.

My head is light,

My step heavy,

I feel my sight

Getting blurry,

Am I not right?

I feel very

Lively and tight,

Dromedary.

You wanna fight?

I can carry

My word, my might,

But first: sherry!

.

Not so trickery, more so tipsy.

.

Shields up and swords at the ready,

Keep your minds cool and breaths steady,

Through this unbreakable formation

Show to the gods our newfound passion!

A beating heart over cold steel

But better death than ever kneel,

We are the proud warriors of O

And we shall let the whole world know

The might of a single one of us,

Should they ever underestimate

Our true power it shall ring checkmate,

As one we stand, our magnum opus.

.

Reminds me of something, strange…

Not my best work lately, I feel I will definitely have to rework it.

.

A cold wind through warm colours

In sacred cloth, ancient bells,

Resurrects powerful spells,

History shows our valours,

This has always been our life,

Nature’s expanse is our wife

And we uphold her glory

Through one and a thousand story,

As we tread upon this land

We make ours and yet respect

Our great mother’s helping hand

For prayers are what protect

Old ancestors through ages

And children under the sun,

With great care woven and spun

Through the river that rages,

Under the noble hawk’s eyes

And in the hearts that are ours,

You may laugh at this disguise,

Mock the way we love the stars,

You think you know who we are,

You think that we live so far,

But before pointing at holes

That you view as dug too deep

Should you not question your souls?

For the path is long and steep

For he who is deaf and blind

From never looking behind…

.

Poem prompt given in class: write a poem from a portrait picture and give it strong voice.

Edit: 16/10/2017 – Changed ‘protect’ to ‘respect’ (what it should have been) in the tenth verse, hadn’t noticed that mistake yesterday.

.

I don’t know where I am, don’t know where I’m going,

Isn’t that the beauty, the beauty of the thing?

Isn’t it, my dear? Oh isn’t it, my dearest?

The land has wilderness not yet conquered by man,

Not ever treaded on or even gazed upon,

It is truly open both in body and soul

Like a newborn infant or how the river bed

Is gently reflected into its clear blue eyes,

As I am now standing under golden arches

The pathways before me slither along shadows

And I can envision them in my poet heart,

My blood boils once again as I stare into deeps

So distant and so dark not even time comes back,

As I prepare to dive into this sea of ink

With no fear at heart but that of the blank page

Pushing towards the edge. Oh I am not afraid

Yet I am terrified, oh I am not yet dead

For I feel so alive, oh should I hesitate?

Only a single god knows the absolute truth

To this unique riddle and her name is Future.

.

Dedicated to Tom Petty. Of the importance of the hook.

.

Falling is truly quite akin to love,

A velvet hand inside an iron glove,

It is like rain coming down from above

Onto pages the poets lacks thereof.

.

Falling in less than 40 words.

.

So much to say, so little time.

.

Oh friend there is so much that still needs to be said,

A thousand metaphors which I still long to craft

A hundred unfinished creatures remain in draft

Or a thousand more rhymes that have yet to be wed,

Nonetheless I can feel the end of an epoch,

That which has come to be the golden age of mind,

The purpose of a year, the goal of this long walk,

And a silver-lined tongue which I shall leave behind;

So many failures met, so many lessons taught,

How I feared once before that all might be for naught,

But my dreads have been quelled as over those long hours

I have grown and become a true man, a poet,

– Or at least ’tis my hope – one that never cowers

From sadness and who might somehow grace bestow it.

.

           Hour 11.

The End.

.

In a dim, faithless church

Among faceless statues

Of wet salt and brimstone

Where no halt is welcome

And straight columns of air

By the great organ built,

Such lonely, kind giants,

Are the only guarants

That its order lives on

Is preached another verse

Of silence and iron,

The balance of its words

Is reached when the bell tolls

And the border of truth

Swallows bits of old sins

Full of fits of dark rage,

And the gospel repeats

In an endless canon

As an old spell slithers

– Sorceress in her keep -,

Not even the light words

However, be it said,

Above the arched entrance

To heaven on the earth

In fever long written

Shall march demons away:

Blasphemy in the font

For forces are at work,

Alchemy is at play,

When corpses march again.

.

          Hour 10.

Completely out of nowhere but still cooler than I expected.

Might need to be reworked.

.

I would say so much more

For I still have in store

Three quarters of the lore

Burning bright at my core,

And despite being hoar

My spirit still does soar

Away to distant shore,

Though faced with this white door

It knows no anymore,

Should it cross and explore,

Walk upon this cold floor?

Or should it keep in store

What was mentioned afor?

I tell through every pore

But I wish not to sore

Neither to be a bore

So I’ll just end before…

.

         Hour 9.

Clearly not my best work, but a produce of my work nonetheless. The theme was ‘cut short’.

.

Strings upon strings, the violin weeps

The dim story of the young woman,

In the distance the car engine seeps

Into stone, into wind, into Man,

The lullaby of night takes over

As a chorus of stars joins the moon

Singing a song even the clover

Is powerless to keep out of tune,

Under this ages olden chapel

Where the great organ of life has played

Ever since life bit in the apple

Is where hopes and dreams are neatly laid,

Oh but the notes on the music sheet

Dance a passionate swinging quick step

That a mortal may never quite meet

Without at least one or ten misstep,

All the tinker-tatter of the room

Echoes away in shades of silver,

And there, in the middle, sits the groom,

Voice strong hours before, now a sliver…

.

        Hour 8.

Take away what you will, I will read into it here.

.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I somehow dread

No more I love you…

.

       Hour 7.

The last verse gave me a headache because it is so much easier to express in French in a shorter and more concise and grammatically correct way… But in the end I kept it that way because it held a double-entendre that I quite enjoy.