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| Space and Other Mysteries
Spiraling amidst the lee-shore waves,
it pulls itself out of tumult--
being wet, hairs standing from chill,
and clothing cut to the bone.
It lurks, apparition viewed once,
twice by panicked campers,
vacationing it family-style.
Pines spread wind-clipped fears.
Ears, poised for espionage
glean dirt, rake muck, droop
as a horrible story is read
on the faces of humankind.
Identity is sealed; forgotten.
Evolution has so few possessions
to offer to this shrinking age
of space and other mysteries. | | |
| I finally wrote something I am pleased with. I feel that all my
research and reading has finally been justified, to a degree at least.
Here's the piece:
Upon the Mantlepiece
Three pictures seem not such
a lonely invention; whence
words are vaporized, emotions sealed
for naught. Shall I return
to downcast eyes, to time's
eternal torture? Far from that,
I shatter frames along the cool,
streamlined hearth, which tinkle:
tumble into tiny windows.
Three pictures remain upon the shelf,
though wreckage cleaned: disposed.
A wealth of stinging moments have cracked,
replaced with images of me.
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| For me, poetry is all about freedom. A man shackled to distractions is
hard put to write verse of any notable merit. Rather, the mind must be
free to explore and discover itself in new ways. This idea used to
huddle in the corner of my mind, but recently I have all but forgotten
the true meaning of poetry (sorry if this sounds like common sense to
the rest of you). One of my biggest realizations is that poetry should
not be riddled with thoughts of how it should present itself. Thoughts
should not be altered to fit the rhythm; ideas should not change
according to flow. A poem holds the entire individuality of a thought,
and should thus lend its aesthetic characteristics to the overwhelming
dominance of free thought. This is what poetry is, and this is what I
cannot do.
Let's face it; my poetry is temporal, unyielding stuff. A graph of my
poetic quality depending on time would certainly resemble the garish
descent of Aunt Bertha's angular nose. (I'm quite sure you have an Aunt
Bertha, as I am informed everyone does. You know who I'm talking
about.) Really, I am in desperate need of a poetic rebirth. My hands
need to be washed of their falsely-based pride, cliches, and 30-word
vocabularies. No longer should I struggle with every word, only to
discover my inevitable defeat. My mind must be renewed somehow in order
to attain that sought-after freedom of thought.
Yes, freedom of thought is what I need. But how can I be free when I
have deadlines, obligations, and responsibilities? Come now, I am a
fourteen-year-old with an obsessive-compulsive personality, a newly
fired-up love for playing guitar, an academic schedule, and a social
schedule. Where can I find time to empty my mind and explore my
thoughts? I honestly don't know, but I probably won't be writing much
more until I can find a new inspiration.
I guess I'm taking a gamble. If I lose, I am dropping poetry; if I win,
I am going to write poetry with meaning. I am no longer satisfied with
lukewarm words regarded with empty praise. If another poem unfolds from
my pen, it will be something with soul--dare I say a masterpiece.
I suppose that can be called a new year's resolution.
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| Here's a sestina I wrote in collaboration:
Pandemonium on Parade
By Benjamin Herzel and Penelope Allen
Grandeur attends a freakish spectacle–
aberrancy aided by fantastic glitter
and made famous by public mirth.
Laughter clearly crowns the elated clown,
as he juggles a crazy collection of rings
that masterfully add to the ambience of illusion.
Crowds drink in the delectable illusion,
enthralled with each eye popping spectacle,
parading gaily around gargantuan rings.
Spotlights razzle-dazzle sequined glitter
and catch patched pants of a crestfallen clown,
who’s toppled over trike to hard-pedal mirth.
Acrobats soar on the buzzing mirth,
rubber-band bodies stretching the illusion
one step further than the frivolous clown.
Brilliant shades surround the spectacle
with copious quantities of rainbow glitter,
which shimmer and flip in the circus rings.
Ferocious big cats catapult through fire rings.
Rogue tiger eyes lion-tamer’s machismo mirth,
flames smokescreen smoldering glance glitter.
Temper flares, fangs bare to ensnarl the illusion
of tinderbox tension and snaked whip spectacle
as faces blanche, mimicking a pantomime clown.
Dinky midgets douse the haughty clown
with a water-bucket deluge as they run rings
around him, making merry of the drenched spectacle.
In a careful attempt to conjure a mystic mirth,
a masked magician executes an illusion
by drying his crying with cloud bursts of glitter.
Horses carousel canter all tacked out in glitter.
Dogs do back flips taking cues from the clown
who waggles his broken baton conducting illusion.
Elephants plod cavalcades in trunk to tail rings.
The monkey menagerie amasses much mirth
pick pocketing peanuts, prior to trapeze spectacle.
Take it away spectacle of galloping glitter.
Captivating mirth crumples, like smiles of a clown.
A new day rings in and gone is the illusion. | | |
| Festive Heart
Boister drifts by picturesque chandeliers
and creates an enviable aura, as holly
decks enchanted halls that bend, bowing
to forgotting heroes immortalized in marble busts.
The great hall--wondrous and awful,
hosts merriment of festive fragrace
which commands the presence of festoons
and banners, guests and pleasantries.
The fearless kind indulges himself in Christmas cheer
and gluts away the grinding tasks of kingship.
Mutton vanquishes at his steely will, like he fancies
proud knights subject themselves to his lightning-driven
sword. "Cheer!" he cries, and a hundered courtiers
mimick his now near-drunken voice.
The oaken tables teeter-tot and suffer silently beneath
a pile, course on course, of half-cooked
meat and mugs of mead, which froth and foam
frivolous barm. The air is thick with slimy sweat
as rotund paunches excercise to debaucherize
one step further than their slurring, swearing neighbors.
In the corner, dark abode, a wispy boy of maybe nine
rests still, and stares at the vain charade. A single tear
stutters down his cheek and leaves a streak of pasty
white on a face of mostly grime. | | |
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