Lucid Waking

Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category

Gone

It wasn’t that I wanted to let him go.
I held his hand from Russia to Pompei,
I held his hand for the length of the train,
And yet, he managed to slip away.

The paths we took did not converge
Though I never did asked him why.
I thought our connection would always last
Then saw the truth that everything must die.

I never saw his face again;
I never really tried.
I stay here lost without my friend
As the days continue by.

Author’s comments on post 379: I’m not in a depressed mood and this doesn’t have significance to my life. But when I try to write something happy…

I think depression is more interesting to write about. But don’t have a sad day, be happy and enjoy life!

Haikou of the Moment (No. 6)

Snow still on the ground
Cold and wintery temperatures
Flowers start to grow

Author’s comments on post 356: I had a bigger, bolder post but I haven’t quite finished it and I lost my guts to post it. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be brave enough to stand on my soap box. Until then, a haikou; something I haven’t written in a long time.

Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Needed tape to put him back together again.
And when they did, the doctors of the land
Were sent to give Humpty’s health a hand.
And when Humpty was as good as new once more
Humpty always made sure to sit on the floor.
So what’s the lesson you should take?
Always learn from your mistake.

Author’s comments on post 346: Er, well…this is something silly that I came up with after trying to do something respectable. Think of it what you will, and I’ll be back tomorrow with hopefully something worth while.

Why Can’t We Be Like Yesterday

Why can’t we be like yesterday?
Full of modesty and grace.
A gentleman would hold the door
and bad language was disgrace.

All the cultured could dance and sing;
The arts had high regard.
Courting didn’t seem a sport;
Women cared if their virtue was marred.

I’m sure the world has improved:
the legal rights for our peers,
but I just want to regain a little class
That we’ve lost over the years.

Author’s notes on post 343: After reading a biography on John Keats, I thought "wouldn’t it be lovely if things were really as easy as biographies make them out to be?" and then I thought about the (arguably) good ol’ days. This is the product: something different. See y’all tomorrow and thanks for the feedback about this project so far!

Listening at the Window

Silhouette by the window;
two bodies joined in one.
Music from the open glass—
an unexpected serenade
but instead of the mortal on the ground
singing up to a maiden on a balcony,
she’s up there and I’m down here.
Instead of me singing to her, she’s singing to me.

I feel as if I should serenade her.
Give her praises for what I feel,
but she sees nothing but the music on the page
and I’d feel a fool if I called out towards the window
hoping no one else heard.

A cold blast of wind and she appears at the window,
A short shout of her name, a wave, and a smile;
She looks down—recognition—joy fills her face
The greeting’s returned but she closes the window
breaking the space with a sounding tap.

That girl by the window
staring at a music stand
giving music that feeling
I wish she’d give me.

Author’s Note on Post 337: The premise was just some musings that I had in the practice room today. I know when I walk past the music building I can hear people loud and clear if the window was open and I thought: what if someone was actually listening to me?I tried to make this one happy–I really did!–but it ended up being sad, anyway. I comfort myself in imagining that this poor boy gets the girl in the end. Sorry it’s just been poems, but I have no time to invest in a longer prose piece.

Untitled

The man in the corner shuffles tarot cards
to deal a game of Solitaire,
Hoping the cards will line together
and make more sense than
his life ever will.

He wants answers to questions
he doesn’t even know,
that he thinks are emotions
because he relies on intuition
(even when reason might show the best path).

Though the girl at bar might be in the game,
she’s just as confused. Instead of asking
she thinks she might know
and lets him play the game alone.

Author’s Note on Post 336: I felt like I needed to write after being absent for a while. Besides, this is the first post for September. Not having a clue about what story or prose piece to write, I sat down and scraped up this poem, which was an attempt to categorize my emotions today. I didn’t want it to be so cut and dry, so some confusion and exploration is ok. I was mostly focusing on imagery, anyway.

Visions of the Darkness

There is a ghost on the floor
playing with imagined liquid—
blood, water, or time-will-tell.
If he had a mouth, he’d smirk in perfection,
boisterousness might play in the pits he calls eyes.
Never looking at you—only looking through you.
Whispers of something floating in disguise.
The Faceless Man he’s been known to be called
and he’d smile at your horror and quizzical expression
as you reached for where the drip
was coming out of the wall,
but finding, really, there was nothing there at all.

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Author’s Note on post 333: Something quick to prove that my mind does indeed still work. Inspired by this.

Pieces

If you stop and think about it
All the voices in your head,
Which you thought you had to silence,
Are already dead.

They’ve submissively had to listen
To that dictator you call “me”
While you try to figure out life
And who you want to be.

Where you think that you have demons
And many pieces of the “you,”
You really have indecision
In figuring out what to do.

While you believe your life is fractals
It is really not at all.
But while “oneness” might be comforting,
It’s only you if you fall.

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Author’s Note on post 330: I haven’t written in a while and I hope this is self-explanitory.

Confused

I don’t know where I’m going,
Or what I want to be,
Or whether when I’m forty
I’ll still be loving tea.

I don’t know if my college
Is the one that’s really right,
Or whether to believe the people
Who suggest I’ve made a blight.

There is so much that I’m told,
It’s hard to hear my voice
And I’m always so confused
That I can’t make a choice.

Out

Out of the grunge of the city rose a phoenix.
We called her Hope.

She stood against death, destruction, and hatred
We waited for her to deliver us.
Through the shadow of nightfall
She came like a silvery shadow,
Across the alleys like the moon
And saw everything.
Everything.

She felt the heaviness of melancholy,
The restriction of burden,
The weight of the chains of the past
And she cried out with everyone
Before she realized that she
Was the deliverance.

She touched the spirits of
The downtrodden
The disgusted, disregarded
Masses who felt that they had nothing
But their hands to do with as they would.
She changed the world by showing them
That with their hands,
They could do it alone.

Out of the grunge of the city rose a phoenix
We called her Inspiration.
We called her Faith.
We called her Hope.