#writingofthegods

[writingofthegods]

“In Flight”

By Joseph Watson (jdboy2000) (poetry blog: writingofthegods)

6/5/2015

  My balloon took flight in morning light sailing towards the sun.

As I passed I saw as last the valley of the three cities.

The river valley they called their home shared together all as one.

Each in its own way I thought to be pretty.

  One a metropolis built of mountain iron tall in shimmering steel.

Another a village: respected, renowned, old, great, and proud.

An agrarian culture its people were working the field.

The last a monastery built for worship of gods near the clouds.

  The world passed by as I sailed the skies.

The modern of the three towns had built a great dam.

To power their lights by electrical lines.

Nearby the monastery rang heavenly chimes.

  I thought of my own village off on the distance.

A great city bustling known for its trade.

I turned up the gas as the wind brought resistance.

I remembered my people and the goods that they made.

 I enjoyed flying high above ground.

My journey was long as I traveled alone.

I thought of the people down in those towns.

I flew over the mountains back to my home.

[writingofthegods]

Another attempt at a song!

Friends with Death

By Joseph Watson (jdboy2000) (writing blog: writingofthegods)

  A stone for every single one, for every boy and girl in time.

I feel their spirits moving through the graveyard of my mind.

The ghosts of the trees, alive for centuries, now dead.

What are the thoughts of a flower-bed?

All living things must pass someday, but humans help along,

Silencing the primal sounds of every animal’s song.

  Chorus:

The reaper makes nothing of us all.

You know your time is up when you hear his primordial call.

Naked and alone, a new resident of the astral plane.

You truly die through the last time someone says your name.

Might as well accept it, and be friends with death.

  Does love live on after our passing?

In the afterlife, does it fall out of fashion?

What of the love we leave behind? What happens to all that passion?

We honor our dead through mourning and fasting.

  Chorus:

The reaper makes nothing of us all.

You know your time is up when you hear his primordial call.

Naked and alone, a new resident of the astral plane.

You truly die through the last time someone says your name.

Might as well accept it, and be friends with death.

  Death is our inevitable end. Embrace what can’t be stopped.

Enjoy your life, for when you’re dead, your life can’t be topped.

  Chorus:

The reaper makes nothing of us all.

You know your time is up when you hear his primordial call.

Naked and alone, a new resident of the astral plane.

You truly die through the last time someone says your name.

Might as well accept it, and be friends with death.

  The reaper makes nothing of us all.

Might as well accept it, and be friends with death.

[writingofthegods]

Inhibited

By Joseph Watson (jdboy2000) (Poetry Blog: writingofthegods)

My mind is an endless wasteland

Of unexpressed thoughts.

My heart is brimming over with

Unexpressed love.

My feet have no safe space to stand.

You’ve got my tongue tied in knots.

My passion is my cursed gift.

I hold back, my feelings flood.

  I wish to be uninhibited.

I pray someday I might

Set free the words I long to speak.

Fear keeps me withdrawn.

The lack of love you have exhibited.

Of it I have no sight.

The words I long to hear when I am weak.

I’ve waited so long.

  Maybe someday I will.

Maybe someday I might.

Free myself from this hell.

Even if you don’t requite.

  Maybe you will share

Your love for me.

Maybe you are scared too

To change I into we.

[writingofthegods]

Rant/Thoughts (Thank you for sending this merrylittledoe)

I remember being told

that Sylvia Plath make her children a snack

before sticking her head in an oven.

And that Emily Dickinson was a shut-in,

that Harper Lee denied interviews.

I remember being told

how great Shakespeare’s sonnets  were

I remember everybody knowing

at least one Walt Whitman poem, or maybe Robert Frost

I remember buying my first compilation

'Poetry Classics'

16 poets

15 men, 1 woman

And it is no wonder I feel as if our voices cannot be heard

over the sound of our gender. 

[jdboy2000]

Poetic Language

By Joseph Watson (jdboy2000) (Writing blog: writingofthegods)

 I just had a dream of mine,

Where we talked in poetic rhyme.

Each thing was said with more intent.

For more time paid and more time spent,

On how to phrased the things we meant.

 We made it clear, each time we spoke.

And sounded like musical folk.

Like from a movie where they sing,

About just about nearly everything.

Equalizing words of pauper and king.

 Because we thought through how to talk,

We hesitated and did not mock,

Hate speech was greatly reduced,

And it was more effort to be introduced.

Friends meant more when giving boosts.

 More powerful were the words expressed,

Carefully chosen to fit the meaning best.

Emotions weren’t even expressed in prose,

Making it difficult for feelings to be exposed.

But made one more conscious of what to disclose.

 Though it was a beautiful, song singing world,

I would regret not being expressive or heard.

Since speaking in verse would be a bit of a challenge,

I worry that words could be limited like Orange.

So too would existing in this world be strange.

[writingofthegods]

Quoted on Art...

People are different, art is different. That is what makes it great. Like a room full of painters can all paint the same bowl of fruit, but each with do it differently, from a different perspective, and a different emotional basis. Each will focus on something different and each will allow their past, present, and beliefs to influence the piece. - Joseph Watson (jdboy2000)