Write better poetry

username:
RavenTheWhite

my muse has left me,
at the alter for an—
“accountant”

Gotta do this! :D

im going to see if i can write better poetry since, after all, writing poetry is really fun!

Every Day,
Every Day I try to peak my head around the corner.
Looking for the future.
But something is holding me back…
Maybe the dark shadows pacing behind me,
Or the fear of tradgity.
No, it is the regret of forgetting to live moment.

More than anything is this to push myself to use language more. I think “better” is a matter of personal opinion though, if you like it, that’s all that should matter.

...which is written by me for those who still have to clear out the meaning of…well, you’ll see after you read this.

The Four-lettered Word

The four-lettered word, is like a jigsaw puzzle
That is still yet to be solved.
Somehow it remains a mystery
Of how it first evolved.

It’s like a foreign language
That no one can translate
From it all emotions flow,
Relations of Love and Hate.

When it started, we never know
We never know when it’ll end
But advice was given by all wise people
To embrace it as a friend

Like the morning daylight,
Like the sun at noon.
Like the fall of twilight
And like the pearly moon.

Like this it’ll keep going on and on
With both happiness and strife
A memorable wild ride, never to forget
The four-lettered word called Life.
Hope you guys liked that, but I believe that some improvements can be made!

I have been reading a lot of Ezra Pound of late, comparing him with Rumi and T.S. Eliot. (The latter being obvious.) Then I got lost in a daydream while walking home from my office and wrote this about my partner from my days afield. It was good to see her last month. Just strange to see her in a wedding dress instead of her dusty khakis. It made me miss the old days for just a moment when we were drinking smuggled wine from coffee cups in an abandoned bunker somewhere.

Three Weeks After Your Wedding, A Hemisphere Away.

Brittle brown leaves clinging to
        the oak in snowy January 
                  remind me
             that cheating destiny with you was worth it
                       even if it was 
                                  just for 
                                        a little while
                                                       longer.

Ah…today.

I was in a mood. I was reading Socrates. Under a beech tree that was rapidly losing it’s leaves. For whatever reason I thought I’d write a bad free verse poem all about it. Ordinarily I’d burn such a thing and never speak of it again, but I thought today I’d make an exception, as sometimes even bad poetry is better than no poetry at all…

The Last Day of September.

Although the hopeful heartwood of this beech
stood dying not long after it was born,
even the emptiest of beings sometimes
speak subtle volumes from silence about
an endless sprawling quest to touch the sky.

When the pretense of sun-fed vanity has taken leave
and the wrinkled remains cling

naked. shuddering. exposed.

in cacophonic colors of copper and ochre,
a bitter breeze blows by and many are reduced to one…

Then none.

The tangible memory of September,
skips across the cracked sidewalks,
the red rooftops,
and the rusting downspouts.

Tickling the ear with an incorporeal whisper,
the sound of a spirit in flight reminds us all
that the sky will still be out of our rooted reach tomorrow,

and that a soul can reside comfortably
somewhere other than just in the middle.

I must.

Blend in,

making sure to never be heard,

but to hear everyone.

In the quiet of dusk,

blend in,

making up powers,

having dreams,

needing to take flight,

but always tied down.

Bleached out,

like the carpet that stares,

reaching you for days.

Blend in,

and let no one know.