A Night Under the Trees, Illuminated by the Moon

Burning, turning, crackling in the air,
The smoke rises into the air.
The cherry coal, bright in the night;
The time when thoughts take wing and flight.

Oh, soul, thou restless one;
Oh, mind, thou restless one;
Never still, always twisting and yearning.
Hardly content, always yearning and churning.

Quieter of souls, that golden leaf;
Tamer of thoughts, that golden leaf.
An hour of rest - a time of peace;
Thoughts are singled - wanderings cease.

Praise be to God for the rest of man!
Praise be to God for the rest of man!
For, when man stops and steadies his eyes,
His thoughts like the smoke, to God will rise.

Fare-well

There once was a Ririe that moved across the sea.
Wonderlust drove him to see what there was to see:
Birkenstocks, beer, concrete walls,
Minimalist construction and Victorian shopping malls.

He went to fill his head with knowledge,
And there complete his final year of college.
The land of Kant, Hegel, Schopenhauer, and Marx
Hosted this young man as he fulfilled his marks.

Their language, too, he learned to speak.
His head grew and grew though his body remained meek.
History, philosophy, literature and the arts,
He mastered through and though all of their parts.

But like all men, his fate is not sealed.
Will passions or Truth his spirit yield?
Will he become mad as a hatter, wagging his finger
Or, be sound of mind, producing thoughts that linger?

For Tommy V.

Ol, Tom is jolly man.
Out-smart, there are few who can.
He shaved his head;
Has yet to wed.
I'm thankful our friendship began.

For Benjamin

Benjamin, my bearded friend.
The ancient world he does not pretend,
To know its parts,
And secret arts.
Their stories he tells with no end.

For Oliver

My son, fruit of my loin.
God, your parts He did join.
You squawk and squeal,
Jerk and reel.
Myriad is your price in coin.

For Matt Shockey

Old Red, my goodly peer,
Guzzles down frothy beer,
He smokes the pipe,
When the tobacco is ripe,
And, is full of mirth and cheer.

The Words Squeezed from a Shattered Heart

(The first attempt of a hardcore lyric, produced on a winter night, some time ago)

How many times have you done this to me now?
You break my heart and expect me to come crying to you.
You stand there:
Cold.
Frozen to the bone.
Black hearted.

I confessed my sin to you, the horrible crime I committed.
I laid my heart out for you to see.

You say, "how could you do this to me?
How could you hurt me like this?"

I made an attempt to reach for you, but you slit my hand into pieces;
You stabbed me in the heart.
And you don't even realize how deep you are staring into yourself.

All the while I am:
Waiting.
Bleeding.
Dieing.


Now I am being poured into by Another.
Slowly.
Healing.
Healing what you tore apart.
Soon I will be fixed.
I can feel the blade you inserted, slowly removed.

Don't let your bitterness consume you.
Surrender.
Collapse.
It will hurt at first;
Give in.

All all the while I will be here;
Waiting.
Forgiveness in my hands.

A Fifteen Minuet Poem Conceived at Midnight.

She Likes Him,
While He likes Her.
She thinks of No-One, save for Herself.

She grows with Envy.
He grows with Rage.
She with Narcissism, into the Grave.

Now that He comes,
What will He think?
All three consumed with Passion,
But with Hearts that are Weak.

If they had Loved
Him on the Throne,
They would not have bothered,
But their desires disown.

A Hardcore Song Masquerading as a Lyrical Ballad

While in Europe Daniel and I decided to spend six days in Germany. We departed on a Sunday afternoon with hopes to span the southern region of the country and return to Brussels in time to meet his dearest. We planned to stop in Trier, Heidelberg, Rothenberg, Munchen, Dachau, and Wurzburg. We were only able to stay in each town for about a day; which was not enough time to see all that we desired. However, while we were in Heidelberg we saw that which the city boasted most about and then left promptly, leaving no reason to return.

The Rape of Hiedelburg

You, O city, long for the affection of travelers from afar,
Tantalizing them with your beauty.
You spread rumors and tales,
Hoping to make a fortune from their treasures.

These tales I have heard from across the sea.
Tales of Castles, Bridges, Forests, and Churches.
Tales of your purity and simplicity.

Your Beauty has enticed me long enough.
And now...
I've come.

Your finally mine.
There is no waiting, no hesitation;

I know exactly what I want.

Slowely,
Surely,
Systematically,
I reach my hand into your heart.
I feel its warmth.
Its beating.
And in a few short hours I'm done.


I've Come.

I've Seen.

I've Conquered.


Your Beauty...
is nothing to me any more.

I've taken what I want, my pleasures are fulfilled.
I wish that i could say that I'll be back again...

But I wont.

Hellas

Whilst I was journeying through distant lands there came a time in which I was able to rest my weary legs. My eyes absorbed the colours of the setting sun, my ears the sound of birds, and my mouth the sweetness of black cavendish. I opened a book of old and found upon the page this rhyme.

The world's great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn:
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;
A new Peneaus rolls his fountains
Against the morning star;
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.

A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies;
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.

O write no more the tale of Troy,
If earth Death's scroll must be-
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
Which dawns upon the free,
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Riddles of death Thebes never knew.

Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime;
And leave, if naught so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven can give.

Saturn and Love their long repose,
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
Than many unsubdued:
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.

O cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy!
The world is wary of the past-
O might it die or rest at last!

~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Amen!

And so he was lifted upon a tree and an inscription was attached indication who was being killed. Who was it? It is a grievous thing to tell, but a most fearful thing to refrain from telling. But listen, as you tremble before him on whose account the earth trembled!

He who hung the earth in place is hanged.
He who fixed the heavens in place is fixed in place.
He who made all things fast is made fast on a tree.
The Sovereign is insulted.
God is murdered.
The King of Israel is destroyed by an Israelite hand.

This is the One who made the heavens and the earth, and formed mankind in the beginning,
The One proclaimed by the Law and the Prophets,
The One enfleshed in a virgin,
The One hanged on a tree,
The One buried in the earth,
The One raised from the dead and who went up into the heights of heaven,
The One sitting at the right hand of the Father,
The One having all authority to judge and save,
Through Whom the Father made the things which exist from the beginning of time,
This One is "the Alpha and the Omega,"
This One is "the beginning and the end" ... the beginning indescribable and the end incomprehensible.
This One is the Christ.
This One is the King.
This One is Jesus.
This One is the Leader.
This One is the Lord.
This One is the One who rose from the dead.
This One is the One sitting on the right hand of the Father.
He bears the Father and is borne by the Father.
"To him be the glory and power forever. Amen"

~Melito of Sardis

The Shepherd Boy sings in the Valley of Humiliation

He that is down needs fear no fall,
He that is low, no pride;
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.

I am content with what I have,
Little be it or much:
And, Lord, contentment still I crave,
Because Thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is
That go on pilgrimage:
Here little, and hearafter bliss,
Is best from age to age.

~John Bunyan

O for a Thousand Tongues

O for a thousand tongues to sing my geat Redeemer's praise,
The glories of my God and King, the triumpohs of His grace.
My gracious Master and my God, assist me to proclaim,
To spread thru all the earth abroad the honors of Thy name.
Jesus! the name that chams our fears, that bids our sorrows cease,
'Tis music in the sinner's ears, 'Tis life and health and peace.
He breaks the pow'r of canceled sin, He sets the pris'ner free,
His blood can make the foulest clean - His blood availed for me.
Hear Him, ye deaf; His prase, ye dumb, your loosened tongues employ;
Ye blind, behold your Savior come; and leap, ye lame, for joy.
Glory to God and praise and love be ever, ever giv'n
By saints below and saints above - the Church in earth and heav'n.

~Charles Wesley

Perfect Woman

She was a phantom of delight,
When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
a lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

~William Wordsworth

The Dying Christian to his Soul

Vital spark of heav'nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, found Nature, cease they strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Len, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is they victory?
O Death! where is they sting?

~Alexander Pope

Epitaph

Okay okay, so some of you may have caught on that this is a double post from my other blog, but just dont worry about it. None the less, i was reading "The Attic Nights of Aulus Gellius" the other day. In book I chapter XXIV Gellius records some epitaphs that some famous poets had written for their own graves. I fancied this one.

"Young man, although you haste, this little stone
Entreats thee to regard it, then to read its tale.
Here lie the bones of Marcus, hight Pacuvius.
Of this I would not have you unaware. Good bye."