Poetry

Two Lines on a Plane

Chris Leave a comment

Today I met my soul mate.

There was no blinding light,
No deafening sound,
Just the washed out pale shine
Of sun through moody clouds
With the soft shuffle of shoes
And the susurrus of amiable voices
As we made our way to and from lunch

A quiet talk of no import
Stole my focus for long enough
To nearly miss what I found:
A pair of eyes aimed at me
In which I saw myself reflected.

Never before have I seen eyes
That look out at the world
The same way that I so often feel:
A passenger along for the ride
Whose interest lies in seeing all
And feels no shame in just looking;
Confined to an inadequate room
With only two windows to serve
As portals to the rest of existence;
Curiosity unhindered by practicality
And hungry to learn everything
That the world has to offer.

Eyes that looked out at the world
And all of the people who passed by
The same way I often stare
As I walk through my days,
Eyes that saw me the same way
That I have seen so many others,
Eyes that looked at me and wondered
What story there was to tell beyond
The space I occupied along their path.

Seconds passed as I took them in,
Step followed step as I saw
Eyes I never dreamt I’d see
In a face so different from my own
And I wasted my voice on idle chatter
While hoping my eyes would meet these.

Eyes that moved passed me.

Eyes that I’ll never see again.

 

Twenty-Six Lines

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Dearest friend and oft-times mentor,

I apologize for the lateness of the hour,
But I’m writing this note from my lover’s bower
(Which should explain the particular artistry
I’m using to write this bit of poetry)
And could not help my mind but turn toward you
As I consider the New Year and what I’ll do
With my regained health
And stronger sense of self.

Though my attention has been scarce of late,
It has not escaped my notice that still you wait
On my promises of impending time
Which all wound up going toward my climb
Out of those depths all dark and heavy and blue
Instead of all the things I promised we would do
When I would tell you how
I did not have time right now.

Thank you for your patience touring my tribulations,
Your kindness has helped keep whole my foundations
While I work on the process of rebuilding
And now I am eager to do your bidding.
So let us make up for all the time that was lost
And you need no longer worry about the cost.
Now I’ve strengthened my will
I can cover the bill.

With ceaseless thanks and gratitude, your friend.
P.S.
All that I have to add
As I read this in review
Is that if you had the thought
That this poem was about you
Then you, friend, should be proud
Because that thought is likely true

Twenty-Four Hours

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The quiet November nights with the soft tip-tapping sound
Of falling leaves, deep chill breezes, and shoes upon the ground.
The starry skies and moonlit nights of staggering back home
Amidst the thrills and cutting chills of winter’s icy poem.
Warm with drink and laughter, no thought is held reserved
For all the shame and hatred that I so rightly deserve.

The still November nights with the raucous, jarring sound
Of hidden laughter and skittering shoes upon the ground.
The cloudy skies and shadowed nights of hurrying back home
Amidst the fears of coming years in anxiety’s poem.
Cold, alone, and mopey, no thought is kept preserved
From all the shame and hatred that I so rightly deserve.

The nights are always growing old
And the air is always growing cold.
All these stories have been told
And all their words are growing mold.
All I have has been sold
And I have nothing to hold.
The whispers grow bold
And I decide to fold.

Twenty-Three

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Stilted prose and dirty floors
Are all that exist between the doors
Of my mind and of my home,
But I’m tempted to leave them alone.

What right have I to tell them how to be
When I am at the fluid age of twenty-three?
The age of emotion and the flower of youth:
Constantly warring with the iron truth
Of absurdity and the joy of friends
Until the drinks are gone and the talking ends.

The bitter nights of solemn thought;
The bitter-sweet kiss of love sought;
The serendipity of friendship found;
The stoic, solid feeling of the ground
Beneath your feet as you spin the tales
Of loving friendship amidst the empty ales
and liquor bottles from the night’s escapades
Believing life has dealt blessings in spades.

What right do I have to be
So sad and melancholy?

Young but wise beyond my years,
Already immune to most the fears
That keep others awake at night
Despite the fact they’re doing alright.
The envy of many of my peers
Who, despite workshops and endless tears,
Cannot seem to make things work
And wind up as some poor sales clerk.

Stability and fortune are my reward
For spending every night I could afford
Working or studying despite the call
Of friends who are out having a ball,

So tell me how I can justify
A feeling for which I do not qualify?

I have luck and skill both,
The opportunity for growth,
Talent and determination,
Praise and edification
From those who can see just how far
I’ll go and not think it bizarre
That I might have some attribute
or great masterpiece to contribute.

Yet here I am at night’s darkest hour
Wishing I could ignore the nascent power
Of my roiling emotions and troubled thoughts
That tie my gut in non-euclidean knots.
With all the clanging, clamorous noise,
One thought maintains my outward poise:

The moon is so full and bright
While I sit here alone tonight.

Age 22

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Ever since I decided I wanted to do a parody of a Shakespearean Sonnet and wound up making it about the state of my life at 22, I’ve done a “state of my life” poem every year. They’re usually on the more thoughtful side or a way to address the biggest issue in my life at the time and, as a result, fairly thematically different. There’s one from last year that I’m not sure I want to share yet, so I’m going to hold off on that, but I’m going to share one of each of the others every day this week, culminating in the poem I came up with yesterday as my current “state of my life” poem. It’ll be pretty clear which one you’re reading as the titles give it away. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this week of poetry while I get my buffer set up and my writing routine worked out.

 

When I cannot play Minecraft, in disgrace
I weep for my poor soul’s addicted fate
And my computer, bootless in its place
And looking so sad in its broken state.
Wishing that it were not busted, a hope
Featured in dreams unending, I go on
Desiring to play but yet have to cope
With music videos I’ve come upon.
Yet I, my weakness almost despising,
Haply buy a new computer to play.
Like to a child at Christmas, arising
From my slumber to play Minecraft all day.
I think to myself, “What else should I do?”
Irrational? Me? No, just twenty-two.

Melancholy

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Rainy grey days and soft muted nights,
Fog in the trees obscuring the lights
Of passing cars and the lone street lamp
As the world revels in the wet and the damp.

The quick pit-patter of dripping rain
Against the roof and window pane,
The bend and sway of leaf and tree,
The storm-blown scratch of spring debris,
The susurrus of water on grass
As the clouds roil, break, and pass.

A hint of loam and earthy strength,
A touch of fresh that runs the length,
Something new to mark the year
As the scent rides wind far and near.

The cold pin-prick of rain on skin
To mark the storm will now begin,
The deep chill gust that cuts to bone
And leaves stout souls to walk alone,
All hint of warmth retreats from hearts
As the skies open and the rain starts.

Unlit grey rooms and seats to rest
By windows with forehead pressed,
A crack to pull in rain-soaked air
And a blanket warm waiting near,
Silence reigns loud to give the storm
Ample room to sooth and perform
For those who watch and wish to be
Nothing more than melancholy.

 

Majestic Weather

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Here’s another “shoot, I really need to get that buffer made” poem to hold you over when I’m too busy to write something new every day for my daily post. Hopefully you’re all have a wonderful holiday season and, for those of you who celebrate it, I hope your Christmas Eve is going well.

As the moon sits, fat and high,
I watch a battle of giants in the sky.
Flashes of light that make no sound
Miles and miles above the ground:
A tumultuous scene of Majestic Weather!
No fluffy clouds, light as a feather
Are these, but dark monstrosities
That dominate the sky, ignoring the breeze.

A scene of beauty like no other
Is the storm that decides to hover
On the horizon like a mountain silhouette,
But infinitely more of a looming threat.


Beauty and violence twisted together
Is this Queen of inclement weather!

Words

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I still haven’t gotten my buffer built up. I’m spending the entire day traveling and helping my friend move into her new apartment, so I’m unable to do much writing today. I’ll hopefully get back to the regular schedule tomorrow, but we’ll see. It’s hard to predict what the holidays will bring. Since I want to give you all something, have another poem I wrote a while back

Words stuck behind a pane of glass
Rebound and pierce like tiny pins,
Given free reign to quickly pass
Through my soul like trivial sins.

Fallen

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Broken words and broken moments
Shower me with leftover letters
And more little “later’s” than I can stand.

Cluttered mind and shuttered heart
Weigh me down as I reach out
And take me far from what I had planned.

Shattered phrases and endless thoughts
Tie me up in ceaseless swirls
That ignore my every plea or demand.

Forever lost beneath the rubble
Of my organized and ordered mind,
Piles of rock and ruin all beige and bland
Of which not even a plinth remains,
Is the once-mighty empire of me.

And all I can say is that it was grand.