Stars

Distant…
And unrestrained;
Inhabiting,
What seems too close to be,
And yet,
Painting a picture.
What these night-flames lights,
Indescribable at sight,
And invisible by day,
Mean us to be…
None can say.
 
What comes with these…'things',
Philosophers,
Astronomers,
All try to describe,
But failing in description to,
Summarize.
What we learn from 'these',
We make our own,
For none can teach 'the masters',
Of the mind.
These things we strive to learn,
Fall on such 'deaf' ears,
Making difficult all we know.
 
But just these things,
These beautiful things,
Remain and entertain us,
For on its road its sure to inspire,
All who can come after us.
"It's our thoughts that count."
Our mothers say,
And it's she who did inspire us,
To inspire us.
 
But back to thus,
This beautiful would,
In infinitesimal thoughts it's in,
Its glowing heavens,
Its lights resplendent,
To those who live upon it.
But nature has,
What nature wills,
And our dreams mean nothing to it.
  
I continue this:
I stress upon it,
To not question,
What's not there,
Do not build a false conception,
A creature,
Built of lies,
Just sit back,
And relax,
Just be a thing to be,
And admire the scenery.

ISA

Open Meadows

Empty,
Quiet,
Open thoughts and fields,
Hidden creatures and their lives,
Wonders outspoken and unspoken,
All before our minds.
 
Grass flying everywhere,
A symphony in silence,
The world of beauty comes to sight,
A thought been born to light.
 
Now it's night,
And all that hides,
Comes out alive,
To play.
For when all is silence,
Nowhere to hide,
Piranhas easy prey.
 
To return to day,
And blood spattered ground;
All goes back to hide.

ISA

Jail

Closed off,
Cornered,
Walled in and walled out,
Nowhere to escape or enter.
 
Shifting and stalling,
Stagnant is the air and land,
Nothing changes.
 
Odd, strange,
Serenity to malignance,
Ever-changing sense of all.
 
Waiting, watching, listening, and speaking,
Nothing always to do,
Thinking to pass the time,
Dreaming to move.
 
A fortress,
A palace,
Death stinks everywhere,
But the one thing,
To describe this place;
A stationary contraire.

 

ISA

Secrets

Hidden words,
In the masks of lies,
Things never what they seem,
Asked of one to others,
Fears being what they keep.

Why,

Is it so, so hard,
Not to tell the truth?
But to ask of another,
One not a brother,
Not to reveal your lies.

Under so many things,

He could reveal,
The truth hidden in the lies?
If not for a penny,
He would do a shimmy,
Why trust him with the truth?

But which secret are you trying to keep?

The political scandal at bay?
Or is it something more simple,
Like stealing a bale of - Hey(s)?!

ISA

Hope Eternal

Send me to a different dream,
Filled with lies,
And distant beliefs.
Bring me a sword,
To fill the lines,
And make absent our griefs.

I did not dispute,
The loss,
Or gain,
Of the eternal.
If my truth,
In my truth,
Disheartened,
Or obscured,
Your opinions,
Know that my lines,
Do not lie,
Nor breach the truth,
Of the fact that is,
Was or were.

Where I coincide,
Where I abide,
Whether I live and die,
Is my right to decide,
And shall not be disputed,
Save by me,
My thoughts,
And mine.

Hope is,
And always will be,
A once and future,
Eternity.
The dreams of those,
Who hope,
Who lie,
Who die,
May not be all the same.
But they are,
What they are.
Beautiful.

In my boredom,
Listening to my symphonies,
Dreaming of my anarchy,
My Apocalypse,
And Bellum,
Pestis,
Tabes,
And Mors,
I find that though,
While I may seem sickly,
Designed to be the picture of Insanity,
Viridi Irae,
I am who I am.
I am,
I am,
And always will be,
Always,
Be consumed by my darkness,
Consuming the darkness,
With my Fury.

ISA

The Giant and The Cliff

 

Lifted,

High on Ice,

Slippery Ground I'm on,

One false move,

And then I'll lose,

The safety of this cliff.

 

For at the bottom of this icy ledge,

Is an even worse-so fate,

For lo and behold,

I saw the spikes,

To impale me if I fall.

 

I stopped struggling,

To move ahead,

To best this cliff behind me.

For now I saw,

The giant's maw,

Above my path,

And in front of me.

"A tasty morsel I doth see."

The giant spoke above me.

"I think I see yon hungry sea,

Over there behind ye."

And as the giant pushed and pulled,

I decided,

I'd just stand still.


Well....This is one of my older works. It's one I've been meaning to translate unto a digital format, but I just haven't found a reason or the time to do so. Now that it is finally here, I hope you enjoy it.

ISA

Symposium of Boredom

....Now, while this isn't poetry, it is written in a format for entertainment. I do hope you take a look, at one of my brief short stories.


*****

                There isn't really a rule about boredom. No line so fine or debonair. It just appears. Brightly, gaily, greyly, as if the world itself has lost its color.

                The people it inflicts, with this sense, burn and age infinitely, but only in this spare moment. The oddity of these moments, while subtle, shows the true personalities of the people coping with this brief affliction. The rash, and unwise, urging to move, to explore, rise up and are agitated, while the truly old, in the moments of boredom, reflect upon their lives, find inspiration in the unique feeling, and are held in the silence by the urge to sleep.

                 Boredom finds the oddest things in people. From destruction, mayhem, and unruliness, to bone-wrenching  tiredness and depression. Boredom truly is the strangest illness I've ever faced. It is chronic, and untreatable, rends in waves, and in the rarest of moments, the stillness of boredom even kills.

                 Aye, even boredom kills, killing in the most supremely subtle of manners. The pervading sense of it, even briefly, turns full, grown men, and women, into the deadest of zombies. To others, boredom itself causes no harm. Instead, it brings the person's pains with it. Sorrow, depression, tiredness, and morality. The sheer crushing power of which can end a life. But still, with the pains, and horrors boredom brings, it also brings with it, light.

                Hope springs eternal, even boredom doesn't crush this fact. Instead, even with boredom, the writer's creativity flashes, with the feeling itself in their brain. The flavors, the colors, the madness, all boredom brings, transformed into art. Of the word, and the brush, of the pencil, and the pen, boredom brings it all. Even in the crushing apathy, boredom brings those translators of beauty something special.

                But…through it all…the boredom prevails. Nothing can stop it. Nothing can prevent it. Not even the melancholy, and the rage, and the sorrow. No happiness springs eternal. No luck is overfilling. Nothing is permanent, not even the scores of death. And I wish this wouldn’t be, but nothing is, and ever will be, as permanent, (in our minds that is), as our sense of boredom is, in that brief moment of time, of boredom.

ISA