Anthem Written Upon the First Anniversary of the Curiously Poetic Altoids

Many the meters,
Abundant the rhymes
That our pens put forth
In that golden year's time.

Noble the feeling
And witty the verse
That our hearts sang out.
Oh the sorrow! the mirth!

So subtle the humor,
So cunning the wit,
So artful the rhymers
Who imbued them therewith

That perhaps the generations to come
Shall remember them for it,
Saying, "Those were the days
And those were true poets."

Yes, perhaps our words
Will have earned us a place
In the pantheon of poesie
Full of grandeur and grace.

But probably not.
And it's better, too,
Since naught could result
But the ruin of the true.

And already we have
All that we need
--our friends drawn the closer,
our poetic thoughts freed.

So we'll sing on for the ages
For the art, for the rhyme,
And we'll sing for each other --
Since each other's just fine.

Falling

When the ground crumbles beneath your feet

do you look down to catch your footing

as you scramble to place a toe, a knee, a finger,

anything,

beneath you to stop your fall?

Or do you look up to grasp at wisps of root

or cloud or star, to hold you up?

Do you pray to be supported or lifted?

And when the foot that stumbles,

the eye that searches, and the hand that grasps

are not your own,

then, with one hand stretched to heaven and one to help,

where do you look?

Columns

A ruin is always cracked, fallen pillars, their capitals crushed,

with great jagged breaks where some force

of time or might severed strength from stone and toppled

the stolid column.

A broken pillar, image of loss, is always carved, adorned,

and placed alone with its own rubble.

In this room, the walls are painted, decorated,

with a clock hung to mark the time,

like a water wheels spinning as the river flows past

to the sea.

But there is also a pillar, tall and white,

thin,

ugly,

plain,

taking up space just where you'd like to walk,

blocking your view of the woodwork and your friend

on the other side of the room,

and holding up the roof.

I'm sorry

I wish I knew

what I was sorry for.

I meant to write it down,

I said I would,

and now there is a blank,

an empty place,

where I almost knew you most:

your gift lost.

I am sorry that I forgot.

John

there's something so poetic
about the candle
never moved, never opened
fire never playfully teasing the wick
the smell of apple cinnamon
never fills the room
never performing the expected task

only touched three times a day
so as to hold a tube in place
as liquid drains
in a slow steady pace
leftovers of some
unsatisfying nourishment
for one who cannot taste or smell

other tools may think it useless
but its consistence is vital
it, being there, near the sink
helps the helpless
live.

Back To The Pen!

It's good to reach out
In silent language,
In script - the linearization of thought.
But so self-conscious am I
In this reaching?
Yes.

Yet it need not ever be,
For, ofttimes when my passion
And my power to express it
Are equally matched
I do not write,
Nor think,
Nor reach,
But rather live my expression,
Breathe it.

Why is it not always the case
That will and way
Are blissfully bonded together?
Whence schism, and deliberateness,
And thought that knows itself?
Are these the artifacts of
Souls out of their element
Like hippos on dry land?

One day
When this unity occurs
We shall find
Every motive, pure;
Every deed, praiseworthy;
Every writing, worth remembering;
And every uttered word become
In the very speaking
A thoughtful poem of its own.

Miriam

I see her in their faces
though lacking lines from years still to come
framed in heavy hair
not as white or wispy soft
Mother's movements look so familiar
the way she softly taps the table with her hands
just as she had done
just like Miriam

As they retell her stories re-retold,
passing them from mouth to mouth, reverently
as one should handle one of her precious quilts
I see her in them

The stories form bit by bit
pulled from each memory
sometimes interjection
correction
on the particular wording
she may have used
even so,
the morbidity
of Big Clause and Little Clause
or the shocking lack of mentality
of dear lil' Epaminondas
is clearly communicated

there's laughter at the accuracy
then tears at her memory

I cannot yet recite her words as they
and my youthfulness does not reveal much resemblance
but I see her
in that ancient skirt
its unusual style for these times
but my favorite to wear

I see her
in my desire and attempt
to sew patches of random old projects
into something to keep someone
warm and comfortable
much time is spent
and every stitch says "I love you"
I'm beginning to understand her

She called me "friend"
and I become my own
friend
as I begin to see her in me


(NOTE: This is a bit different from what I came up with in the free write. I hope I did her justice.)