#thepecker

[blackhairedmetalhead]

The Trailer

The trailer lies amidst flounders Strewn across mounds of ash Grow and prosper the wildest beauties With majestic curves slithering around Caressing the invalid intruder of space With green stems and tender touch A seed drawn below once before Now stands tall over the trailer Shedding tearful, yellow leaves As if in a holy offering To an object of no consequence To passers-by and travelers Which in fact stands, blessing in disguise A source of life for withering roots Nurturing  unknown flocks of gems   Life giving guardians and sentinels Which stand tall and proud Aside the road to nowhere A path which takes on The willy traveler towards Destinations varied and wonderful They shade the various pilgrims Hopefuls and the banished All alike traverse equally This road of Fate That goes on forever. It is a picture Of unequaled inspiration For those who dare to seek And find the truth and sublimity Of apparent fickle scenes Which lie scattered Along all our lives, waiting To be read and deciphered In the language of immortals, As rich thought, born of observance Which sails along across souls Preserved as ideas and sayings Left behind by those who saw A deeper meaning among the scenes in the play of life…  “……. caressing the invalid intruder of space….”  

[blackhairedmetalhead]

The Apparition

(The poem's first four lines quote H.P. Lovecraft.)

      That is not Dead

Which can Eternal lie…

Yet with Strange eons

Even Death may Die…

There where this is written, there

Eerie silence calls

The silence breaks all about

A scream about breaks that very silence...

Thereon the shackles black

Of death and iron alike

Hath been broken by the dead hand

For then the tombstone said

Rest In Peace

Aye, it was in vain

For with and when

The silence breaks all about

A scream about breaks that very silence

Thus all see the rebirth of the vain

The rebirth of the dead soul who sung

The damning of his darned hell

Here he lay, but not now longer

For,

Thereon the shackles black

Of death and iron alike

Hath been broken by the dead hand

That was...

And yet you see no ghost no body

All you may ever see is an Apparition

Thus you see,

Thus all see,

The rebirth of the vain

The rebirth of the dead soul who sung

The damning of his darned hell

The silence cradles all his curses

Like the song of the lonely damned

Like a beggar on a cold winter night

Sleeping without his wrapper tight

Even though the sun will shine,

Aye,

It has begun to be so...

This Apparition, the dead soul who sung

The damning of his darned hell

Didn't scream about like a ghost

Nor did he

Bask in the sunlight

As he did in the cold and hard moonlight

An age of such, in an eon like this,

You never did see, the apparition

Which walks about on moonless nights

Asking for nothing but, with the devil a series of  fights

To fight the devil for the wrong that had

Taken the life of this once, poor and damned creature...

Now a lonely apparition... screaming

With an edge to the voice, so sharp that one,

Would instantly believe him to be something

Who would make the devil cry

He did not rest in peace

Yet let his memories tho', rest in more than one awful piece

A power to him was now granted

Even he will not fear none

Yet he would be the saviour, the One...

To never die, to never rest

To get all those who were naught but pest...

No longer did the silence cradle his curses

Like the song of the lonely damned

Like a beggar on a cold winter night

Sleeping without his wrapper tight

Now even the windy silent nights, feared this once-half-a-human

Now even the devil is ready to get him to heaven

Not now, no, he wouldn't, cry all those pitied, damned things,

Of whose he has been the saviour

Like Robin Hood himself at night

Emptying the coffers of all the rich

Even having time to leave food for the cold, lonely finch

That had seen not a day of spring

A time which he himself despised

Never did he rest, never did he sleep

Never once asked for anything else

But for the welfare of the damned

Constantly sowing seeds that would

Someday give him the fruit of salvation

With his kind anonymous deeds

Yet didn't realize, the path he hath chosen

Would once lead him to something which

He once wanted

But now only hated

For now he had much of peace

So began he giving it away free

For,

He didn't realize, the path he hath chosen

Would once lead him to something which

He once wanted

But now only hated

Yes,

It was peace he once needed, much less wanted

Now something he only knew to hate

This, his synonym for hate he gave

To all those that needed it just as he once had...

The Lord now realized His folly

He rushed to the Saviour's aid

When once he ran out of his peace

‘Alas! Wouldn’t You understand -

-this great damned creature's one great wish?

I asked for naught but peace

But not for me, for all those damned

Who call me (God forbid I ever know why) their golden saviour

They know me not, tho' I know what they want, well enough

Because I once swam the muddy waters in their shoes

Peace! Peace! That is all they need, I know...

Then why do You shower it on me, when I pray and wish that

They be given that which You unkindly give me?!'

'Peace, child, you have been wronged, yes, I admit it.

But you have righted this world so much I sat fattening upon my throne

For you did my duty so well, I must say

I know you once thought that I help only those who aren't damned to die or delve in filth

But I only right the wrongs to those who be poor.

That is which you did so well

You once wanted peace, I granted it to you…

I had something else in store for you, and so now I ask

you to accept my gift of peace'

The almighty plays many plays...

He did so again with the Apparition

But now for the better.

'I cannot accept any more peace from you

If there be anything left in this world that still does wrong to the world itself

then I will not accept it anyhow.'

The Lord knew this coming

Thou shalt attain salvation, aye,

You have been blest with nothing but the best of all blessings

Accept my child, and you shall not be in peace

You shall be nothing but peace

Attaining me is what you will'

'Accept I do, I had prayed to Thee all my life without realizing it, ever.

Now I realize that I had been in vain.

Forgive me if there be still any life in me'

Forgiveness was never granted, it was attained by him

He became peace,

He became forgiveness

He became one with Him

The One true Self

Prayers last for all eternity

And yet...

That is not Dead

Which can Eternal lie

Yet with Strange eons

Even Death may Die

There where this is written, there

Eerie silence calls

The silence breaks all about

A scream about breaks that very silence...

Thereon the shackles black

Of death and iron alike

Hath been broken by the dead hand

For then the tombstone said

Rest In Peace

And so it finally held true... The inscription said so of this one, last great soul

And so I pray, not for him to Rest In Peace

For he became one with The Truth...

But to the Almighty himself…

Taking inspiration from him,

I do little acts of kindness, for I know after

This great soul left forever,

Little kindness exists in this world of the damned

[blackhairedmetalhead]

The Misted Miracle Of God

Shit. The ball sailed over the walls and out of sight….. Onto the roof of an old derelict building. So now I had to go and get the ball.

Upon entering the building I saw a sign that said

LIFT OUT OF ORDER

And an old manuscript stuck to it –

To earn thy Goal, Thou art expected to toil

I supposed I had to climb up to the last floor, where the ball was. It was a 15 story building; and I was a tad bit tired. Anyway, I began climbing up. I kept thinking about that awkward sign down by the lift. Funny way of making a point…I’m not a supernaturalist, nor do I care much about that sort of stuff anyway. I pulled out my iPod (thanks, Steve) and slid to a nice metal song… Iron Maiden are magicians….Presently, I climbed up the winding stairs; by the time 2 songs were over, I reached the top. I checked all the 7 rooms in case the ball flew up there.

Nothing.

So I went to the roof. Nothing there too.

I looked down.

“Dance of Death’s a real good song, isn’t it?”

I jumped. That’s what I was listening to at that time. I turned around.

I saw an old man in faded jeans, a white shirt with flashes of green. He was tapping his feet as if to some tune playing out there. Only there was no music playing out there. He was tapping along to my song; and he had no device on him. And- he kept perfect pace with the song on my iPod. Spooked out, I plucked up some courage – I tried to ignore his eerie way of keeping time with my song.

“Sorry. I didn’t see you earlier. Do you own this place?”

“This broken down thing? Yeah. Actually I own pretty much everything that you see around here.”

I didn’t get it.

“Oh I see.”

“Hmm… You don’t seem to have anything to do up here. Looking for something?”

“Yeah, it – you see – I – I’m looking for a ball, I think it landed somewhere up here. So I came –

He held up the red leather ball – “This you mean?”

“Yeah! That – thanks! You’ve found it.”

I held out my hand for the ball.

He began singing along with the song on my iPod.

“Had they danced, had they pranced, had they sang with them, All had death, in their eyes…..

Lifeless figures, they were undead all of them, they had ascended from hell………”

“Hey, is the volume too loud? Wait, I’ll turn it down..”

He held up a hand – “Nah, nothing like that. Take it easy kid, It just so happens that Dance Of Death is one of the songs I listen to once in a while.”

He paused and stood a good 4 minutes facing the hill on the other side.

Meanwhile, the song changed. He began singing along, although I hadn’t turned on the speaker or anything.

“Tell you a thing That you ought to know Two minutes of your time Then on you go Tell tale of the men All dressed in black That most of them Not coming back Sent off to the war To play little games And on their return Can't name no names Some strange yellow gas Has played with their minds Has reddened their eyes Removed all the lies And strange as it sounds Death knows no bounds How many get well Only time will tell" Only time will tell”

A sunny yellow, pleasant smelling mist surrounded me, clouding my mind.

“Who are you?”

“Rest assured I’m someone who’s taking you far away from here and because you don’t deserve what would have happened. Now sleep.”

He raised his hand.

There was nothing left.

Mom woke me up, shouting at me.

“Where on earth did you come from? You were playing outside weren’t you?”

“Wha – I – yes – no – I”

I stopped. There at the door, he was back. He held a finger to his lips, and I felt myself tumble onto my bed, my head flopping into my pillow. Only one thing slipped out of my mouth – “I came back…..”

And there was nothing left.

I began dreaming.

I was back in the building, climbing up the stairs, and suddenly, the whole thing lurched sideways – the building was collapsing! The walls swelled and cracked, and slabs and rods raced towards me.

And there was nothing left.

I woke up in horror to find that my iPod had still been in my ears and running. It was playing a song. Had he been God?

“Only time will tell……..”

And there was nothing left…

[blackhairedmetalhead]

Horizons

The coast is endless before my eyes, I must decide before the night dies, Whether I follow the line of sand, Or return whence I came, back to land, Or should I go beyond and cross the sea, To lands beyond which I cannot see, Swim across the endless wavy ocean, Without a thought of direction or notion, Heedless do I swim towards the end, And till forever my prayers I send, Upwards to heaven to bear me well, So I don't sink and then burn in hell, Will I reach land, will my feet stand? Will my skin soon shimmer with sand? On some forgotten sunlit beach, Or will some moonlit cove I reach? Set aside these fears! My mind is set, My heart throbs warm though I am wet, My blood flows hot though I am cold, I shall swim on and let the horizons unfold

[blackhairedmetalhead]

Hatred

I'm tired of empty words and cruel retort, My cure is to cold hatred spew, Alas, its a tricky potion to concoct, For it takes too long to brew But wiser words are heard by me, They calm and try to heal me well, Mayhap I surge to anger free, Why bother, they say, and wrongly dwell? On past hurts saddening and old pricks maddening, Petty now, they seem to me, as should be, Why dwell on that, which isn't happening? Ah, pearls I see, and peace at once returns to me

[blackhairedmetalhead]

A King's Funeral

Lose your pain upon the lands, 

O mighty King, you've served it well

Ease the slain upon the sands,

O mighty King, you've led them well

Oft blood may flow beneath your feet, 

Ease yourself, O King, you've naught to bear,

Aloft, they flow, time's sands like sleet, 

Release your Self, O King, you've hurt no hair

Though darkens the light, the night which falls, 

The day shall soon shine forth again, 

Though hastens the night, the fight which calls, 

Your men shall soon ride forth again

And slay the beast yet on it's heel, 

Rest easy, King, they shall succeed, 

Your passing, King, only time shall heal, 

Rest easy, King, they did succeed

[blackhairedmetalhead]

Rope Marks

"About, about! By the captain's orders, Bring her about, or the vessel flounders!" "We're doomed," said one, jumped off the ladders, "By the winds,"cried they, "he's to the Lockers!" "Man o'erboard, brothers, line in,"cried they, The cap'n holler'd, "A deserter, Nay!" "Bother not one scalp, fools, make way!" "The ship needs hands, all 'pon deck; Belay!" "By the wind on our sails, and the mist on our prow, Turn about, you fools, don't let it bow!" "Tighten them knots, and do it now!" "Belay, my lads, beware the maw!" "The tug be strong, we have no hope!" "We have yet hands, we have yet rope," "There, now, you dogs, the weights you tote!" "This ship is hope, cling to the boat!" "Heave, Ho, don't leave, don't go, To the sea-shore, we hope to flow, Heave, Ho, my lads, Yo-Ho! There, me hearties, we're good to go!" The danger's past, we're safe as a shark The light is come, we've left the dark, But work remains, there now; Hark! Look, me lads, on each palm, a mark!" A mark be made by rope, each held, By sturdy hand and with sweat be meld, The rope to skin, it clings; We fell'd, Our foe so great, the storm's withheld!"

[watson-of-a-parallel-universe]

Of Minds And Doodles

Its been too long since I posted and though I've been feeling quite bad about it, I really haven't been able to carve out some time for these things. So much so, that I didn't even shave for the first few months of the year and lived mostly off coffee, green tea and granola bars. However, the time hasn't been fruitless so far as the purpose of this blog goes. I conducted an experinent. The test subject, of course, was me. The idea that popped in my head was rather obvious after I drew my conclusions, and yet I must freely admit that the result and my conclusion could he superfluous, simply because I tested it only on one person, that too myself. This was my experiment: Give a man an empty room, devoid of any notion of the outside world, a blank piece of good, thick paper, and a pen or pencil. With one instruction. To not tear the page or scratch out or erase whatsoever may have been drawn, doodled, or written on the paper at the end of an hour. I did this every night for 2 months, mostly after midnight, when everyone else was asleep. Without elaborating too much on precisely what I did day for day (or rather, night after night) I will now present a general idea of what I did and my conclusions. When a person has not much to think of and has little to weigh on his mind, despite being fully awake, the paper will remain empty, or perhaps a few random words may be written, maybe a scrap of verse or some famous line, or simply a visibly pointless doodle. All this, at the end of an hour. At a time when the mind is idle and yet restless, the page will be filled up with utter nonsense. To simply put it to common terms, an idle mind indeed is the devil's workshop. At times when a lot bears down on the mind, there is a sudden burst, in the form of creative expression. It could be a poem, a story, or a very well made sketch, or again a doodle. On two occasions, I separately wrote a poem and later I doodled. The poem case is easily understood. It is the case of doodles that I focused on. Whenever a lot filled my mind, my doodles and drawings, instead of spreading out on the page, would end up concentrated in some portion of the page. Whenever I was in a good mood or didn't have much to think or worry about, the doodle or drawings would be spread out, and not interconnected. This is my observation. I suppose I can safely conclude that an empty minded fellow will most likely end up with a page devoid of much content, irrespective of there being something that holds meaning only to him or to everyone else, which is least likely. A disturbed, or thoughtful mind will pour itself out as effectively as the skills of the person can aid it in doing so. Note to munchkin: A review is eagerly awaited :) I shall post pictures of the pages to support my post soon.