The storied "I"
Is the I
The only I
And cannot be known..
Yet life seems to be
Attempt after attempt
To find a hint of truth
About the storied I...
Moving throughh each sample she
employed a various range of sound.
Her voice moved through each octave
with her concern to how she
sounded.Rushing through each
phrase choring
to make them rhyme: one noted of
the recitive nature and how
the composition was laborious
and unkind.To the advancement of
the scheme I discovered
the plot. A story of a wishful lover:
who labored more
where others had not. An expression to
make story of then to be put to song.
A man wished to love a woman:
who would
chore to get alone.Those who saw
the drama and
but refue to provide the scripts.
Those who would
rather be audeince to the classic
script. Or those
would speak these characters in the
order might
they marry and be one. Or those
who who are
happiest to make two into one.
The former MVP pawned his very last ring
like the others, it had begun to sting
Bittersweet memories of his storied swing
that for a decade had made him King
He'd hit home runs in every park
high-arcing 'rainbows' his pet trademark
Now resting quietly in a subway dark
he rattles his cup, his rags pock-marked
In my deaf and time-closeted
pockets unpack pockets,
string bags hang under the closed eyes
of all-seeing watchers.
Eulogies for the living
are etched on wet lips and kitchen towels.
Owls as mute as hollow urns
turn to flute their mournful why, what,
and who’s.
The edge of IF, is most hard to see;
‘if’ is a lobster pot full of moonlight
woven to waylay and trap the long drowned.
Gutters coughing in a midnight summer
these glad me not,
yet are kept like the sly smiles of devilish women.
In my book of lies
there are truths still worth distorting,
times killed by a compulsive retelling,
fields plowed over too long
where the dead are uncovered
only to dance again on their own graves.
The drunken gallimaufry of head-games
left unfinished
pace back and forth,
yet here I am, the one person,
still blinking my way through a black-light sky,
while majestic wings hover over
to grab me up;
yes let them come,
for all glad gods have wings.
Nature
Appears as
Everything..
There's
No end to
Everything..
Not one
Or many
Things..
No thing
At all..
Nature's
Storied
Beauty...
Desiccated mice thus far do gnaw shreds of scant regret.
Good and bad love, honey-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpack pockets,
bags billow under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls turn to cry
their mournful ‘why’s’, more kitchen towels
to mop tear stained flops.
One horror story lives on, much chewed over
by skeletal moths.
Pots of peeled moonlight inhabited creaking lungs,
their beams slowing curdling.
I still store a few pickled smiles for saucy women.
In my book of lies there are half-truths worth more distorting,
fields plowed over far too long,
fallow earth where the dead are uncovered
only to dance again on the graves of the long entrenched.
Those drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
great works that now slack and dodder, sent unfixed
back to the soured whirlpools from which they sprang.
Yet here I am, this spark in a potash of smuts
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic beings hover
to grab up my rash stash of tawdry self;
and I say:
Yes let them come, and god help these,
my patched and paltry wings.
In storied old ages,
He lept off the pages.
He lived on the waters;
His story engages.
Though was not intended,
His legacy ended.
He had only daughters;
His name, time rescinded.
No sons were begotten;
His seed, some said, rotten.
He slept with his fathers;
He soon was forgotten.
He lived on the waters.
He had only daughters.
In storied old ages,
He slept with his fathers.
----------
Experimenting with the Rubaiyat (aaba) by taking the 'b' from the first three stanzas to form a fourth stanza, using the first line of the poem for its 'b' line.
Kind of interesting...
I am your lord and savior,
Holding thy life in the palm of my hand,
Heed my words and know I am not kind,
I shall excuse your despicably free behavior,
And teach you to die by my stern command,
For that is the way of the respectably defined.
He was my lord and savior,
And thus he shaped my life with the palm of his hand,
To avoid such fury I obeyed and followed in kind,
I found excuses for my callously free behavior,
And learnt to die by stern command,
For that is the way generations are confined.
Isn't it amazing how two real lovers
Can read each others thoughts
Every nuance, every twist of a phrase
The other can surely spot
Really a sign of a very deep passion
No matter where you look
Where the bond is as strong as forever
Love they write about in books
What makes an affair so solid so true
Without ever a hint of betrayal
Could it be these lovers were destined
For a love that's storied and fabled
In my thoughts every single moment
A complete mastery of my soul
No one's ever captured my heart like this
Your love has made me whole
© Jack Ellison 2014
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