Stopping for Thought

8 02 2006

Out at Sea

Stopping for thought pulls the wind from the sail,
Making you shout and cry and doubt to no avail,
While your feet take course in long lost streets,
My strolling ship is quietly postulating the open seas,
And why perhaps they do exist,
To swallow me and mind, both lost
To that endless quiet doubting abyss.


“O”, she cried as the dagger slid in,
“Again”, she replied to that sickening grin,
I would, perhaps, this fable conclude,
With a twist of words and let wit exude,
The tangled tale is already writ,
And yet how my turbulent mind does omit.

if to dream

The answer is that there is none,
For it is to pry at the divine locked door,
While the solitude surrenders hope, and
Cuts to soul for us, the mirrored body forever poor.


I smile a little as no one understands,
The quiet joke entertained by my hands,
I despise the craft and yet it seems,
A good trick to pass the season,
Is’t devilry with the best of intentions,
Or pleasantries wrought by odd conventions.


Oh calamity, destruction of my anonymity,
What winds will discover me now?
And my position, does it matter to anyone,
For any strange reasons, please only say how,
But why must I care for my original nothings,
While the greats still make all the pretty somethings,
Am I too silly, not unconventional really,
To dance in the streets to the sound of my instant songs,
And to love and laugh though the black funerals rage on.
I’ll praise all the angels, and sing to the devils,
Smiling over all of my undeniable character flaws,
They say it’s all relative, so let’s sincerely just forgive.
The good guys are the countless ones who still try,
Enjoy it this minute, in the next you may die.

Pirate’s Price

My convictions are temporary,
Flexible and resolutely changing,
With morality dynamic,
The line of good is far-ranging.


He cried so loudly that night,
When the terrible wind came in
To remind him,
He slipped inside himself again,
When the oceans dissolved
His walls,
He was buried under miseries,
And the tears would simply not dissolve,
And the years would tenderly crawl,
And the lonely fires would call to the night,
And the embers would fade and die and die.

Same One, Again

The magic of poetry I suppose,
Is not the rhyme, the meter, or the prose,
But instead I imagine a lesser cynic than even I,
Would remark that all poets match, line for line.



One response

18 02 2006

Some of your best stuff yet Kev. Now, about that presidential scholar application?

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