing all our U.S. readers a Happy Thanksgiving!

which should I lend credence? the song in my head or the beating of the heart, for the path to choose in quest for answers, the puzzle of life is just a cryptic jumble, with no pieces fitting together I have lost my thread I cannot find my way back the grail I seek, eludes me in this labyrinth I know the words they sing in the head, with stubborn persistence but the tongue is tied to silence will the eye behold heaven, the angel of surreal dreams? will the hand touch silk, the warmth of delayed company? the die is not yet cast the forecast cannot come forth the cup is half full, it leaks equally with every pouring in the stillness of day, an expectation shall brew there will either be a storm, or a rainbow bathed in a gentle hush

it was not enough he was not enough her world was not for him, yet he lived the world without indulgence for long he wished for the crux event, and when it came, he escalated to near nova but his moon denied him and it shined, mocking his vain attempt he yearned for the wild flower pitied by the ivy and the poison oak as he fetched pollen for his unrequited love her thorns the agony of unspoken rejection a declaration, a denial and then pity their sympathy only heightened his pain as he longed for floods to purge his fractured heart he grabbed at straws, while jealousy consumed him her world was not for him, yet he grabbed at his pillow, praying for the genie of wishes but there was no sting on his shoulder and he knew not why that mattered he bore his pain for six moons, till it ceased to shine he forgot her name, and she ceased to exist only a shadow, crumbs of memory if only he had known with a brief flare of forgotten consumption he left a mark on the fair moon, who though sought o...

haaa ha a ha a ha a haa haaa ha a ha a ha a haa ... up and down the street at Ashmol, just before the midnight toll, her face pale, in her long flowing shroud, this night in the sky is nay a cloud, her deathly eyes cast up to heaven, this year of our Lord, 1737. haaa ha a ha a ha a haa haaa ha a ha a ha a haa ... she hums to her master Luthier Stradiv, a sad dirge of the messiah on Christmas eve, in the moonlight with a graceful stride, dances the widow who was Luthier's bride, tears like a river flow down her cheek, the dark of death lends an eerie streak. haaa ha a ha a ha a haa haaa ha a ha a ha a haa ... in sombre notes is the music into the night, as the messiah strums the " Song of the light " to those who see her, shrouded in grief, and beg the heavens to grant her relief, as she cries for the last time; again ne'er, in Ashmol the messiah's prison lies forever. haaa ha a ha a ha a haa haaa ha a ha a ha a haa .. goes the tune to the messiah's dirge . ---...

It was not so long ago that I posted this poem, but I wish to revisit it because it represents something special. Loss of a loved one can be sorely devastating, and it may take years to come to terms with it. Someone once told me that the pain of a loss doesn't diminish, but rather someone develops the strength and endurance to bear it. Jewelery can sometimes seem to possess a part of a loved one; a little piece of their soul. The wedding band, engagement ring, family heirloom; these hold such significance to our lives in relation to those who have gone before us. The events in this poem are based on truth, something that happened. It tells of the journey of two loved ones who experience an incredible bond, as the life of one of them nears the end. The other has to muster all the courage they can to watch the one they love pass on. It is true some bonds can never be broken, their substance undiluted even unto death. Gems of Memory upon six gems we struck a ...

Xerxes has bribed the old disgusting men and they have been promised oracles, beautiful girls who will live atop a dark mountain, to be violated by orc-like creatures. As she danced, she was to me like an angel, weightless; her sheer garment like wings made with milky water. Frank Miller's graphic novels are what poetic pictures are made of. I have been a fan for a long time and here I make a vain attempt at recreation with a minor modification to add spice. (?) the tender weightless misty threads wisped, spiraled up and met with the stately figure they kissed and caressed tender curves, hugged as they rubbed and rose, skidded upon a heaving curve, hit upon the parabolic obstacle and dispersed a hiss upon the glowing brands and new misty weightless rose they knew their enchantment, they knew their instrumentality snatched, they jetted into a dance with garments, a fanning wing tugged at them until they entered the twin cave and a dark bony clawed hand intruded upon the flawless mil...

This is my take on imprisonment. A Kenyan cell is not a place to be, even a holding cell. The moment you enter one, there is an obvious pecking order, which much later translates to where you are going to sleep. There is the newbie corner, pretty close to the waste basket, if you know what I mean. Then there is the first hall, a corridor really to two adjacent cells. There is the intermediate cell which houses the ones who have been there a week and finally the VIP cell, for those who have been there more than a month (This is a scenario of just one of the holding cells). To be brief, one sleeps on the cold rough floor, packed side by side alternating on opposite ends. This is to ensure a 'best fit' scenario to accommodate a cell meant for ten but packed with a number north of 35. The VIP cell is the only one that has sufficient mattresses and blankets, albeit full of bedbugs. Depending on what you are being held for, your wait can be indefinite, despite the rule that you canno...

Dark poetry appeals to me in certain ways; it might be that every one of us has a dark side. In moments of despair, everything around can mutate to a nightmare. The elements in this poem are contradictory just like dreams are sometimes. I picture myself dreaming while awake, one of those dreams that I will just not wake from. But then again, I might be dreaming that I'm wide awake. It can also be a puzzle, a labyrinth of sorts (I love labyrinths in my poems), where nothing is what it seems and darkness is like cold boiling tar. I cannot point to specific inspiration, other than imaginary sprites whispering dark things into my ear (these would be from the Darkess and the Old Soul series); I just imagined what it would be to lose my mind, not that I would want to. Nevertheless, read and enjoy, and let it have a meaning specific to you. Dark Waking Dreams the ground waves to salute my succulent bliss its accent not without an unheard scream the gauntlet has been served, its rim I will...

Originally untitled, Sunflowers of My Youth was written sometime in the late 1990's. A despairing poem, it was among the first of such despairing works that marked a sense of loss of innocence. Was it only last night that I was so young In knowledge and in action Now I lay here far older than I was yesterday Soiled and unclean with a filth that will never wash off my soul Was it only last night that I was so innocent Believing in ever-lasting love which I now in my old age know doesn't exist Believing that love in its all-encompassing glory could heal a world torn apart by hate Was it only last night that the world seemed so flat Now it with all its rounded dimensions has come crashing down on me Bearing down on me with its overwhelming weight Causing all my fragileness to buckle and snap Devastating me with its one mighty stroke Was it only last night that I was so young Was it only last night that I felt so wonderful in my ignorance and innocence Was it only last night To...

the stony bump has me reeling back to reality ... I stare at the path as it disappears behind me ... as I turn and look forth ... I see myself again; holding the reins to the tireless horses ... I am driver and passenger both ... the dark path behind ... echoes the even darker path ahead ... I sit alone—where I go, I know not, but I vaguely remember whence I came ... the only sound is the rhythmic trot of hooves ... like the tick of time pulling me towards an inevitable fate ... shadows of the past pass by so fast ... I throw my hand out in an effort to reach back, against a shadowy tree I graze my finger, in an effort to make my thoughts linger ... another stony bump ... I am thrown back to the wooden seat ... forced to look ahead and endure the everlasting trot ... from the Tireless Horses --------------------------------------------------- New From: Trapped in time series by M. Davies

Amazingly, for me, the two year anniversary of Words Much Like Poetry is a few short weeks away. Laughably, at the time I began this blog, I knew nothing of blogging and were it not for my cousin, I would likely still be ignorant of it. So, with her guidance and encouragement Words Much Like Poetry came into being. Self-evolution is a wholly necessary, unavoidable fact of life and as I evolved the blog evolved—where I'm concerned the evolution was a marked moving from hiding behind the pseudonym Gladys Moore to the use of my real name, moving from the simplistic introspection of a five year long relationship gone bad into far more riotous concepts and imagery, to conceiving the true course I wish to chart for Words Much Like Poetry . However, I'll be keeping mum about what my goal is for the blog. There are a great many things that need to be done to accomplish that goal and regrettably I'm the superstitious sort. I believe it entirely possible to jinx a thing by speaking...

I miss the old look, kinda cool huh?

One of my earlier poems really. They had sat in an old dusty notebook for a while until I discovered it while looking through old stuff. These little verses still ring true to what I felt at the moment I wrote them and now I share them with you. sweet and little soft or brittle? smooth and supple sweet and velvet as an apple chocolate but light brown but not white simple smile enticing eyes holding you in the while of thoughts and dreams sweet and of forever

I have launched campaigns to foreign lands for so long, fought for these lands to belong to me and every time I have failed every time these lands fiercely repulse me my strength has failed me, I cannot fight anymore conquests and crusades, I cannot do anymore I fear my lands are barren, unattractive inadequate for the needs of those who are me I shall then sit and hope, that one day I will be conquered by another to whom I will give tribute and who will offer me but a part of their lavish bounty

he could look into them forever, the window to her soul the jewels whose brilliance lights up his soul and bathes it in purity her very shadow makes flowers grow her breath brings forth ice flakes her words are the strum of a harp and her footsteps the whisper of angels he can only look at her through the glass their distances insurmountable their hopes unrequited their sentiments unspoken yet she wears the crown, his queen of a distant land her seat beside him remains empty and the empty palace halls echo with loneliness

In those quiet moments it comes to me, creeps up to me from an unknown place my innermost thoughts my mind it seeks to mime my cherished reverie without hap to replace in desperation I wallow in phantasms, reaching I grasp for an unextended vine, sucked back within by this murky chasm all I hope for now is salvation divine there are no more dreamless sleeps words fail to give me avowal my grip on reality slips it is only a game played to a foul