Poem of the Past: Coriolanus


I have really neglected these posts for the past few months. I don’t have the excuse of saying I hardly have time to write or paint, but that’s summer life really, always filling the day with work and play. And of course more than a few shitty instances that have occurred since my last post have hampered some inspiration. I can see how some people like to write through the grief of saying goodbye to loved ones, but I never could do it. It brings up too much that I’d rather just push away, forget about feeling bad and move on.

So until I get my act together and start something (possibly get a few short stories going, complete a few outlines… the normal stuff that writers wish they’d do but never do until that final push of “I need to get this done” occurs), here is an oldie from earlier this year. 


With a sword in his hand
he must be strong;
With a powerful yell
he must command;
With resolve in his eye
he must be leader;
though it can’t be so.

His stride is long
but steps are faint;
his tracks are washed out,
a stomp easily forgotten
as the ground rises around
and the rain falls;
flash-floods in his wake
not of joy, the fearful
path is washed out
with his back to us
slowly, far away
and we can breathe.

His thrust is resilient,
yet it’s a glancing blow
a poisonous strike,
determined to win
can it be precise; he falters
with the sun is against him
and it twitches, one stray glare
and the blade is weakened;
dropping now, drilled to the ground
with a grip lost, it slips
slowly, down
and his hand is outstretched
as one we can ignore.

But he is only that: just a man
consumed by pride and vanity
burning away until a tunnel,
his only vision, remains as
he is human;
He is one of us
and reaching out,
never sought or seen
in a plead to be drawn in,
embraced for one last time
proved worthy and finally

Poem 6/6/13 – when they call


(when they call)

A warm glow from the morning
not yet ruined by the radiant heat
a cool breeze sweeps through
with the small of a nearby city floating on it
never silent in the metropolitan
And still the birds call to nature; their instincts follow the trees and food
one bathes in the dust, rustling his feather with the wind
to be clean and cool.
The illusion of peace dissolves with the dread of waiting
for a new hope? a fleeting dream?
We’re surrounded by nature that we deem beautiful
moulded, planted exactly to schemes
is it truly natural to meddle with design
to still call it nature
completely man-carved
The birds don’t sing, they cry
strangeness, unfamiliarity
when we mould their lives, all they can do is live on
running in circles to find their place again
much like we do
when their land lays mutilated.