Your own poetry, Because not everyone is published

Hello, all! This forum is pretty barren, so I thought I'd spice it up a little. We all know that published poets can have some great works, but inspiration is often found in the most amateur of works.

So - post your own poetic creations here. Rhyme, meter, verse or subject don't matter. What matters is the creative spirit.

Feel free to comment on other's poems, just don't start any flame wars. Constructive criticism is fine, but keep it fair. No below-the-belt hits.

(If you are going to post a poem in a non-English language, please provide a translation for the unilingual. I don't know HOW many times I've been asked to translate...)

So... I'll start, since no one else is going to do it for me

Sun and Shadow

The shadows are long
But the light loves the sky
Without the other
The first shall die

Take the middle path, he said,
Walk it strong and true,
My heart can't take the stress, he said,
Of living without you.

When the sun, the brilliant sun,
Shines upon the land,
The yin amongst the shadows
Can gain an upper hand.

And when the moon, the opal moon,
Will chase the sun away,
The spark inside will brighten all,
And night will turn to day.

Take the middle path, he said,
But be my other side
The yang within my heart, he said,
Can into you confide.

And all the sun and shadow
Could never be erased;
For when he said he loved me
It all settled into place.

This is a REALLY random limerick I wrote quite some while ago, and which I reread today:

<Edit: I think I wrote it after reading an article by someone complaining about how fantasy characters have such unpronounceable names. The writer said it would be nice if there were dragons named Bob.>

Bob
There once was a dragon named Bob
Who loved to eat corn on the cob
He tried to be neat
A difficult feat
But his mother still called him a slob

This post has been edited by Arvellas on Apr 27 2008, 01:27 PM

Ok, here's a sonnet I had to write in school partly in response to Romeo and Juliet. It's about love, but not in the way most poems are. Here it is.

FYI: A shakesperean sonnet goes "abab cdcd efef gg" and is in iambic pentameter (ten syllables per line in an unstressed-stressed pattern. Read it aloud, you'll see what I mean).

Hidden within the heart of every boy,
there dwells a wolf that soon will wake from sleep.
Though some would call it sin and others joy,
unleashed too soon, the wolf will hound the sheep.

He's strong, good-looking, silver-tongued, and sly,
disguised as love, he calls, to lure his prey:
"Hey baby girl, what's up, can I drop by?"
or "thou art lovely as a summer's day."

Untamed, he is controlled by desires.
His words are fancy, to be sure, but lies.
His rash, impulsive actions fan the fires,
only to cease with their demise.

But with his taming, bygone sheperds found,
a wolf could be to sheep a faithful hound.

Please review this, if time and will befit you. Thanks.

*edited to adhere to Dark Dave's advice

This post has been edited by Solemnbum on May 29 2008, 10:16 AM

This line could perhaps be clarified. It seems to say that he lures his prey between a man's lips, but your intended meaning was to describe the wolf with a human form, right?

It's very interesting and well written on the whole. I like the way you've used the boy-->wolf metaphor - it's really clever.

Eris, I like your poem too - it's beautiful, in a simple way.

Arvellas's limerick reminds me of the bursts of silly verse I give in to from time to time. I wrote this song a few years ago for a game I was playing (much like Calvinball, where you make up the game as you go along):

Oh there once was a lassie so bonny and brawn
Sing hi-ho tweedle-dum fiddle-diddle hey,
And I did create her for the purpose of this sawng
With a tweedle-deedle fee-fo calloo callay.

She had eyes so black, and cheeks so red
Sing hi-ho etc.
And her heart was pure gold, or so 'twas said
With a tweedle etc.

Oh she was a maid of many a hue
Sing hi-ho etc.
And she were no other than my love so true
With a tweedle etc.

One day with her bucket she went to the well,
Sing hi-ho etc.
And tumbled therein, and fell straight down to Hell
With a tweedle etc.

While I with my mates in the tavern did revel
Sing hi-ho etc.
My poor love went early to meet the Devil
With a tweedle etc.

And I wept 'til my heart did almost break,
Sing hi-ho etc.
But then I remembered she is of my own make
With a tweedle etc.

So dried I my eyes, and picked up my glass,
Sing hi-ho etc.
And I promptly forgot my imaginary lass
With a tweedle etc.

Thanks for reviewing! Hmm...well, he kinda is luring his prey from between men's lips, because he is part of the man. The wolf isn't an actual wolf, he symbolizes lust, which lures people by disguising itself as love, and saying something like, "Thou art lovely as a summer's day." We all know Romeo's a pervert, deep inside...

Maybe it should be "disguised as love, he calls to lure his prey"
That's 10 syllables, following iambic pentameter. I like that better.

Poems like this tend to happen while I'm studying for exams:

SPIDER, SPIDER, shining sharp,
Creeping ’cross my tight-strung heart,
That twitches at thy pin-prick tread:
What gave thee hatch inside my head?

What ichor welling from my brain
Befouls my sense with thy dark stain?
What splats and splays, as black as night,
To paint thee horrid ’pon my sight?

What quickens, takes thy hideous shape,
And reason snares, forbids escape?
What fleshly tremors start from thine
Eight needle-feet upon my spine?

How doth this ague, rank FEAR OF TIME,
Sprout thine eight legs, and creeping climb
From brain, to heart, to gut, to soul,
Until thou’st claimed my body whole?

How climbst so high, like fev’rish tide,
Until thy poison seeps outside?
Thou sprawl’st, by fancy’s ill set free –
Vile visioning of my lunacy!

SPIDER, SPIDER, shining sharp,
Creeping ’cross my tight-strung heart,
That twitches at thy pin-prick tread:
What gave thee hatch inside my head?

(apologies to William Blake)

Well, I'd like to show you some of my poetry. This is from my story (and hope, an incoming published novel) Epic in Everdant.

The poem is sung by a horde of viking-like men, I called them Easterlings.

Far from the East, we come!
far from the shore, we sail!
far from the home, we left!
We are here to be raw!

And now, to the East is ought
its reward. Yes, we’ve fought!
In battle let’s be savage!
We are here now to ravage!

The foe is no longer safely,
their relief’s to be left scarcely.
We shall cleave through rotten wounds.
Their dead shall deserve no mourns!
___________________________________________________
However, I'm still reading everything I need about Norse poetry and the viking sagas. Phew. Anyway, I started to like more vikings since I listen to Amon Amarth (and that made me to love more my Easterlings).

Thus, I came up with this:

Every battle and every war
is just a sigh, a blink and step,
in this long-draining war
that it's called Life

Great as it was
in both rise and fall!
Painful is now
in triumph and loss!

I've been on a bit of a poetry spree lately.

Disclaimer: the following is not about me (though you can probably guess where I was when I wrote it).

-------------------------------

I wish I were a hollow log, bleached white and petrified,
With lichen blooms like rusty scabs, and lizards hid inside;
I wish I were a spotted snake coiled limply in the sun,
The ants all swarming, chewing down the carcass I’ve become;
I wish I were a mossy tree down in a flooded gulch,
Ridden through with fungus, damp and crumbling into mulch;
I wish I were a severed head sunk in a rushing stream –
Even nosy, nibbling fishes won’t disturb me as I dream …

But I am jerked upstanding at the first breath of the morn,
Waiting at the station, then down miles of rail-track borne,
To ’sconce my b-tt into a chair before a blinkless screen,
Blinkless myself, I’ll stare the whole damn day at this machine …
Concrete walls enclose me from the mercy of the skies,
Fluorescent lights shine strong enough to melt away my eyes,
While I squint at printed dullery, in book and paper bound,
My body whole is yearning to be swallowed by the ground!

I need the blessing of repose, the earth tugs at my bones!
My flesh is sagging heavily, my head’s all aches and moans –
Let grasses, tall above my head, my burdened body keep:
I’ll fold my arms across my chest – and settle down – and sleep!

I have forgotten about this thread... OK. Maybe in the next week I can comment the poems of others, but I'm not expecting someone to comment mine until I give some feedback.

And now...

Acephalus

A naked male body, headless
Stumbling around, creature of shame
To and fro he roams the world
devoid of any feeling or reason

As he is a headless creature
he meets the ground more often
than a merciful gaze or touch
He cannot be frightening

Yet he causes fear and doubt
for Acephalus is a foul one
A member of the Fell Sect
He is not to be overlooked

A grim, disgusting fiend
hardly a living creature
Unfathomable wicked rites
brought an ancient evil

He already has put a spell
on many living creatures
Should anyone ever know
his true self, sanity will be lost

Humans and beasts, all those
see Acephalus as a beheaded one
On the neck a grievous wound
that seldom bleeds and smells

And then they wonder
How did he looked like?
Who really was him in the past?
How did he end up like this?

But in the name lies its essence
Acephalus, the Headless One
Only certain gifted ones
can see his true, fouler form

Where there should be a wound
there is nothing on the neck
There was never a head
to stare at or touch

Yet despite his shape
he is a weak, poor spirit
Only empowered by Phobos
master puppeteer of sins

But Acephalus can be used
A sorcerer with mighty magic
A strong-willed man or woman
can command the Headless One

Then, no longer he will be clumsy
No more he will fall or waver
Acephalus would move as agile
as someone gifted with a head

He never will complain
about any work or command
Yet the true mistakes lie
upon the puppeteers' will

Would anyone be able
to control the Headless One?
Could not be that Acephalus
is the one who commands?

Only Phobos is free from the curse
others are free to give up or endure
Acephalus is merely a wicked tool
the puppeteers will always be blamed

At first there is sucess
with a fell deed achieved
Then doubt comes once
the crime has been found

Yet Acephalus can revolt
but that is a seldom miracle
Only a stupid master will fall
prey to Acephalus' wrath

Would sentient creatures
share the essence of Acephalus?
Are the gods clumsy masters?
When will the puppets rise?

Should the battle begin
a bitter defeat awaits
Never to rise up again
An utter end, no more

May the selfish masters
be destroyed by their tools
May the gullible puppets
be abandoned by their owners

A poem based on a character from my story Epic in Everdant. The day I wrote this, I was listening to lots of Black Metal, and also, I have re-read all I've written abouth my story.

I'll take a look at yours when I wake up, Maese. I have three sonnets to share. Why am I writing so many sonnets? Well, my friend had a Sweet Sixteen, and a group of us pooled money to buy a gift. Trouble was, it wasn't going to be shipped in time. So for the party we brought a joke gift. She loves eating my pizza crusts at lunch in school, since I hate them, and because of that, we bought all these pizza crusts for her. As she loves to write poetry, I wrote a sonnet, an Ode to Pizza Crust, for her to go with the crusts.

Which got me into writing these Shakespearean sonnets.

The Absolute

My presence lurks where sun holds no control,
Where human vision goes and shadows roam.
You see me as corruption of the soul
And think your nightmares live in me their home.

Just spread your foolish worries every year
For I can not be killed by mortal lie.
So teach to treat unknown with cautious fear,
You’ll learn eternity can never die.

But endlessly you make attempts that fail,
Accept my being and we may live in peace.
It’s stubborn pride that keeps you from this trail.
Concede because I live when others cease.

When light has gone away I still remain,
To time all else will some day fade and wane.

Rebirth

You used to search for me when lost in sleep,
And wander through content in my embrace.
But now you fear to drown and fall in deep,
Why do you think time with me a disgrace?

In times of need I came and healed your soul,
Your hopes were crushed, yet I breathed life back in.
My pay was joy in watching you be whole
And soar, the reborn phoenix clean of sin.

Abandoned skies now wish for you to fly,
Spread wings on air instead of feet on earth.
Pursuits you loved but stubbornly deny,
They urge you please have faith that they have worth.

So rise again and walk my paths with trust,
Without your love I’m lonely lost in dust.

Wasted Beauty

To speak to others you gave birth to me
Your breath and lips formed words and spread my soul.
My form did change for those across the sea,
But used me with the same important role.

And though all other life forms were at ease,
You kept on finding ways to give me worth.
Then I became an art when heard could please
Until you ruined me the same as earth.

You’ve now used me to please your endless greed
Abused my being and tainted me with lie
I’m now your child that you have caused to bleed,
My beauty wastes, it soon begins to die.

But some do try and help my splendor thrive.
For them I’ll do my best and stay alive.

Those were great. My favorite was "Rebirth" but they all were great.

Lines I liked:

And soar, the reborn phoenix clean of sin. (for the way it sounds).

Your breath and lips formed words and spread my soul. (great imagery, imo.)

They urge you please have faith that they have worth. (points for the witty parallelism).


Was "Wasted Beauty" intended to be an allegory to song, or music in general?

Thrice, my favourite was The Absolute... which somehow reminds me the mood when I was writing my Acephalus' poem.

Human frailty and fear, a longing to escape from daily, boring events... should anyone become trapped too easily by those. That's what those lines made me to wonder.

This post has been edited by Maese Delta on Feb 13 2009, 02:42 PM

Thanks, guys.

Solemnbum, if it seems like an allegory of music to you, then let it be an allegory of music. I actually intended it to be language, though. Rebirth was dreams, The Absolute was darkness, and Wasted Beauty was language. The idea came to me when I listened to Thrice's song Silver Wings, which was a sonnet where Air spoke to man.

Maese, I'm not much of a poetry analyst, but I enjoyed your poem. I thought it started to develop a nice rhythm to it, but near the end of the poem, the stanzas lost it, until "Should the battle begin, a bitter defeat awaits."

This one I thought might've held the best rhythm to it out of all of them. I liked the way the lines were broken up.

Great to see more poems here.

I like "Acephalus" - chilling, but an interesting meaning behind it.

And here goes another poem from a characert in my Epic in Everdant story.

The Man of Eternal Prayers

An everlasting task
to pray for the countless dead
Such a divine courier
should not be ignored

Clad in warm, sandy robes
treading calmly his way
giving solace to every mourner
praying for each free soul

He is bound by his bidding
one he would never forsake
Nothing can lead him astray
for he is an immortal being

All foul words are muted
every sword and spear broken
Each life taken away
is deserving of a prayer

Civilians, warriors, rulers
all are the same for him
Good-hearted and evil
all are the same for death

He prays for all the races
he knows not racism
Where there's war and famine
he's sure to be seen

Here and there he will be:
standing on a battlefield
visiting the mourning home
caressing the lonely one

No mountain is too high
no abyss is too deep
he'll go into the skylands
or plunge into the depths

Should the end truly come
another task awaits him
To praise and speak of mirth
in the new eternal life

I tried writing a short story where I tried to focus on writing emotion in the prose and characters as best as possible without telling. Then I intended to do it solely through actions and body language, no dialogue, and then I decided it was failing miserably.

It then became a poem about the two characters, father and son.

The Father and the Son

As the father lies asleep downstairs
The son does fool behind his door.
The father snores, yawns and snores,
The son would play to dawn.

And with a laugh some toys fly up
The son, his eye does watch them rise.
But as they fall they crash and smash,
A smile fades to frown.

The tears then burst and cries do pour
Past the door and down to dad.
The flood of screams do stir him up
And to the stairs he runs.

He dashes fast into the room
Finds the toys and fixes them soon.
He wipes and dabs his young son’s face,
And then the two embrace.

The father joins the fun and play,
The son wants him to stay.
Together they feel so secure,
Peaceful, safe, and pure

As the father waits in front the door,
The son comes through the back and creeps.
The father sees the try to sneak,
The son is gripped and grasped..

And with a shout the fury blasts
The son, whose flight gave shocking fright.
He left at noon, returned at night.
The tempers start to flare.

Their yells compete to see who’s loud.
And voices steam into the air.
The son then storms up to the stairs
The father follows suit.

The son, he hurls on to his bed.
The father enters, face all red.
He glares until he heads downstairs,
And then the two detach.

The father for the crime sets chores,
The son boldly ignores.
Between the two a void grows wide,
Neither crosses sides.

As the father strays throughout the house
The son now studies far from there.
The father goes to find the room
The son has left behind.

And with a sigh he seals the door
He knows his son sleeps there no more
It’s for some time he stands alone,
Until he holds the phone.

The son hears his begin to ring,
In a flash he scrambles to snatch
The phone last night he lost or trashed.
And finds it just in time.

He desires to receive the call,
Deceives his father that he’s well
Despite his dad’s decline in health,
In truth he does worry.

The father hopes to soon see him,
The son, his wishes brim.
They try to take their time to talk
Like they took a walk.

As the father rests upon the couch
The son brings in his wife and kid
The father leaps up to his feet.
The son asks him to ease.

And with a bounce the child sits down
On the lap of Grandpa to nap.
Who chuckles and awes, at her growth
Since the last day she came.

The wife carries the girl upstairs
To leave together son and dad
The two chatter free, untroubled
Alone like in times past.

As they speak the father does sneeze
And cough and then begin to wheeze
But when the son inquires what’s wrong
His father states he’s fine.

The father beams and seems to swell.
The son he sinks and dwells.
When his family leaves, undisturbed,
The son’s quite perturbed.

As the father’s dug below the ground
The son watches, without a sound
The father sleeps forevermore
The son sheds tears and sobs.

And with a bitter weep he wails
Within his mind and not outside
For if he does release it out
The cries will never stop.

The grave is where the son remains
When others with respect had left
His face has sunk into the depths
Of grief and late regrets.

Like a ghost haunting a site
The son dwells there for days and nights
And by the time his visits slow
He knows the graveyard well.

The father now can rest in peace
The son, his pain won’t cease.
The father’s time has come to end
The son lost a friend.

Thrice: It's long. If you go back and revise that, I'd suggest taking at least one pass at it to see just how short you can make it without losing the narrative. Even if you don't keep it the short length, that exercise can really help you tighten up your language. The first poem I'm posting here was also originally very wordy, until I revised it with an arbitrary 3 syllable per line rule that really helped me cut it down a lot.

The time shifts in the narrative aren't always very clear. I'm not sure if this was intentional, but I found it pretty jarring to be reading along and suddenly realize that somewhere in there the Son had gone from being a young adult just starting out on his own to having a family, for example. More clarity on where the time shifts are between stanzas would really help me. Perhaps even combining stanzas into time chunks so each break between stanzas is also a time break.

The way the rhyme scheme comes and goes bothers me. The mixed-up sentence structure you've got going through most of the poem really bothers me. It's something I'd more expect to see in a parody than a serious poem.
____________________________

Flag Burning

The wind shifts and acrid smoke fills my eyes but I deny
them closure, ignore the aching arm, willing tired muscles
to hold the salute as the words rise for the first time
from the gut, with meaning, as the old flag is reverently laid
in the orange-hot embers of the campfire, its faded cloth engulfed
in flames that are the only light on earth, and we stand as dry
snags with bent branches until there is nothing left but sparks
becoming stars and two steel rings lying in the
ashes.


Title

When I was about three or four feet tall
you got a call from the nursing home.
I sat in the doorway and you stepped over me
as I was playing with Legos. I
kept reading the pictures telling me how
to assemble the little pirate jail
that had been given to me by your mother
last week. You stepped past, banging
the floorboards with your feet.


Who’s laughing now, Ted Nugent?

Sun rise, sun set, lest we forget
And watch the water spiral down
And to the ocean’s floor to let
The final days of Earth and man
Remain in concise mimicry,
Beyond the realm of ken and lore
Beyond the back of married score
And to the resting roc oft sore
Who dries the seaweed on the stone
Of lasting endings and hasty beats
That so far done are over-so, and open-
Ended more and more, to the merit of
Stallions’ dance, and fitful tidings on
Havelock yachts, which sail on steam
And sink at end, a coin flipped in a basin-tub
Behind the front of east-ward fen
Where Marriot and Argo ran
Before the upper level sank
And dank old tombs were terra-formed
To break the Shaker of his habit
To rivulet the mortal Sabbath
Joshing Mark and scaring John
As Lennon mowed the rowing dawn
To find that zits are broken dreams
Where raisins soak in olive juice from
Hades’ lips and Hera’s brow, a marker
Pen for wayward sows which wear the
Throng of soul and cow upon the left
Of right-ward main and slip the slough of
Crested waves when cruel and twisted words and rhymes
have such a way of making sense.
______________________

I'm not sleepy, but I should go to bed anyway.

Some short poems:

Naturism

I have seen the ocean
I have seen the trees
All the blooming flowers
Ignoring all my pleas

I have seen the animals
I have seen the sky
But today is the first time
The first time I’ve seen you fly

I have seen the butterflies
I thought they were born new
Now I understand better
They’re manifestations of you

I have beheld nature
As it has beheld me
It makes me feel so sad
How fleeting life can be

I have seen the birds
Flying in the breeze
It makes me feel so happy
Your soul is finally free

---

Mistakes

The days I hold
So close and near
Do not but scold
And cause me fear

I’ve been wrong
Once before
It won’t be long
‘Til I am once more

I'd tear out my heart
To take it back
But that's a part
Of myself I lack

I can hear
But I can't talk
I've been so near
To being able to walk

Even the earth
Has its quakes
Ever since birth
I’ve made mistakes

---

Peaches

Peach marmalade
My favorite serenade
Warm breezy breeze
Say the words with ease

Peach tree metaphor
Italian folklore
Sun kissed loving flirt
Rolling in the dirt

Peaches on the ground
Your bruises all around
I try to help you up
But it’s not enough

Peach marmalade
Squished ‘til you fade
What happened to your core?
You can't feel it anymore

I liked "peaches" the best.
also, aren't naturists people who go around without clothes? if this was the intended definition of the word, well, i suppose it works. "soul is finally free" and all that. but i think "naturalism" or something like that may work better as a title. The poem itself is quite good.

Why thank you . I made that the title because I was thinking nature as a, like, theism (hence the -ism)? Guess I failed on the making-a-word-slash-idea-up, haha. And I didn't think naturalism pertained that much to nature.

Have any of you ever wished you lived in a musical? I'm not a great singer, but maybe I would become one if I were allowed to burst into song every now and then to get my point across.

I do occasionally burst into song with pen and paper (or screen and keyboard), and that usually happens when I'm feeling particularly annoyed or pessimistic. Anyway, here are some verses from a recent and somewhat lengthy lyrical spree:

----------------

The Chef and the Engineer

So! Here comes the chef with his knife of kindness,
Here with his culinary, lovey, carey arts,
And he’ll carve out of us all our despair and blindness,
And he’ll pare down the bletted, wretched stonefruit of our hearts!

So! Here’s the engineer with his brain of concrete,
Pure-sensed, pre-stressed with Reason’s iron bars,
And he can machinate to stand us back up-on feet,
With hook, crook and pulley and with cold steel spars!

The chef will state, “Let out the hate, spill it from your guts,
And let me feed you up on luscious trifles of esteem!”
Then there’s nought but that we ought, none of our ifs nor buts –
For we’ll be too stuffed with happiness to open up and scream!

The engineer, he says, “See here, your body’s well and sound,
Your mind just needs some tuning and some cranking to be right!”
And the horrid scars from Reason’s bars will smartingly abound
Once he’s learned to us the lesson of those rods so bright!

Like,
Being strong to seize tomorrow, (eh?)
Hands like a lion’s jaws, (right?)
Brilliant! (Oh?) Amazing! – ?
No!
We’re dumped and slumped, a-lazing,
Too weak to squeeze our sorrow –
All for nary a cause!

The chef, he’s all a brimming and a simm’ring with compassion,
And the engineer will mold us to a head as strong as his,
So they’ll stew us, barbecue us, and they’ll ever-blithely bash on
While we sink into the fire with a great big fizz!

Say: why’s it feel the same whether you’re cooked or fed?
It’s ’cos construction is destruction – they will bleed you to a shell
So they can fill you up and drill you up, with stubborn courage bred,
And you’ll be rebuilt, all gilt, with stuffed-up head as well!

Oh we all hunched down in our own dark corners,
We all dug deep into our own hell-holes,
But they’ve grabbed us by the ruff, heaved us up and torn us
So we hang split wide on the gambrel poles,
(Oh, we hang split wide on the gambrel poles,)
And gag at the stench of our rancid souls!

Oh, all the time! :]


And I know it doesn't exactly flow all that well, but *shrugs* I'll post this anyway. Because I actually like something I wrote for once.

A Hypochondriac In Love

He is my Claritin when nothing is clear
The Xanax I take when I'm so full of fear
My Lithium pill when I don't feel myself
The Nictotine patch to better my health

The Advil I pop when I'm feeling in pain
The Zoloft that follows to balance my brain
The Asmanex when I can't catch my breath
My CPR when I'm so close to death

And he is my Prozac when I am depressed
When I can't settle down, he's my Percocet
He is my Morphine that gets me so high
He is my doctor, who helps me get by

Man, I havent been on here forever.

Mrs. Spock: i don't think i would ever have thought of that, but that's actually pretty cool. But I'd wonder whether now she's in love, if she needs any of that medication? Since her love keeps her happy and free from panic? Just something to explore.

Dave: Damn that sounds amazing aloud. Have you put it to a tune? Because if I have some time, I might try and put it to one, if you haven't. I'm not a great singer either, but I think this is worth a shot.

Okay, since I should probably post something as well, here goes. Sorry for the slightly religious slant, if it bothers you, think of it as just part of the nature of people, religious or not, to ask for help when nobody's around, to supplicate to thin air, I guess. Also, it's kind of long. Sorry.

P.S. Rumi was a medieval Sufi poet in Turkey, and Razi was a medieval skeptic scientist in Persia, both Muslim but Razi was less devout. Hope that clears up the allusion at the end.

Spectacles

My mind, it wandered during prayer to
places far from, places near to
God, these thoughtless thoughts I think
might hurt - or salvage - every momentary link

to You, five times (or four, or three)
Perhaps some punctuality
or purpose might result, but these cracks
in ego are darts on pavement, relax

on seat, or street, if say your creed
and close your eyes, then you won't need
them, who argue insanity, holding reliance
and say: "we've faith, so who needs science?"

Or "science triumphs, so who needs faith?"
when the eyes of glass we cast today
focus nanometers or light-years away.
But an answer, I think, lies in how she prays

The short prayer in the morning, kneels
Prostrates and rises, and she feels
Contentment, inhale, through nose, past eyes
To brain, to soul, which never dies

But what she fixes her eyes upon
The floor, the dawn, the dew-spiked lawn
Beyond the window, the wall’s pale plaster
Distracts her, or attracts her

From or to the One she worships -
Is it balanced, is it worth it?
all the times they stray her eyes
but sometimes help her see the light

Is there a devil or an angel in the details?

So when she rises from the rug
her eyes stay down there, while sleep tugs
at them to close, but she don't let
it take her, make her the verses forget

Why she woke, tripping on carpeted stairs
so her heavy lids stay parted, take care
that the skirt on her eyes, black silk lashes
don't ride up her slender, care-taken legs, flashes

on goes the lamp the next dawn, she decides
that rather than open or shut tight her eyes
she'll not take her spectacles, purple-black frames
and sand, off her bed-stand, and the sunrise it came

rather quick, almost missed it, quickly washed up
and saluted the Black Box, "Hey God, what's up?"
But the beauty was this time, it all went to fuzz
the pixels were larger but lovely, because

it was like a Monet, she could look all she liked
and the details would not snap her gaze left and right,
while her eyes would stay open and not leave the floor,
her posters and toys would distract her no more.

In fact, 'twas like Rumi and Razi had joined
their medieval philosophies, in marriage, a poign-
yant affair where faithful and skeptic join hands
in a pact to not intrude the other one's lands

except at a cordoned-off no-man's place: prayer
open to all thoughts and times, if you dare.

Spectacles

Review, please!

Thankyou! I haven't given it a tune (I've never really gone into songwriting), but if you want to do it, by all means, go ahead. I'd be honoured.

Your poem is really lovely. I like how the chain of thought and the metaphor follow through, and I think this line is rather brilliant:

The sort of scattered, continuous feel of the verse would be better, I think, if you avoided rhyming altogether. Overall it feels sort of free verse-ish to me.

Mizzuz Spock, I happen to think your poem flows really well. The idea of it is very cute/funny, too.