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.

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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.

Stop Having Fun, Guys

We saw you dancing from the loft.
We must turn all the sprinklers off.
We know just why you're this happy.
We know such joy is unhealthy.
We feel your smiles are alien.
We know the secret dreams of men.
We can't allow this to go on.
We're quite concerned about the lawn.
We all know best, we really do.
We know you much better than you.
We know the risks are just too high,
so please, stop having fun, you guys.

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There are people who believe it is better to force yourself into certain despair now, than risk uncertain despair for the future.

I disagree.

Dad's Gifts (With Added Monologue!)

-Dad's Gifts-

I've not the foggiest idea of where my life would be
if it weren't for the set of tools that Dad gave to me.
I was very small when he brought me into his old shed.
Too young to fully grasp his plan or motives in my head.
He sized me up, looked in my eyes, and examined my hand,
then handed me a box so heavy I could barely stand.

I opened it excitedly, then frowned at what I saw.
The tools seemed unimpressive. Still, I quickly set my jaw.
I thanked my Father for the box, and he smiled knowingly,
then said, "You don't yet realize, son, what you're supposed to be.
I chose this particular box for you specifically.
Just use the contents as you should, and one day you will see."

I've gotten stronger since that day, the box seems somewhat light.
I've found that I enjoy Dad's gifts more than you'd think I might.
Sometimes I wish to exchange my tool set for another
with perhaps a brighter sheen, to show off to a brother.
Even so, I take great joy in using what Father gave.
I'm thankful for the help they give, the many roads they pave,
and hope that soon I'll know what I'm meant to use them to do.
Thanks Dad, for giving me your box.  I owe all this to you.

-Monologue!-

The purpose behind this one is to swallow my pride and give credit where I believe it's due.  I'm not good at very many things, so when it comes to something that I actually do have any amount of skill in, I claim it, treasure it, and hold it in a death grip. This being so, I take credit for the things I've written and posted when really, every scrap of the credit goes to God. He gave me this ability, he keeps this ability from dying out, and if He deems it necessary He'll take it away for the sake of my much-lacking humility.

There are many times when I wish I weren't a writer.  I usually want to be something else.  I love to write, and I love to read what others write, but I can't escape the feeling that I've scraped the bottom of the talent pool. To be frank, being good at putting words in particular formation really isn't all that impressive.  But it was God's will that I be given a certain amount of skill in this regard (exactly how much skill is entirely up to your own opinion), and I am darn well going to do my best to treat it right.  I wasn't meant to be impressive, but I know He doesn't want me to be incompetent.

But I love it.  I love what I do, what I feel when I write in my notebook, what I feel when I post my stuff on the internet and when I come up with characters and places and plot threads.  So I figure, maybe it's more important to God that I be happy than that I be impressive.  I'm cool with that.  I'm grateful for that.

Thanks Dad.  You wanted me to write, and I hope you like what I've written.

Black and White

Baa baa, Black Sheep, what's wrong with your wool?
Come now, Black Sheep, whatcha' tryna' pull?
Stand very still and let us make you White.
Don't fear, Black Sheep, family doesn't bite.

Oh dear, Black Sheep! Though we've tried our best,
poor Black Sheep still isn't like the rest.
Even now, he doesn't shine as brightly as his kin.
Soon he will revert and be black as he's ever been!

Bye bye Black Sheep, clearly you can't stay.
There isn't any purpose for your blackness anyway.
You should have changed your wool, but you just never understood.
Your defections were bitter....but your pain tastes really good.

A Day in Camelot with the Little Elf

Little Elf

The little elf-child who sleeps on the stone;
what she may dream of or why is not known.
Who knows why she growls if you nudge her awake?
(If she's even sleeping; it could all be fake.)
Few stranger or prettier things have been shown
than the little elf-child who sleeps on the stone.

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.......Heh.  So yeah, before you scratch your puzzled head, let me give you the headscratchingly puzzling story behind this one.

You guys remember my last post, wherein I told you about the Extremely Fantastic Brownings I toured the Gettysburg battlefield with?  Well, they have a young daughter, whom I ran around making up many playground games with and giving many piggybacks to.  One of the games we played was of such bizarrity that I decided to write a poem about it.

Okay, so my Dear Little Friend, she would slide down the long metal slide until she reached the end, at which point she would leap directly into my arms.  I would then proceed to twirl her around, dip her, and then put her back on the end of the slide.  She'd spider-climb up, reach the top, slide down, and we'd repeat the whole process over again, and all was well and extremely weird in the world even before she decided to change it up.

Without warning, when I had placed her back on the end of the slide for perhaps the fifth time, she promptly began imitating a sleeping person.  I watched her for a little bit, and when it was clear she was showing no signs of 'waking up' anytime soon, I decided to take my chances and see what a nudge on the shoulder would do.  What it did was cause her to 'wake up', growl like a little feral gremlin in my direction, race back up to the top of the slide, growl once more, slide down, and lather, rinse, repeat.

Get it?  I sure as heck don't.  But that little girl certainly did, and that was good enough for me.  Love and miss you, kiddo!

Oh yeah, and I also wrote a stupid poem about Camelot.

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A Day in Camelot

Sir Galahad and Sir Gawaine
were fighting dragons on the plain.
Sir Lancelot and old Sir Cai
were out to catch Morgan le Fay.

Sir Lional and Sir Bedevere
were...wait a minute, now see here!
In our fair town of Camelot
it seems like Sirs are all we've got,
so where have all the Maidens gone?

Let us now go on the lawn.
There sit Guinevere and Elaine,
picking some berries in the rain.
Arthur is with them, our brave King!

What is he doing?  Not a thing
(But that's okay, 'cause he's the King).

Shane Browning's 'The Wheatfield'

You should go to the battlefield at Gettysburg, like right now.  Seriously.  It's an amazing experience.  Actually, just vacation there.  Pack a suitcase, find a rustic hotel so you can delude yourself into thinking you're capable of roughing it, and spend a few days checking out the battlefield.  It's fascinating, moving, and the landscape itself is actually beautiful if you don't think about what was actually going on there at one time.

I happened to be given a chance to tour around the battlefield by a trio of extremely fantastic people.  'Extremely' and 'fantastic' are two extremely fantastic words, and if you use them directly alongside each other you had better be serious.  I am so serious right now.  They are extremely fantastic people, and one of them is named Shane Browning.

Now, Shane Browning is very very good at a very very large amount of things (public speaking being one of them, and to emphasize that fact I will not hesitate to shamelessly plug his company's website within these parenthesis: www.shanebrowningspeaks.com .  Check it out, ya'll.  It's extremely fantastic).  Poetry is something he is very very VERY good at, and after visiting Gettysburg he, being greatly moved by the experience, proceeded to write a poem about the Wheatfield.

The Wheatfield was exactly what it implies itself to be: a wheatfield.  However, it is capitalized because it was the location of perhaps the most intense, casualty-ridden scenes of the three-day battle at Gettysburg, which was in turn perhaps the bloodiest battle of the Civil War.  Since I'm pretty bad at describing these sorts of things, I'll let Wikipedia handle the rest of this one.  Take it away, Wikipedia!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wheatfield#Wheatfield

Thanks Wikipedia!  What a gent.  Now that you've completely ignored that link, go back and click on it and start appreciating the things Wikipedia does for you.  It works hard, ya'll.  Now that you've clicked the link and read at least a little of the info (come on, you only have to read a little.  Do it for the children), sit back, relax, grab a Kleenex or three, and enjoy Mr. Shane Browning's

The Wheatfield

The land changed hands 6 times that day
Under violent clash of Blue and Grey
Orders given by both commands
Four thousand drop across the land
One by one brave soldiers fell
Some dead – some dying – some waiting hell
Yet Blue and Grey both so soon retreat
From the hallowed field of broken wheat
The burden of battle the wheat must bare
Crushed stalks no longer waving there
Battered and bloodied by Blue and Grey
The Wheatfield died but once that day.