The DraftA woman waiting by the window,Statue held by bated breathNo letters yet, no news of death.The draft has come and cleared the board,Of all but Bishops, Knights and Queens.The Pawns have gone to play abroad,And die in budget battle scenes.To fall with phosphor flashing roundsThe Draft has come, Oh empty towns.
Fallen.He fell from the sky and told us how to live. He danced from the moment the sun rose in the painful morning sky until it finally disappeared behind the diminishing horizon. We watched him with breathless anticipation, wondering why he made our hearts beat that little bit faster. It was all we could do to watch, not daring to join in for fear that he would see into our souls and confirm our worst fears.But after that sunset; the beautiful and lonely sunset; he himself would promptly disappear behind a sturdy wooden door, and there he would stay until the day began again. We often heard the muffled sobbing through the door. We tried to gain entry time and time again, but the door was barricaded. He barred the way into his room; into his soul.This routine went on for a long time, like a warped dance routine in itself. We couldn't count the times it repeated itself; by the second sunset it seemed like forever. A forever that bewitched our souls; perfect because the angel was dancing; dan
The Willow's StoryWalking by the waterwaysI spied a weeping willow,Green of leaf but bent in griefA masterpiece of sorrow.Unsure of why this tree were brokeIn lowered voice I softly spoke:Willow, tell me why you weepDo you despise the hum of flies?Are you sick of water deep?Do you look upon the glaring skiesAnd long for hollow sleep?Human I have watched this worldToo many years in silent thought,I've reached for stars with limb unfurledWith twigs and branches overwrought.That lofty race was never won,I who stretched towards the sunCeased to grow and now I know,Truly I am nearly done.For such as us live fleeting livesAnd only grow so tall,When willows reach a certain size,Long leaves begin to fall.This is how you find me here,Sick from unknown illAnd is it weak to shed a tearThat all will soon be still?Though may I ask you sit with me?And read some rhyme out loud,Perhaps of immortalityTo lift this morbid cloud.Forgive me Willow if you wo
Lego and RainbowsIt used to be simpler.Workloads were legoand gameboys were bigger.The world was greaterwhen rainbows were an endto be followed, by the intrepidand yelling storm-chaser.How to spend my gains,when youth drifts furtherand further away?On more lego? The toysellerwould laugh and sayI was mad. So I shall showto the world that I am old-Swear on my quietly thinning soul,at rainbow's end I found no gold.
Poetry Like Bitter MelonWriting poetry is like eatingbitter melon.Most people chew a little and swallow really quicklyso they don't have to taste very much. But poets, no,they have to goand swill it around in their mouths andmash it with their tongue andnibble it bit by bitso they can really, reallyrelish and savor thefull power of its repulsion. When something cruelor tragic happens to them, they stick itunder a microscope and magnify it a hundredtimes, thenpick it apart. They bind their hands behind their backs and blindfold themselvesWringing their wrists over clean paperand letting their cynicism seep through the pagesand into the minds of other weak people.