My favorite songs are not
pop, country, rap, or metal.
It takes more than titles
to earn my affections.
My songs don’t start with a couple
and end with a kiss;
those dime-store romances
are a dollar-a-dozen.
I don’t like the clubbing kids –
it’s really not my scene.
And gospel tends to get me down,
there’s too much brimstone in my blood.
The songs which make me sway
are the ones within songs
about the grace and inspiration
that kickstarted an artist’s soul.
I wanted to go into a little more detail for this next poem so that you all could have a chance to get to know the person behind the poems. Below are two variations of my new poem, Pandemonium. The difference between the two, however, is the spacing of the line-breaks. I wanted to show you all what effect of such a small change can have as well as the level of thought I put into the poetry I write for this blog. I hope you enjoy – and please feel free to let me know which variant you prefer 🙂
Continue reading → Pandemonium (& Get to know the author #1)
You were once so very jovial
but then you faded away
until we barely saw you anymore.
But when you returned in force,
your visits carried with them a grace
of one who’d overcome their griefs.
It rings, it rings:
the falling hammer
which thunders down
on her raw heart.
The stony stares
and whispered words
of ne’er do wells
and so-called saints;
it rings, it rings…
The bitter tears
and futile fights
of nights when no
was not enough;
it rings, it rings…
It rings, it rings:
the forging hammer
which transforms pain
and flesh alike.
The stinging strikes
and bruising blows
from fists and words,
from friends and foes;
it rings, it rings…
Slowly but sure
there’s gradual gain
toward long-sought strength,
at last achieved;
it rings, it rings…
It rings, it rings:
the battered hammer,
long-worn from years
of raining down
on burnished steel.
The needle of my compass points not north
but towards my very heart;
an accusing finger which remembers
all deviations and derivations
which my wanton youth thought wiser
than the loaded iron.
Sometimes there’s not much to say
and yet the silence speaks volumes.
All the words you’ve left unspoken,
letters unsent, flowers undelivered…
The mute phone says all I need to know
about how much I mean to you
and how much you really miss me.
“My daddy says that sex is a sin,”
she spoke in a huff.
“And only those who’ve wed
under God Almighty
should engage in it.”
And he replied,
“Well my dear,
it sounds like your father
hasn’t sinned in a very long time
and all that frustration
has soured his tongue.”
Words come tumbling from my throat
like endless, rolling waves
until I add ink to my voice
and the river dries up.
Grief is an ugly thing
as is rage
and hate
and obsession.
But with clear, steady eyes
we can see the shape
of our own hearts
and fear no darkness.
I’m tired of the excuses –
the little white lies
that bury the truth:
that no matter what you say,
you just don’t have the courage
to fight for the things
you claim to believe.
You God-damned, fucking coward.
A (wise) man of two faces 