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Mark Peterson Poem
A dead star that inspired this poem--the companion of the star 55 Cancri, in the constellation of Cancer the Crab--has now shrunk to only about twice the size of earth yet is extraordinarily massive, leading astronomers to conclude that its surface and outer crust consist entirely of diamond.
In slumber now and thence to dream
of space-time’s stirred and curving sweep,
where stellar furies set agleam
the velvet thrall of endless deep.
Here among a billion suns,
solo Klieg cued nascent spark.
Ensuing life o'er an eon runs
ere treading path of torpid dark.
Adorned in crystal, its bequest—
fusion’s fire did else abate—
bejeweled then, this orb compressed,
now fields of diamonds lie and wait.
Yet perish need to search the endless skies—
diamonds sparkle here in lovely eyes.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Peterson Poem
My poetry garden of late has lain untended and forlorn.
I succumbed to shock and dismay upon entering recently, for I observed that
great disagreement had erupted and now vehemently
raged among adjoining unmade weed-filled beds of subjects and verbs.
Modifiers that had been dutifully arranged and carefully
kept in check upon their trellises now dangled everywhere.
Sentences had spilled out of their beds in fragments or running
on and on while cases of subjectives and objectives shamelessly
intermingled and were now easily mistaken one for another.
Grammar, whose care I had entrusted to first, second and third
persons, lay in shameless disarray, as if no one could tell the difference.
Gerunds casually consorted with infinitives, many
of which had split. I recalled with a sigh how many years it had taken
me to tightly bind them. [To bind them tightly is what I meant.]
Commas were everywhere, rendering those in appropriate
position practically unrecognizable, which I suppose was better than
what had happened to the capitals, now completely ignored.
No reason for the rhyme with forms confused or misplaced altogether.
My lines, unpruned, were of disparate length and hideously incompl
An unfortunate mis-spell had been cast and provoked an infestation,
such that many of my friends had departed without comment.
The contest entry was blocked, so I bowed my head in shame,
turned around and shuffled silently through the exit marked N/A.
Posted July 24, 2014
'Let the Pens Flow - Narrative' Contest
Jenish Somadas
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Peterson Poem
Alone and left to contemplate,
had I a pair of wings,
I’d fly away and search the world
for the peace of wild things.
To live among the animals
and sense their lack of guile
existing in the here and now,
each moment spent worthwhile.
And free of life’s addictions,
material wealth and greed—
possessing very little,
according to the need.
But should I ever so depart
it’s uncertain I’d return,
for then I'd have a lifetime’s worth
of so much to unlearn.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Peterson Poem
If wealth is now your blessing,
what then was the prayer?
Avarice, its goal possessing,
yet in penury, despair.
I see them often in the store
eyes ahead, regard for none.
Against the classes, tacit war—
Modus Operandi: shun.
Vaunted compounds they do flout—
absent grasp of their chagrin—
for walls and gates that keep us out
are prisons trapping them within.
They say those vexed by paucity,
should flee to foreign air,
for wages here of poverty
would make them wealthy there.
Thus, high above the world they scan—
well hidden from our sight—
discounting what the common man
is suffering tonight.
1st Place: Sing to Me Contest
Prompted by the remark made on this topic by fashion company Nicole Miller’s
CEO Bud Konheim. Thanks to Roy Jerden for his thoughtful help on the fifth stanza, allowing for much greater impact.
With a special nod to the song Royals by Lorde, which has a very compatible message.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Peterson Poem
"Until an hour before the Devil fell, God thought him beautiful in heaven."
A thousand, million years had fled
then thousand million more,
yet it was still the morning.
And there stood one, Transcendent,
whom we call God and the Divine,
whose reasoned might
stretched to clutch infinity—
and embraced eternity’s nether bounds
to fashion perfect round—
beginning's instant fused
with very end of things
that time endured no more.
Thus evening interlaced with morning,
from whose conjugative spawn emerged
a cosmic realm, its structure fine,
yet restive, taut and yearning.
Here coherence mingled self with
destiny, and thus arose intelligence.
Among its legion offspring,
daughters of the light
and one the son of morning,
a paragon of intellect—
in depth and reason boundless,
beautiful and firm, named Lucifer.
Beloved of Transcendence and
from whom the mighty angels
fled, nobility confounded.
Across mighty heaven’s parapets
he reasoned and opined.
And many thought him noble.
Yet temerity cannot assail wisdom
nor petulance conjure faith.
He, his mighty acolytes then stood
and cried aloud, trumpeting insistence,
and became among the first
whose grasp did not exceed their reach.
And war ensued—
A war of vaunted intellect,
but also narcissistic,
and rooted in deceit.
For he would exercise free will to battle,
then in victory rob all of its gift.
Therefore a quandary stood
that would not reconcile with reason.
Defeated, Satan stood no more in heaven.
Godly was their sorrow when he fell.
Now in our eyes and hearts and minds
do not echoes of the war resound?
First Place: Julia Ward's Contest: Expand Arthur Miller's Thought from The Crucible (quote above).
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2016
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Mark Peterson Poem
July 29, 1890
Colored daubs and swatches
crave artist’s practiced hand.
Justice, nearly blind, yet watches—
unwrought art upon a stand.
Regard the brushes in a row—
the palettes and the sponges.
Genius maimed by status quo,
vain a hope that fate expunges.
Guttered myriad lifelong dreams—
in desperate ruination.
Fading now the piteous screams
of self-inflicted termination.
Time Passes
Abruptly then adoring praise—
contrived their sudden expertise.
Rude cabal who would appraise—
byzantine their guileful sleaze.
Each masterpiece a servant
of craven yearn and greed.
Bang the gavel, swift and fervent;
sate purveyors’ inveterate need.
Justice now is truly blind;
vanished those She would impute.
His final piece is left unsigned;
and undisclosed, for now She’s mute.
4th Place: I Love Rock and Roll
Inspired by Don McLean's song, Starry Starry Night
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014
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Mark Peterson Poem
Will poems to my dull senses rise,
In plainer garb, or apt disguise?
Can turn of phrase else serve an end,
To vanquish foes or win a friend?
What ardor gains a rhyme’s release,
To grant me treasured moment’s peace?
Or is it merely hubris’ child,
That lets me dream I’m Oscar Wilde!
2nd Place, Best Poetic Form, Poet Destroyer A
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2013
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Mark Peterson Poem
[in Rhyme Rhupunt: a,a,a,b c,c,c,b]
At water’s edge there danced below,
amid the ripple and the flow,
royal blue and sun aglow—
and ragged clouds in limpid sky.
Standing tall and stately there,
swaying in the languid air,
a mighty oak in quiet prayer—
and not a soul to reason why.
Long ago when earth was young,
and all alive had common tongue,
songs of praise were often sung—
to sacred trees that beckoned all.
But time will always stir the brew;
Men soon forgot the hymns they knew;
came next the ax, its certain hew—
then dread silence, gruesome pall.
Yet Oak survived, of all that were,
whose buried might began to stir—
its dreams for earth none could deter—
for it had promises to keep.
Oak then rent thunderous all the earth,
forged resplendent its rebirth.
accorded thus eternal worth—
serene the tree then welcomed sleep.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2013
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Mark Peterson Poem
If you insist
on doggerel verse,
show mercy then
and keep it terse.
Fifth Place, Laconic Verse I, Giorgio V.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2013
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Mark Peterson Poem
In
grace,
now seen
a verdant tree,
its trunk and limbs
splayed in the round,
perfect radial symmetry.
Were nature absent intellect
might such majesty e'er result—
accidental tour de force as eons pass,
acolytes of chaos then, gathered to exult?
Boughs' burden, scalloped snow of purest white.
Myriad sparkles glint in full moon’s vivid winter light.
Wind
sways,
a polonaise.
Elysian sight. Halcyon night.
Click on the "About this poem" link above for some additional thoughts.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2013
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