2014

I want to be
                a little godlier,
                                    a little smarter,
                                                         and a little nicer.
I want to think
                    a little more about others
and
     a little less about me.

I want to think
                     a little more with my head,
and
     a little less with my heart.

2013
       was
a
       big
year.

I'd
    like
a
   little
one.

Tomorrow

There's a beast at the door.
It's come here before,
though not so persistent as this,
and I fear it will bore
its way through the floor,
and offer an animal's kiss.

All the windows are barred,
but I've found it's hard
to keep out a beast so enthused,
and I've often been scarred,
and had my home marred
by the weapons I've had to use.

But I'm safe for the night.
The door is shut tight
against beasts, and wind, and sorrow.
I will wait for the light,
and then I will fight,
for it will get in tomorrow.

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Bit of a different rhyme scheme from most of my other stuff. My next poem, ya'll, will be the size of a children's book (think 'Where the Wild Things Are', probably longer), and I've already been working on it for what feels like forever, so hopefully it won't take much longer!

No Idea What to Call This One

I'd Call this 'ABBA Rhyme, Take One', but then everyone would be expecting a poem about Mama Mia and the Dancing Queen, and I would fall tragically short of their expectations. It is my first experience writing in this type of rhyme scheme, so hopefully a fast improvement is imminent.

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There's something that I want to say.
I can't recall, or just don't know,
just how I want the words to go.
I've tried to think of it all day.

There's something that I want to do,
yet can't remember how to choose
which games to win and which to lose,
or when to break the board in two.

There's something that I want to learn,
but I get in the way of that.
When inspiration asks to chat,
its every small advance I spurn.

There's someone who I want to greet,
but alterations must take place
before I'm fit to show my face.
Too much to edit and delete.

There's someone who I want to be.
He's left me here, and gone his way.
Though granted, if he were to stay,
he wouldn't get along with me.

----------------------

Man, I'm getting almost as annoyingly indecipherable as Coldplay's lyrics.

My Favorite Emily Dickinson Poem, and Something Else That I Haphazardly Wrote in Roughly Ten Minutes

That Thing

Jumping, bumping in the night,

Thrashing, gnashing, poised to bite.

Your every muscle’s tensed in fright

and you cannot avoid its sight.

As to what it is, I have no clue.

But you thought of something, didn’t you.

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I was tired, and I felt like blogging. I apologize.

In an attempt to save or at least slightly brighten this post, I am including below a little gem from the magnificent Emily Dickinson. From what I've read of her work, this is my personal favorite piece.

---------------------------------------------

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us--don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

-------------------------------------------

I like to think we would have been friends, Emily and I.

In Which I Go All Retro!Tom On You Guys

This one's an oldie, and I'll leave it to whoever you are to decide whether it's a goodie.

Life (According to a Cynic)

A small and youthful boy was brought into an iron land,
There was no sign of life therein, no tree, no earth or sand,
naught but metal, grey and cold, hard wire and steel plate,
but at the back, flung open wide, was an enormous gate.

The outside world that lay beyond was clothed in natural green,
the sun shone there, the trees and earth made brighter by its sheen.
The boy was placed in front of this entrance to paradise,
his captors knew by the outside his heart would be enticed.

The gate was closed in front of him, was made part of the fence,
and the boy's captors stood to watch, a twisted audience.
It took him time before he realized what he was to do.
He was to clear the obstacle, to batter his way through.

Ferociously he struck the gate with small and fragile fists,
to no avail, it opened not unto that world of bliss.
The crowd silently watched him pound, strike again and again,
he knew somehow that he'd succeed, though he did not know when.

It took him many days and nights, without meals or respite,
until at last he cleared that gate which blocked him from the light.
A filthy wretch, his hair a mess, he staggered through the doors,
and there beheld another gate which had not been before.

In shock he fell onto his knees, what horrid trick was this?
The crowd around him roared and raised their celebrating fists.
They shouted at him to press on, for he had only cleared
the first of rounds, and there were more, yes far more to be feared.

It was days later when the second gate gave way to him,
but though the crowd was cruel indeed, lying was not their sin.
Another gate was there to block the way to liberty,
but the boy only fought harder, so determined was he.

Days passed, far too many to count, and never did he tire.
Year after year he smashed through locks and wiped away perspire.
'Till finally, as an old man, the end came to his wait.
With feeble arms he pushed through doors of gold, the final gate.

And there it lay, that place of life, better than he'd recalled,
he did not care how long he'd spent, though he was hunched and bald,
making his way to this ending, where he could take his rest,
and he then died upon the ground, from his first happiness.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Take this as you will, but at the time I wrote this poem (roughly two years ago), it was only titled 'Life'. Needless to say, I was going through a particularly cynical period, and it was after getting over this that I added the parenthesized bit. I can tell I'm going through a particularly cynical period if I think the longer title is unnecessary.

This poem isn't perfect, but weirdly, I don't think I could write it if I tried, at this point. It's miles better than anything I've recently written, in my opinion at least. Perhaps I'm at my best when cynical. That's a cynical thought to have.

In Which I Post a Poem I Wrote at an Airport Terminal

*Insert opening statement in which I imagine there are people who actually read this blog, and I apologize to these figments for not updating in several *Insert exaggeratedly long periods of time**

The Prettiest Girls in the World


If I were to write my accomplishments down,
they wouldn't exactly fill pages.
I've never shown wisdom that's likely to be
renowned in the world through the ages.
Nevertheless, I stand with an air of
importance and dignity sure,
for to the prettiest girls in the world
I've an irresistible lure.

The prettiest girls in the world
both hang on my every word,
and laugh with delight at the jokes that I tell,
the ones even I find absurd!
To them I am strong, I'm a stone, unafraid.
There is nothing they cannot forgive.
They both think me great, and so great I must be
for their sakes, every day that I live.

So boast of your deeds 'till your face becomes blue;
you'll not make a groveler of me.
I don't feel at all inferior to you.
If you watch me a little you'll see,
that somehow I have earned the respect of the fair, and the pure look at me with a smile.
I am loved by the prettiest girls in the world,
so I should be alright for a while.

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This one's dedicated to Rachel and Grace, my two youngest sisters who take me to the edge of the cliffs of insanity, only to grab me before I fall off. Love you guys.