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(no subject)
Jun. 1st, 2008 09:28 pmSo...I was decluttering today and I found some old notebooks, and I was looking through one (to determine if it was empty or full) and I found notes toward a poem.
I'm pretty sure it's recent, like within the last couple of months...and I vaguely remember writing this, trying to get the poem to come...but I have no idea of the context and, thus, what I was actually trying to express.
( warning - this is not even bad poetry; it's notes toward bad poetry )
I'm pretty sure it's recent, like within the last couple of months...and I vaguely remember writing this, trying to get the poem to come...but I have no idea of the context and, thus, what I was actually trying to express.
( warning - this is not even bad poetry; it's notes toward bad poetry )
NaPoeWriMo psa and poem
Apr. 4th, 2008 09:24 amI'm doing NaPoeWriMo again this year, thirty poems in thirty days. I don't plan on posting all of the poems here, just random ones - and I'll put them behind a cut to avoid duplicationd/saturation/boredom. Most of them will likely be in the 'beyond first draft though not completely polished' phase.
( Eight )
( Eight )
poem by David Rokeach
Sep. 4th, 2007 11:05 amGlory to those who hope!
For the future is theirs;
Those who stand unflinching against the mountain
Shall gain its summit.
So hopes the river, running to the sea,
To fulfill its dreams in the crash of waters.
So longs the tree, branching skyward
At last to touch the palm of the sun.
Therefore we love dawn as a promise of day,
The nightingale's love-song as a longing for birth,
The flowing of streams as the beat of dreams made real,
Streams cutting channels for rivers of the future
And never growing weary.
And all who join hands, trusting creation--
These are the companions of hope.
Forge, then, the vision of days to come:
As the waves shape the rocky shore,
As the smith moulds white-hot steel at will,
Form dreams of faithfulness.
Desolation will not leave the desert,
Until it leaves the heart.
--David Rokeach
For the future is theirs;
Those who stand unflinching against the mountain
Shall gain its summit.
So hopes the river, running to the sea,
To fulfill its dreams in the crash of waters.
So longs the tree, branching skyward
At last to touch the palm of the sun.
Therefore we love dawn as a promise of day,
The nightingale's love-song as a longing for birth,
The flowing of streams as the beat of dreams made real,
Streams cutting channels for rivers of the future
And never growing weary.
And all who join hands, trusting creation--
These are the companions of hope.
Forge, then, the vision of days to come:
As the waves shape the rocky shore,
As the smith moulds white-hot steel at will,
Form dreams of faithfulness.
Desolation will not leave the desert,
Until it leaves the heart.
--David Rokeach
(no subject)
Jan. 13th, 2007 09:09 pmMusing
"Come here," I say,
but he dances teasingly out of reach.
"I won’t bite."
"Sometimes you do," he says,
flashing me a wicked grin. "Not that I mind.
But you have this habit of editing a bit...vigorously."
His breath’s warm on my neck;
I close my eyes, willing the words to come.
"You’re going to have to work a bit more than that for it,"
he says, a tinge of chastisement in his voice.
"What do you want from me?" I mumble.
"Silence,"
he says,
his warm breath coursing, emptying me
of any recognizable thought save yes,
borne away on a blast of ardor
for life,
for this,
for all words swept away with one wave of his hand.
I raise my hands in surrender, nodding, unable to speak.
"Now," he says,
"Now. Begin."
"Come here," I say,
but he dances teasingly out of reach.
"I won’t bite."
"Sometimes you do," he says,
flashing me a wicked grin. "Not that I mind.
But you have this habit of editing a bit...vigorously."
His breath’s warm on my neck;
I close my eyes, willing the words to come.
"You’re going to have to work a bit more than that for it,"
he says, a tinge of chastisement in his voice.
"What do you want from me?" I mumble.
"Silence,"
he says,
his warm breath coursing, emptying me
of any recognizable thought save yes,
borne away on a blast of ardor
for life,
for this,
for all words swept away with one wave of his hand.
I raise my hands in surrender, nodding, unable to speak.
"Now," he says,
"Now. Begin."
