Balulalow

Roses of Poetry, Story, and Song

[princegustav]

Upon the Completion of my Western Heritage Final

Marching to impending doom

Over slick December sidewalks

Sickening, sweet - a mockery

Of summer freedom late abloom.

Gripping ink’s inferior,

With yellow jacket crackling

Humbly breathing life into

The concepts of our ‘was’ and ‘were.’

Never minding what was missed,

Prayer the armory of the mind

Fortifying understanding,

In the tension we persist.

Asperges!  December rain,

Reminder of reality,

No longer such a mockery,

But grace unto a tired brain.

[smakkabagms]

I am: dissevered

I turn my sorrow into blue;

sepulchre ochre; sycophant,

(sombre! lambent!)

“dreadful to me was the coming home in raw twilight…  A saddened heart.” Jane spoke of walking out on  cold autumnal evenings.

Lady, your room is full of flowers.

I know I

knew you once. I know it, yet you’ve grown as lucent as grass;

I wasn’t fooled, but am fooled now.

Your absence is inconspicuous.

No one can tell what it is I lack.

I still have that single lily, dried now to fine powder. I tend not to dwell on it, though the idea of it missing is intolerable.

[princegustav]

[the-bees-do-protest]

[princegustav]

This is my favorite sonnet. :) 

[princegustav]

History Lesson

--Original poem--

uninvited

unwelcomed

(unnoticed.)

Crept up

changing

(everything.)

I realized

and sighing

(I smiled.)

[smakkabagms]

it fills us. we organize it. it decays a void we have no name for enclosed within a space we know no longer I am afraid of my own self.

[princegustav]

One of the best pieces I ever played in Wind Ensemble, back in high school. :)

[princegustav]

A blessed Veterans Day to all who have served and sacrificed on behalf of liberty and love.

[princegustav]

Robert Frost.  My hero. :)

[princegustav]

My poetry

I ran a number of my poems through the generator. This is the result. :)

[princegustav]

Emotionally, this song is my life right now.

[princegustav]

[princegustav]

Lament

(an original poem) 

Why can’t I forget the way

He looked at me that fateful day?

Love was never child’s play--

I sang my foolish heart away.

[princegustav]

Some days, to the world, I feel like the fake drawers on bathroom cabinets or the false pockets on a suit’s vest; a reasonable addition that looks like it belongs, but what possible purpose will I ever serve? Some days, to the world, I feel like a thunderstorm with too little thunder and too much rain and no fathomable idea what to do with all the lightning growing inside me. Some days, to the world, I feel like a book with no cover and a title page that is torn; I am filled with words but only those that care to read will ever understand what I am about.

Tyler Knott Gregson

[princegustav]

The Serpent

BY THEODORE ROETHKE

There was a Serpent who had to sing. There was. There was. He simply gave up Serpenting. Because. Because. He didn’t like his Kind of Life; He couldn’t find a proper Wife; He was a Serpent with a soul; He got no Pleasure down his Hole. And so, of course, he had to Sing, And Sing he did, like Anything! The Birds, they were, they were Astounded; And various Measures Propounded To stop the Serpent’s Awful Racket: They bought a Drum. He wouldn’t Whack it. They sent, —you always send, —to Cuba And got a Most Commodious Tuba; They got a Horn, they got a Flute, But Nothing would suit. He said, “Look, Birds, all this is futile: I do not like to Bang or Tootle.” And then he cut loose with a Horrible Note That practically split the Top of his Throat. “You see,” he said, with a Serpent’s Leer, “I’m Serious about my Singing Career!” And the Woods Resounded with many a Shriek As the Birds flew off to the end of Next Week.

[adviceunused]

One Art

BY ELIZABETH BISHOP

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art” from The Complete Poems 1926-1979. Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel. Reprinted with the permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC.