My Poetry

A whimsical flit of inspiration during lunch. There's more of a story to the title than the self-explanatory... During a grading session (summer of 2005) I commented that the axioms the group had chosen were fairly consistently prime: 2, 3, 5, 7, 9, .... Will (Boney) said to me, Wait, repeat those for me? (quotation mut(il)ated due to imperfect memory). So I repeated them, the same. And then Sherri was kind enough to point out that nine isn't prime, to which Will said, I was going to let him figure it out on his own. I'm pretty sure that 1 was also one of their axioms.

October 12, 2005

Confessions of a Math Camper

Once upon a time,
I saw the number nine;
I thought it was a prime,
But I was wrong.

Summer, 2003

Untitled

When a dog barks,
Who really listens?
Who but those who ignore it, in annoyance, in anger?

When a bird sings,
Who stops to smile in delight?
Who gasps at the song's innocent beauty?

And when the sweet bird dies,
Who but the lurking cat does aught else
But turn away in disgust, in that fear of mortals?

I wrote this poem during a class at the MathWorks camp. It's a rememberance about my cousin, who was my best friend before age and distance tore us apart.

Summer, 2003

The Burden of an Envelope: A Letter Lost in Time

Do you recall how we crawled beneath the house,
Our little hide-a-way from the world of the giants,
And played our games of cards,
Talking, fighting a mad desire to laugh
Upon hearing our parents in their futile search.

Like a dandelion blown into the wind we
Swept above the Pilgrims who years ago had reached a distant land.
In the snow of Boston we resumed our winter projects,
The quest for a perfect snow man, a warm fire.
I laughed as I saw that home was not so far away.
Then I was pulled, like the tide, across a sea of air.

Slowly, I learned to speak, again, longing for greener pastures,
Seeking a memory crowded into the back of my mind
By the routine of daily life; I wondered where it led.
It led to summer.

We met several times, less and less frequently,
The age difference growing apparent between us.
We laughed as always, but more timidly, aware that
All had changed.

Now our friendship floats through the air, on a leaf,
Fleeting from my outstretched hand, yet coaxing open my clenched fist.
Will the future end on the path it started?
Necessarily so.
But as for the stones, I hardly see them. Only the
Birds guide me along,
Singing out from the whispers of the trees.

The first thing anyone asks me after reading this poem is Who(m) is this about? My response tended towards the honest I'm not really sure... but eventually I decided that that kind of thing just wouldn't cut it anymore and that I really should find a better answer to give. After hours of thought, I still didn't know. I couldn't match the poem to any one person; just an abstract idea. And so I have concluded that the poem is not about any real, solid person; it is a metaphor, just as it had started out; the woman is just a feeling... an angel perhaps, or a muse. The crowd is not a small group of familiar faces contained within a single room; the world is small, but not that small, and the room represents the world; the crowd, society. The poem is an attack on society, and praise of those who inspire others to wake up and not conform without reason; it is a reminder to think about the causes of your actions and not to follow blindly. The poem is not dedicated to the woman... no it's not dedicated to her at all. It's dedicated to you, to your quest for truth, to your search for the answer, and, if you're lucky, to your success.

May 1, 2003

Angel

A breath of wind swept through the room,
She moved... so gracefully.
On every face began to bloom
A smile... though hidden carefully

Behind a mask aged far too old
To simply cast aside.
Yet every eye watched her, like gold,
As she moved, as she breathed, and sighed.

She passed the crowd without a glance;
Her presence was enough
To ease them from their sleeping trance:
An angel, a diamond in the rough.

Things (poems, in this case) never turn out the way I want them to. Where does my inspiration come from anyway?

December 17, 2002

Clouded Mind

A poem lives without a breath,
It feels no pain, even cheats death.
Without a step it walks the land,
Across the beach, along the sand,

It swims across a starlit sea,
It rests beneath a leafy tree,
It crawls from house to house unseen,
It slips into your sacred dream,

It reads your mind, it reads your heart,
It burrows deep; it won't depart.
It leaves an imprint, but a thought;
A year from now, you'll have forgot

How you read these words, and in fear,
You fled them through the midnight air,
You searched for a friend who could prove them wrong;
You put your faith into a song,

A song you'd heard a year before,
That now you'd treasure forevermore.

This poem was written to spite my english teacher, who failed to inform me of a contest (I proceeded to enter it into the contest).

November 25, 2002

Dreams

Dreams
A world of peace
Filling the air
Bringing in hope
Casting out despair
Erasing desire
Awakening the soul
Freeing the power
Of self control

Don't get lost in the dreams in your head
Don't lie forever desolate in bed
Don't drift forever on the borders of sleep
Don't sink in, don't dive too deep.
Remember the friends that you saw today
Don't pass into nothing, just wasting away

Wander the maze if you wish, but be careful not to get lost in the bright shadows of your life.

June 20, 2002

Mind the Maze

Entrapped with a frothing maze,
Surrounded by walls set ablaze,
I stumble blindly towards the light,
Which through the fire shines brilliant white.

Small bits of gold speckle my path;
Shimmers of peace break through my wrath.
The turbid fire dances near;
My thoughts race through and disappear,

Much like a single ray of light
May pierce the darkness of the night,
But think just how much light must shine
To turn sour darkness to bright wine,

And even then the shadows swarm,
A constant warning of the storm
That lurks and bides its time by day;
At night it always finds a way

To flood the world we see and feel
And cast a tinge on all that's real.

I don't really remember why I wrote this poem in the first place because I had completely forgotten about it for a while. However, as I look at it now I note that one possible interpretation is that too much of a good thing is indeed unhealthy. It also deals with the illusions that we build around ourselves to make life easier, although they really tend to overcomplicate it, leaving it a tangled mess. Well, this poem is completely up to you to interpret as you would.

October 23, 2001

The Power of Light

A sea of blue, a sky of white,
The stars that once were shining bright
Have faded now; the sun's come back,
Driving away the deepest black.

It inches slowly past the sea,
That shining orb that I now see;
The light crawls slowly to the land,
Down to the beach, upon my hand,

As if a slowly opening door
Illuminates the glinting floor,
A sea of light, not just of blue,
In paradise's perfect view.

This sea of light flows down in waves
It floods the town, it fills the caves,
It leaps into my mind as well;
My thoughts sound clearly as a bell,

And yet my thoughts are not my own;
The light my mind has overthrown.
My thoughts are empty; merely lies;
The truth has donned a new disguise;

Soon I'll forget to think at all;
With this my entire life will fall.
No, I prefer the starry night,
When stars shine true and do not fight

The natural rhythms of the soul
That let you live your life in whole.

This poem is dedicated to all of those who died on September 11, 2001, during the attack on America. For those of you who didn't already know, that's when the world trade center and the pentagon were attacked by planes. A plane fell on their heads. In America!

Yes, in retrospect, if anybody didn't already know what I was talking about...

September 13, 2001

War of the World

This world has seen too much of war,
Too much spilled blood, too much dark gore.
We cannot let it all return,
Allow the world to overturn!

We must keep out the evil spore,
For if we don't, the blood will pour
From wounds so deep they'll never heal;
This gloom cannot become what's real.

Our buildings crumbled to the ground,
Created din, and awful sound.
Unless this sound we want to hear,
As we live life in constant fear,

We must weed out this horrid sin;
We can't just let this horror win.
America's too strong to die
From planes that never more will fly.

A paper tiger we are not;
Through many wars our soldiers fought.
The patriots so full of pride,
Never from honor did they hide.

We need their courage here once more,
We need to find the hidden door,
The door to calm, the door to peace,
The door that'll help the violence cease.

We must discover the path fast,
We must not stare into the past,
Observe the precedents and still
Possess this evil urge to kill.

To stop this war we all must try,
Unless our eyes so itch to cry
A flood of tears for those brave few,
The ones you loved, the ones you knew.

I'm told that none can ever see
A poem that's better than a tree,
And yet the tree just walked away
What more is there that I can say?

Actually, I bet that most of you are thinking, Well, you could start out by telling us what those four lines are supposed to mean. I hope my parody of the famous poem isn't going to turn out to be illegal, but it is just an introduction to the poem that you're about to read. I thought that for once I'd write a poem that had no real point behind it. It's just for fun, so the things in it don't quite make sense. I've pretty much tested the hypothesis that what goes around comes around, and it has proven to be false. According to Terry Pratchett, what goes around gets dizzy and falls over. I quite agree. Remember, don't operate heavy machinery while reading this poem.

Curses, curses, and more curses. I failed to write a silly poem. The beginning is silly, but the end isn't. It has allusions to books I like too. Curses. Anyway, they aren't very important, so if you want to know what they are, go ask me. Otherwise, well, don't.

September 10, 2001

A World of Lies

I sense distortion in the air;
Something is brewing, drawing near.
A tree gets up and walks away,
And as it leaves, I hear it say,

I can't believe it's happening.
It can't believe? I was thinking.
I look around, and here I find
A brook that can't make up its mind.

It flows first west, then east, then west;
Nature no longer knows what's best.
I stare into the brook awhile.
Then, suddenly, I start to smile.

No fish are swimming down below;
They feared the brook might overflow.
And so I looked up at the sky,
Where I find fish have learned to fly.

They swim up there in skies of blue...
No, wait! It is a different hue:
A mixture both of red and green.
Amazing what my eyes have seen!

While I am watching the fish swim,
I note the light is growing dim.
The sun is fading, leaving here;
I know it soon will disappear

It's time for it to leave this earth,
Erasing every sign of mirth.
My vision blurs; I'm in a haze,
And now I'm walking through a maze,

A maze that distorts time and space;
I sense that I might know this place,
Where I am walking through a maze,
My vision blurred, my life a haze.

The scene returns, a face appears,
A face that I've not seen in years;
It is a symbol of the lies
The world has told before our eyes.

I drew it in my lonely youth,
When I found out there was no truth.
There is no truth; we merely choose
What we believe, the truth we use.

It stares at me; I stare right back.
It looks away; I spot a stack
Composed of faces much like it
That children drew when they were hit

With such a puzzling thought, which we
Believed and chose our truth to be.
I realized now what had occurred;
One truth had vanished; the rest blurred.

Our world commanded all by lies;
When one escapes, the planet dies.

This poem is not about a person. I have nobody to write it about. I really don't know why I wrote it. But write it I did, despite not knowing the reason. So maybe I didn't write it... Maybe it wrote itself... Scary thought. Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention that I started writing this during cardinal camp. I was very bored at cardinal camp, and they gave us pen and paper...

August 28, 2001

A Starlit Face

Up in the sky I see the stars,
But I don't see the planet mars.
Instead the brightest stars reveal
A face I know to be quite real.

Amongst the stars I see your face,
A memory I can't erase.
As I stare up from my soft bed,
The thoughts of you now fill my head.

Now lying here thinking of you,
I still cannot believe it's true.
For why you left I still don't know,
But from my wounded hear tears flow.

They flow because you left me there,
Because you told me you don't care,
And so I sit alone and cry;
You never even told me why.

I search for you both near and far,
I wish upon my lucky star
That you'll return to me someday,
And finally I'll hear you say

The reason that you let me down,
The reason that you stole my crown,
And threw it in the fire to melt,
For that's exactly how I felt.

The fears that I'd saved through the years
Were unleashed suddenly as tears,
Which flowed down from my sparkling eye,
In which the fires did all but die.

My tears have stolen all the flame;
All but forgotten is my name,
My heart is broken; it won't heal
Until I find out what is real.

If you've ever been to the beaches around Houston, you'll know this poem was not written about one of them. You need only read the phrase ocean blues to sense that. I wrote this poem on the way to the beach. Or actually, the beginning to this poem. I wrote the rest of this poem about a month or two later, instead of going to sleep. But it's a metaphor for the life and death cycle, and my own personal opinion of if death is the alternative, maybe breaking the rules isn't that bad. It's also a poem about love, friends, and nature, not necessarily in that order.

August 27, 2001

The Game of the Sparrow

Your face caressed by ocean blues,
The sky a maze of different hues,
A wave collapses on the sand,
And gently rolls across your hand.

The ocean beckons, calls to you.
You must obey, for it is true
That nature all of us does own,
It's merely set us free to roam

This land that all of us call home,
The world we've always thought our own.
And now the call is loud and clear,
It knows that both of us can hear.

You can't resist; you must obey.
You know it's true what people say.
You can't create and not destroy;
Sorrow must balance out the joy.

And now the time has come to weep;
The price we pay is often steep.
With life comes death; with love comes loss.
The time has come the coin to toss.

The coin is spinning, death awaits,
It stares out from the open gates,
The coin falls gently to the earth;
There is a sudden cease in mirth.

The ocean beckons, calls to you.
You stare into the waves of blue.
You must resist; you can't obey!
Oh! Don't you hear what people say?

A rule is made so it can break,
And when you have so much at stake,
Why do you even bother try
To find the sense, to find the why?

This world contains no logic; truth
Is just a dream we're taught at youth,
We're taught to dream, we're taught to think,
We're taught to scream, we're taught to blink.

We're taught from birth, we have no choice,
For at our birth we have no voice,
And once we've grown, we've learned to do
Only those things they tell us to.

If you obey, then I'll resist,
For if I don't, you shan't exist,
And if you don't, then nor shall I.
Oh! What a gruesome way to die.

A ripple forms, a ripple spreads,
A thousand people in their beds
Awaken suddenly and find
That they have lost their peace of mind.

A ripple forms, becomes a wave,
Becomes a tide, becomes a grave,
A thousand people, what a shame!
They too shall suffer in this game.

For in this game they all shall lose,
Although they weren't asked to choose
To play this evil game at all,
They all have sensed the sparrow's fall!

Stop the rhythm, stop the rhyme,
For now I'm rhyming all the time!

Ok, I don't mind being able to rhyme when I want to, but rhyming all the time is just plain annoying. I was in English and we had to interview and introduce another person in the classroom. My partner was a nice girl named Karina. I get up in front of the class, and reading the notes I had written on my paper I read out loud, This is Karina, her mom's from Argentina. Just thought you'd like to know how rhyming can destroy your life (not really, but oh well).

I'm not going to mention how I came up with this poem because it might be embarrassing to the person about whom it is written. Anyway, this poem is about fear. It begins with many symbolic meanings for the eye, and chances are you won't understand many of them if you weren't in Mrs. Duhon's English class.

August 24, 2001

A Frightening Sight

Your deep brown eyes avoid my own
Is this how I'll be when I'm grown?
Afraid to look into the eyes,
Too fixed on keeping my disguise

To let them see into my soul,
And find my inner flame's a coal?
They'll see the shadow that I am;
Afraid of beast, afraid of man.

Or is this fear a fear of truth,
That can be seen within a youth?
Perhaps this fear's of what I'll find
When I see into my own mind?

A fear that eyes do mirrors mock,
Reflect a truth as sharp as rock,
Reveal the secrets that I hide,
I bury deep within my pride?

Or might this fear be fear of fear,
The fear to cry, to shed a tear?
The fear to laugh? The fear to smile?
The fear to love, the fear of style?

I think it is a fear of all,
A fear of big, a fear of small,
A nervous feeling deep inside,
Too scared to love, afraid of pride,

Afraid the world will stop and crash
If I decide to try to dash
Away from everything I see
And try again to be just me.

O goodie, another one of those poems that I write for no reason at all. Well, it was inspired by an air conditioner. See, the air conditioner in the cafeteria is really loud, and we had nothing to do. So I closed my eyes and imagined that what I heard was not an air conditioner, but the roar of a river. That's where the beginning comes from. As for the rest, well, maybe it's because it was my first day at school. Anyways, here's a psychological explanation of my poem. The water I just explained. The chill through my bones probably came from the freezing temperature in the cafeteria. Peril, danger, tests, all that stuff would be because I was in a new school, and the number of students was ten times that of my previous one. Therefore, I was a 'little' nervous. Anyway, the test is because school focuses in large part on testing and such. The last part is because I was going to try my best despite these obstacles, and try to overcome the challenges of high school.

August 21, 2001

The Test

The water swirls around the stones,
I feel a chill go through my bones,
I sense a peril that is near,
And yet no danger I can hear...

Except the water swirling 'round;
That is the only source of sound.
The danger lies within that place,
Which I will soon be forced to face.

But through it all I will survive;
Experience will help me thrive,
For once I pass the test, I'll see
The best that I can be is me.

If I, in face of danger, fail,
I'll never live to tell this tale
But if I pass, then I will live,
And danger won't me worries give.

For I will be the one brave man
Who said, I'll try, I know I can!

I wrote this poem because I wanted to. :-). Actually, it started off with looking at the rain. And then I suddenly felt lonely. I guess I'm just weird that way. Anyways, this is my ode to loneliness, except it's not an ode, as it turns out, because those tend to be happy.

August 16, 2001

That Lonely Feeling

I feel the wind, I see the rain,
I know that it has come again;
That lonely feeling, lack of joy,
As if I've lost my only toy.

I know the remedy, but I
Have only seen it in the sky,
And on the land, and all around,
That's where this treasure's to be found.

For every boy, he needs a girl,
To him who's lovely as a pearl,
Through times of joy and times of pain,
To walk together through the rain.

The one with whom to share the fun,
The one with whom to chase the sun,
The one with whom to talk and laugh,
The one with whom to find the path,

The path to freedom and to dreams,
Regardless of how hard it seems.
For every person needs a mate,
This is a fact, there's no debate.

I actually started writing this poem in May or June, I don't remember anymore, but most of it didn't rhyme, so I edited it today and that's why the date says August 3. I wrote this poem because I had nothing better to do. I then got up and played pool for the first time in my life. If you're bad at pool, maybe you could play me. You'll probably win, and that would make you feel better about yourself. Anyways, this poem is about how so many people give up on their dream because they're lazy or just because they can't get it even though they keep trying. You should never give up on your dream and settle for something that you don't like. Even if your dream is to be SUPERMAN. Well, actually, you can't be Superman, but you can be Goldman. Lot's of people manage it completely by accident. :-P Talk about corny, huh?

Edited August 3, 2001

Success

Imperfect world we live in now,
We all have dreams, we all have goals,
To easy, though, it is to ask,
What is the point? Why bother try?

For we all know that precious few
Never at all in life felt blue.
Nor, have they saved their tortured soul
By reaching their elusive goal.

This thought then leads to, It is vain
To even try to make a name.
Let dreams be dreams, let fools be fools,
They'll try, and fail, and know this too.

In truth the thinker is the fool,
And should be sent right back to school,
To learn the truth about these few;
You'll only fail because of you!

Alright, the first thing that I'm going to say is that this is not my plot. It is the part of the plot of the series of Amber, by Roger Zelazny, and if you haven't read this book (well, it's ten books, but they're short books separately, and they don't ever really finish) then I definitely recommend that you do so. Anyway, the story is that this guy Corwin, who happens to be a prince of Amber, is slowly recovering his memory, and as he is doing so, he realizes that his brother Eric, his opponent, has seized control in Amber and is planning on being crowned. So he and his brother Bleys lead an attack on Amber, which fails, and Corwin is captured. He is forced to crown Eric, even though he crowns himself first, and then he has his eyes burned out. He is then thrown into a cell lying in the deepest part of the dungeon, and is left there to rot. He is taken out every year for the anniversary of Eric's crowning, just for the humiliation. The only person who (illegally) visits him in his cell is the only friend in Amber who is still loyal to him, and he sometimes brings Corwin food or cigarettes (and matches). Now, it's been three years that he's spent in that tiny room, on the verge of insanity, but he's managed to steal a spoon from the anniversary ball and uses it to try to carve through the door. Now, a very important fact about all of the princes of Amber is that they have amazing abilities to regenerate. So after three years, Corwin started to regenerate his eyes. And here's where the luck comes in: a highly powerful magician happens to step through the wall. This magician is actually his grandfather, but he doesn't know that yet. What he does know is that one of the magician's talents is to have all of his drawings act as sort of a portal between wherever you are and whatever is on the picture. So Corwin tricks him into drawing him an escape route, so that he can head to the lighthouse, recuperate, and try to conquer Amber again. And that's pretty much book number one. To make a long story long. But not as long. So it's short in comparison. It just seems long. The main details that I include are about the period where Corwin is locked up, and the rest is just a basic introduction. Okay, now you're ready to read and understand this poem, which is a complete retelling of Corwin's time spent in the dungeon.

July 29, 2001

Corwin's Escape

And here I stand in this dark room.
One feeling overwhelms me: gloom.
I'd cry had I the eyes to cry,
And time has lost the will to fly.

Betrayal is a horrid game;
I tried it once, and now my name
All but forgotten up above,
And now we'll see what I'm made of.

Three years have passed, no, nearly four,
And still I'm stuck behind this door.
One thing has changed though: I can see.
So now I'm trying to break free.

My room remains dark nonetheless;
Though I can see, I still must guess.
I still am trapped within these walls,
Outside which lie more gloomy halls.

With spoon in hand I carve the wood;
I'll never win, that's understood.
But through the wall a man steps in;
I later learn he's next of kin.

Yet now I know one thing: that he
Has the one gift to set me free,
For all his paintings become real.
The other side through them you feel.

And now a plan appears within.
I asked the man who wandered in,
The lighthouse could you draw for me?
For such a while I've wished to see

That lighthouse not too near from here.
For with this plan I'd disappear,
And hide until my strength had grown,
So I could claim the splendid throne.

This poem was written in the airport. It was inspired by all the planes. It is a reminder that we shouldn't let technology completely control our lives. I'm not saying that technology is bad, just pointing out the flaws. I rarely point out advantages in poetry, as you may have noticed. This was the last poem that I wrote during my trip to England.

July 25, 2001

What Next?

Technology is moving fast,
How quickly we forget the past,
Our airplanes fly quite quick and far
And do not allow a cigar.

Our cars whiz by at speeds so high
No wonder all these people die.
The bullets that we cannot stop
Can be bought at your local shop.

The dark has now become too bright;
We barely see the stars at night.
Our music follows us around,
And at our will we hear the sound.

Our food is stored in frigid snow,
Yet how it works most do not know.
We've built stairs that move up themselves,
Because we thought it'd save ourselves

Some precious time and energy;
How came we to this lethargy?
To prove how foolish people are,
They waste this saved time at the bar.

And hypocrites we are as well.
We go to gyms so muscles swell.
Our energy is used up there.
They ever let you climb the stair!

So let computers choose our fate
While they teach us a way to hate
With violent games a bit too real,
And internet that helps us steal.

TV's can teach us who we are,
Let drugs take our minds high and far,
And weapons with which we can now
Destroy the world and still ask how

Our children do not follow rules,
And misuse all their fancy tools.
We've opened up the doors to war,
And now we'll fear forever more.

This poem was also written to a person: Chris Woolf, our tour guide. If you are wondering about the last three lines, this poem was written in the back cover of a book that we gave to him as a present. In the front cover, everybody who was on the trip had signed their name and written a brief comment. This was a goodbye poem to him, as well as to England.

July 24, 2001

England, Farewell

So sad it is to say goodbye,
Time's spread its wings and learned to fly.
So much's been done, so much remains.
Time's hourglass keeps losing grains.

Tomorrow brings a brand new day;
How sad that we must go away
And leave this country full of dreams
Which we traversed in many teams.

To you much gratitude is owed
For knowledge unto us bestowed,
Pronunciations strange and new,
And dazzling sights were not too few.

We far thee well, ta-ta, goodbye,
And now we must go on and fly
Back to the land from whence we came,
Look in the front; there's every name

Of everyone with gratitude
For your amazing attitude.

This poem was written for a very special occasion: Ms. Duhon's birthday. I was sitting on our coach when I wrote it, along with most of the rest of the people on our tour. We made a really nice card out it, with the help of me, Jennifer Rainey, and Emmanuel Oni (I wrote the poem and came up with the whole format, Jennifer had the nice handwriting, and Emmanuel wrote 'Happy Birthday' in bubble letters and had a rose through it, which looked really nice). Everybody else on the bus got the chance to sign it, so that Ms. Duhon would know they loved her too.

July 24, 2001

A Birthday Wish

A birthday wish from all of us
That sit upon this lovely bus.
To you today we'd like to say,
We hope you have a grand ol' day.

We hope that you'll have lots of fun,
And hope that you aren't forced to run
Through venture good, adventure great,
And have the time to celebrate.

But most of all, we hope you will
All of your summer's dreams fulfill.
And in your life we hope that you
Reach every goal you've wanted to!

Like I said, it wouldn't be the last time. This poem was inspired by the lovely white clouds that never seem to leave the sky in England. Anyway, this poems has some allusions which some of you might not catch. Like the references to Terry Pratchett's Discworld series. If you have never read any of the books then you probably will not know that the Discworld is carried on the backs of four elephants (yes, there were supposed to be five), which in turn stand on the back of a giant turtle that slowly moves through space. The man with the briefcase is also from the Discworld series. He's the one who carries the entire universe in his briefcase. So much for logic. But I really recommend reading the Discworld series, it's really good. Logic would completely ruin some parts of it. While others already have it.

Okay, here's a toughie for me (note that it is for me, and not for you, but you can still read it if you want). Now then, in this poem I accuse the universe of possessing a God. I also accuse most humans of not believing in God, despite being religious. Yet another strange thing I do is claim that there is indeed a Garden of Eden, it is a huge garden, and it's right before (well, actually above) our eyes, right there in the clouds. I claim that the only reason that we still don't know this is that we don't want to believe it. But the question is why on earth did I write about all of this religious stuff, and how did I come up with the theory that the Garden of Eden is in the clouds. Or that people live in the clouds. Or whatever. It's absolutely confusing.

July 23, 2001

I Saw It in a Dream

Up in the sky I see tonight
A million clouds, all glowing bright.
They form a world above the land,
Where people walk on fine white sand.

I think I see a wizard's head.
Don't be so silly, someone said.
There are no creatures way up there,
No sparing bulls, no dancing bear.

And yet the fantasy seems real.
What does the silver lining seal?
Perhaps it is the truth we seek.
What happens at the very peak,

The very tip of every cloud?
Perhaps the people say aloud,
Look down son, see the tiny fools,
Who use their foolish little tools.

They think they are in truth alone,
They watch TV, talk to the phone,
They've sent some probes deep into space,
And yet they've found no mystic race,

No sounds recorded as of yet,
No waving figures seen, I fret,
No elephants, no turtle too,
No man with briefcase walks right through.

So just because they have no proof,
They say the whole thing is a spoof.
Oz is, of course, a made up place,
And only fools such follies chase

O God in whom they don't believe,
We are so glad you made them leave
This sacred garden in the sky.
For though they have machines that fly,

Their common sense is just too strong,
They fail to see the truth: they're wrong,
For magic does in truth exist;
It's merely that these fools resist.

With holy wars and wars of greed,
The rich, they waste; the poor, they bleed.
So full of sin, so full of hate,
How soon they all will meet their fate

Perhaps this is the stuff of dreams,
Perhaps they truly are just streams
Of water hanging in the sky.
Yet while I watch the clouds float by,

I feel this has been told before,
It is an antique, ancient lore,
Passed up from child to father, who
Smiles down and says, I thought so too.

Believe it now while you still can.
Adults, we know there is no clan
Up there in yonder white-blue sky
Because we've seen it when we fly.

I saw it while I slept at night,
My head upon the pillow light,
This story comes from merely dreams,
But much too true it sometimes seems.

Ah yes, my first poem written in England. I wrote this sometime around the point where we got to the Lake District, which by the way does finally count as decent inspiration. I wanted to write a poem about nature, failed, and wrote it about human nature instead. Oh well, won't be the last time.

July 21, 2001

A Shadow of Light

The world spins round all day and night;
The sun is always shining bright,
Light pours from shining skies of blue,
Yet adds a shadow onto you.

The darkness flees before the light;
Birds spread their wings, and then take flight
They flap into the skies of blue
Through which the light reveals what's true.

To every man a shadow clings
Reveals to him all kinds of things:
The dark delights of evil games,
The passion of the burning flames

Great fires rage across his soul
And don't attempt to hide their goal.
The road to hell is burning bright,
The devil grins in sheer delight.

The braver fools their shadows fight,
While cowards cringe, and oft take flight;
Though those that fight may sometimes win,
No coward can escape his sin.

However, wiser men have found
That it is best to turn around;
Turn towards your shadow, to it say,
I need you not, so go away.

For one oneself cannot outrun,
Nor can one find the perfect gun,
So if you can't win war nor race,
All left to do's yourself to face.

Do not become your deepest sin;
Instead just show it it can't win.

This poem was inspired by my hair... That's all I'm going to say. Anyways, it was on the trip back from Schlitterbauhn.

May 25, 2001

Shattered but There

My heart it broke, it broke in two
It snapped in half because of you.
It hurts so much; it aches me so
It matters not though, this I know.

My heart will mend; the wound will heal
For time will show me what is real
I'll find that life and love are not
So closely knit that the great knot

Can not be separated by
A patient mind that strives to try
If life is truly blessed joy
Then love will not my life destroy.

Umm... if you know me sort of semi-well (well, more if you went to my school) you'll probably know to whom this poem was written. If not, too bad. You're going to have to ask someone else. Cause I'm sure as heck not telling you. So there. :-). Anyways, this is my longest poem yet, and believe it or not, I have managed to have it be a sort of explanation of the troubles of love. Maybe I should see a psychologist and figure out why my poems are so sad. Anyways, it also has a classical thing that I love to do in my poems. The last line reverses the mood. It ends on a more or less happy note. So find an hour to settle down, read the poem... read it again... get on AIM, and ask me what I meant by half of it, say, oh! ok, I get what he meant, and then go do something else. Or not. Up to you.

May 16, 2001

Lovingly Comes the End

With love comes pain, with love come tears,
With love comes rain, with love come fears,
But love is blind, it gives no choice
You love someone, you have no voice

If love's a plague, I soon shall die
If love is lust, I soon shall fry
But love is love, and love has come
It makes me numb, it makes me mum

I wonder at love's cur'ous wit;
It knows just where it hurts when hit,
But love is masked, and love enjoys
To play small games with its new toys.

Is life a dream, is love a lie?
Is this the world, is that the sky?
I question truth, yet it is true
That love will play a game on you.

I asked of love, why came you here?
I came, replied, to bring you cheer.
Well why, I asked, do I feel blue?
It is because you would not do

What you must do in times of love
Admit, rejoice, and never shove
Your love on other people no,
Or else you have to suffer so.

Well, love, I said, are you a saint?
Or bear you both red and white paint?
For love is blessed, yet love is cursed
When love is all but dreadful thirst

Yes love is light, but love is dark,
And love brings blight, as well as spark
There is no love that is so pure
That hell's own fires it will endure

No not in life, no not on earth,
For though love always starts in mirth
Once it has been around a while
Love eats away, it is too vile

Let devils come and devils go,
But love is here, and I need know
What kind of love do I attain
A love of joy, or love of pain?

Follow my heed, take my advice
Fools fall in love, they pay the price.
So often fools think love is there
When love is not; it isn't fair.

How some are blessed and given dreams:
They love together; their love gleams.
It shines, it glows, it makes the sea
Radiate light unto the free.

And yet love hurts, love loves for me
To live a life of misery
Mysterious as it may be,
It's sting will hurt, just like a bee

When love has come it rarely stays
With captured souls it often plays
It makes them cry into the air
Why is true love so grand yet rare?

What have I done to God above
That he doth send this plague of love?
For hate is love, and love is hate;
They both lead to a darkened fate.

The dark surrounds, the light grows dim
And all because upon a whim
One fell in love but did not act
This is the truth, this is a fact.

Is love a blessing or a curse?
If blessing be, then which is worse?
I asked of love, Please do tell me,
If you're a saint, what saint are thee?

Love's answer came in scarlet words,
They burned like stars, there in the sky,
They scared away the sacred birds,
Who saw them flee would say that I

Had asked a question that could be
As deadly as a pois'nous tree,
And yet my words were soft and calm
But love's were not from any psalm

Or none, at least, yet known to man,
For love's reply doth both sides ban,
It bans the Lord by being gray,
Yet not accepts the devil's way,

For love is both, both good and bad,
And love can make you glad or sad,
Love is a game, and some must lose,
But those that don't will never choose

To break their vow of sacred love,
Sealed in the heav'ns, by God above.

This poem was once again from a quest letter, and it was written to Amy Hsiao. She writes songs instead of poems, so I wrote a poem about songs. Yes, I'm strange. Like I said, I need some decent inspiration.

May 13, 2001

Musings on Music

What's in a song, what mean the words?
They tell of love, of flights of birds,
Of fantasies that strive to be
And sacred thoughts that one can see.

They tell of life, they tell of joy
They tell of death, they tell of Troy,
But songs are sacred, music blessed
It's rarely written by request.

Music is true to all that care
And music's true to all who dare
To tell the world about the truth
And never waste their dreams of youth

Both young and old love songs they do,
They love to sing, and dance, it's true
But all of time could not destroy
What's brought to us by music: joy.

This poem was also in a quest letter, but to Jessica Toy. I couldn't think of anything to write her about at all, and we were "geometry study buddies" aka we prevented each other from making really stupid mistakes. Argish, I need to get some real inspiration for my poetry.

May 13, 2001

Dedication to Education

When one must learn to read or write
He looks at it as certain blight,
But once he learns the wondrous trick,
He finds that it will always stick.

He learns to love to learn the arts
He studies them in different parts
But if he finds that he has learned
He shall consider to have earned

He studies math, and science too
The whole entire motley crew
He finds that it is not a bore
Nor is it all a tedi'us chore

For education is the key
To end a person's misery.

This poem was written by me to Kwelina in her quest letter. I am not necessarily that good a friend of hers (not that I'm opposed to it) but sometimes I get a bit carried away. Notice how the very last line is very typical of me. The poem is about friends. True friends. How splendid they are. And then I go and point out that friends like that are very rare. Just because that's how my poetry is.

May 13, 2001

Friends

What is a friend?, some people ask
It is now time to toss the mask
A friend will help someone in need
He'll never mind a heartfelt deed

A friend shall always help you out
Whenever you begin to doubt
Whether someone is a true friend
Yourself ask this, doth he not mend

A friend will help in times of need
A friend will help, she will indeed
If ever lonely you will feel
Remember, friends are always real

They too may feel that life is dark
They too may wish to join the shark
But if together you don't heal
You are not friends; no it's not real

A friend will always lend a hand
Upon the dark and glitt'ring sand
He'll find you lost, he'll rescue you
If only friends like this weren't few.

I wrote this poem for no reason again. Actually, now that I think about it, I wrote it because of how there are so many relationships in America (and all over the world, but I only see the ones in America) where people do not love each other, but marry anyway, resulting in problems. In order to lead a truly happy life, you need somebody to love, and preferably that person should love you back. I've noticed that most of my poems are sort of tinged with darkness. I don't really have any happy poems. All of my poems find faults in life or show unresolved problems. Maybe that's because I'm a pessimist by nature. That seems to be a possibility. Just thought it was sort of strange how almost all of my poems have sad endings.

May 12, 2001

I See a Dying Dream of Love

Do people dream of untold love
The kind that is when God above
A couple blesses, says to them,
You two will love; if love's a gem,
Then yours will shine forever bright,
It shall destroy the cloudy night
The clouds will part, the stars will shine
Oh yes, this love, it is divine

There is no love that can be bought
True love shines bright; don't be distraught
Forever more you two shall love
Your love will be the purest love
With all its gains, with all its pains
It's binding chains, and binding strains
The love you have is pure as light
Your fears will flee into the night.

For all that is, and all that was,
Without true love could never be
For love creates, that's what it does
It can't destroy, don't you that see?
Love is not real unless you know
That love does not always bestow
Upon its victim what he wants
Often it taunts, and sometimes haunts

Some people curse away their love
Some people never find a way
To find a love like a white dove
Pure gold, pure light, pure love today.
To them you'll be forever more
A lesson learned by all before
They figure out what's wrong with life:
They have no love, they have no wife

All love is love, no love is hate
And one must always face his fate.

This is not a poem. I had poet's block when I wrote this, so I came up with a paradox instead. Goes to show you that it's never a good idea to wish you were me. Then you'd have to put up with constantly coming up with strange ideas that could work with the aid of, to quote Terry Pratchett, a lever of infinite length and, um, an immovable place to stand. Not for all of them, but most are still rather impossible or rather strange at best.

May 8, 2001

Scholarly Fun

I've learned to dream
I've dreamed to try
I've tried to strive
I've strived to learn.

This poem was written in a period of shock, after which I continued to add another two pages to it, but that is more personal and I'm not sure whether I will publish it yet. This part of the poem ended up being used for the thank you cards for my brother's wedding. All these confounded coincidences!

February 14, 2001

The Dance of Life

Beside this lonesome river bed
There stand two trees, their leaves they shed.
But not on this majestic day;
Oh! Even pagans come to pray.

There is a wedding to be held.
This is the scene that I beheld:
Both beast and man from all around
Beside this river could be found.

The bride and groom stand hand in hand.
They kiss upon the glittering sand.
A dance begins, their eyes they lock.
The churches' bells ring twelve o'clock.

The bride and groom leave far away.
This is what happened here today.

I wrote this poem as an assignment for English class. It will probably be the only poem (it is a Petrarchan Sonnet) you will see on this page with 10 syllables in each line. This is because my poetry is not generally in iambic pentameter. I prefer to use iambic quadrameter. As a matter of fact, I had a version of this poem in iambic quadrameter prior to being asked to change it to iambic pentameter.

September 14, 2000

The Lost Sailor

The sea is deep, with wondrous waves of blue,
The mountain tall, with white, wet, wrinkled snow,
Majestic in the spring, the trees' leaves grow,
But in the fall the death of leaves is due.

The mountaintop contains an awesome view
Of many things that hearts should always know,
Or those, in which compassion still can flow,
The beauty of it gives the soul a clue.

Now here he rests upon the mountain top,
And cautiously he looks down to the ground
He sees the beauty; it's so far away.

His heart, it's in despair, and he may drop.
Oh! Never to be found he looks around;
He spots his ship, for it has lost its way.