[Christopher Allen]

I have many varying styles of poetry. I like to explore what I am capable of conceiving. Here are only a few of my various poems.

“Mysteries of the Night”

Sullen spirits, Makers of the night
Bring to me those who flee
And together fill them to the brim
With fright.

For it is said of we
The children of the night
Who truly bare gifts in this world.
Mysterious and haunted,
We perceive the earth as others cannot
We open our thoughts to that which others fear

The unknown,
In which it is We
Who are the final frontier

;

“My Lady Magdalene”

My lady Magdalene
Sweet and beautiful, thou art forever in me
And I in thee…

Under laced velvet moonrise we cling
Whilst covened girls spread dead rose petals,
In our midst to parry encroaching enemies,
As they snake, so cautiously to see
Thee, my dark malefic queen

Swathed in blood after sweet sacrifice
Of virgin girl turned to blasphemy…

Speaking distrust of me and in turn thee
She met tonight, eternity.

Magdalene, wilst thou not bequeath to me
Thine blood-lit, lustrous kiss
So that I may scream in death and agony,
Speared upon the palisades of thy wish,

Magdalene, Come with me!

;

“Rebel My Child”

They wanted flames
I gave them Ice

They wanted lives
I made them fight…

For their right to survive

Rebel my child
Dress as the night
And bring forth a constellation

My armies of vast and loving
Thievery
Steal only their minds

Children,
My love is vast; boundless
Silence, the thought of a void

My heart
A desolation of sight
An arbour of life
And the cradle of might.

;

“Reading In Memoriam”

Deaf caverns met with necrophiliac stare
Dead eyes drained, bled and cold
Dead Ravens met with me that night
Thrice I died, Thrice I cried
Undead, Undead, Undead

White on black clothes
Dressed for my funeral

There I stood, unrecognized
Reading in memoriam

Undead, Undead, Undead

Most of these you can find on my WordPress.

[Tal Spek]

I liked “Rebel My Child” much better than the others. Seemed to have meaning, not just a story. Not just scenery. I see that you are fond of stringing pictures together in a montage of facets, trying to create one picture. That is a very nice practice, but it seems that if it is used on it’s own, it holds less weight.

“Revel My Child”

Revel, my child, revel
In this world you’ll be given one day.
Revel, my child, revel
Before it is all whisked away.

Revel, for we only have a short while
Before all the men stop being.
In this egocentric world, so vile
Which was built by those so domineering.

Revel on the sparse few green leafs around
Or the few lakes of clear waters.
Revel while on this hellish journey we’re bound
Before the sun starts the slaughters.

Revel, for in this world, all is so facile
And emotions have no place at all.
Saying more than two syllables – futile
Ignored, you will be, like a doll.

Revel for the short years before it begins
An entire species is cleansed off the earth.
We hang onto the planet, fall like bowling pins
Only very few might escape death.

First we will boil and then there’ll be hunger
And then we will have no comfort whatsoever.
And then we will scavenge, and science will slumber
Or toxins – all life will sever.

Revel, my darling, for none after you
Will be able to do just the same.

Revel.

[Christopher Allen]

Out of curiosity was your “Revel My Child” a response to my “Rebel My Child” or simply a coicidence of title?
Either way I rather enjoyed it.

My poetry has been for the greater part a distraction from thought rather than a reason to think. I’ve been using it that way since my girlfriend died seven years ago. I don’t tend to like the poetry that I write when it is meant to mean something. I find that I only ever write to mean something when I am trying to write something. The words end up ugly, lacking fluidity of any kind. I write when I am inspired. I do not think about what I am writing or what it might mean, I just write.

Often the poems come out seemingly a testament to my sorrow at the loss of my late love Lily.

This one for instance:

“When the Stars Fade”

I watched the stars fade, I saw the lightning slip away
I lost my grip and now I sway; drifting in everlasting pain
Lost here and there, forgetting who I am and what I fear

Elate the pallid skies with new and old goodbyes
I have died…

I slipped away in the night, fraught with more pain than delight
Wishing on a star
That you had not gone far…

The ones I posted originally are just some of my favourites. I have written too many to post even a quarter of them. The last count was something like 1,000 but those were just the ones I typed on my computer. I have many that were handwritten before I ever had a computer. Though I’d rather not take the time to count those especially since many of the slips of paper have unfinished poems on them.

[Tal Spek]

Your poem, “Rebel My Child”, prompted me to think of the word Revel and a dying world, which I decided was ours. I just went with it for a couple hours and posted.

I generally hate everything I write, whether if story, poem or something else. I have been writing mainly to get things off my chest, but I have repeatedly tried to pick up my father’s old habit of writing a poem every day.

I am sorry that you had to go through that, and I offer my condolences on your late Lily. I like that last poem, though.

“Blocked by the Clouds” (yes, this is another spur-of-the-moment poem. I seem to be big on those)

I run. I am barefoot.
I cannot see the sun.
Nor the stars. Just clouds.
Grey, covering the whole sky.

The sun is Juliette.
I have not yet met the sun.
And yet I run.
To find her I run.

The stars are society.
I cannot see them right now.
But I do remember – mighty,
Numerous, and cold.

What are the clouds?
The clouds are myself.
I am blocking my love
And my life. I am deaf.

Haiku (rose)

A rose in my hand
A torn rose in her clenched fist
A torn heart retreats

“Flickering”

The world flickers like an old CRT screen.
My third shadow faint on my right.
I can see something is wrong,
But I do not know why.

I feel like I am an unstable bowling pin,
Toppling not from pressure but from fright.
This night is going to be long.
Maybe I should be living a lie.

A piano that is tuned to make me look thin
Plays the concerto of a fight.
I think that my head was made into a gong
And my mind decides that it should die.

[Anonymous]

I wrote this a while ago, for different reasons not related to a lost loved one, but…I think it fits here.

Tears flow
Into this cup
With blood on my hands
I drink its syrup
Sweet like roses
Thick like oil
Throat stings
Hurts like a wound
Blood from my Love
And from this Chalice of Despair
I drink to thee,

Lost Family

[Ariel]

I’m not nearly as good as you guys, but um, here’s some of mine.

___________________________________

Kind of is a little lie.
One we whisper in front of truths to diminish their meanings.
Scared being honest will be too much to handle.
“I’m kind of lonely.”
No, you feel isolated.
“I’m kind of scared.”
No, you’re terrified.
“I’m kind of hurt.”
So that’s why you went home and cried until sunrise?

You rarely actually mean ‘kind of,’
Instead you mean
‘Very’.
‘Really’.
‘So’.
But ‘Very’ is dramatic.
‘Really’ is too much.
‘So’ is the word they laugh at when you tell them how you feel.
But hey, what do I know?
I’m just a kid who kind of felt like writing.

__________________________

Webs of illusions interwoven
Lies and deceit carefully chosen
Sewn together, hiding words unspoken
Inside the truth stays ever frozen
Waiting for that perfect moment
That they aren’t seen as an omen
Or a worthless, empty token
Of a failed attempt to show devotion.

____________________________________

Words don’t seem real
Even in small doses.
Can’t help but to feel
Each and every door closes
To the path I wanna take.
How do I elaborate?
Without startin’ a debate
When every move I make is fake.

Your map’s faulty, leading me off of the roads
And into the ditches where it’s freezing and cold
But I can’t blame you- cause there’s no way you’d admit
That my actions were only chosen ‘cause you deemed them to be fit.

You’ll say it’s my life- until you wanna take control.
Then I’m your pet- free to do only that which I’m told.

____________________________________________

Breathing in the fog saturates my brain.
It clouds my thoughts, and I become lost in my own mind.

____________________________________________

This last one I wrote about my baby brother.
He got married about a year ago and basically just cut himself off from our family, his wife is very controlling and basically wants all his time. Even when he was just dating her, I couldn’t talk to him for five minutes without her popping in. Of two hours at his house, I maybe only ever got ten minutes actually talking to him.

——————————————-

I remember those days when we were toddlers, and practically inseparable.
All the times we’d flip over rocks, looking for worms and bugs, just to see if we could find them.
We’d come in covered with dirt, only to be tossed straight into the bath.
We were convinced we were made to take a bath together to make sure the other didn’t drown.

Or those crisp autumn days when we got older.
We would run about, catching helicopters in our hands as they fell from the trees,
Take them apart, and leave their seeds for the squirrels.
We were convinced that doing this would save them from a long, hungry winter.

How about our teenage years? When we got together and schemed against the world for our own profit?
Those were the best- those moments where you shined and proved just how smart you really are.
Nobody would ever know it, of course.
You were convinced that being smart set high expectations, and playing dumb was much more fun.

Now I wonder if you recall these memories of us becoming who we are today.
Or if now that you found something you want that isn’t something I can help you get, we can’t be the same ever again.
Or maybe even if it wasn’t you who needed me, but merely I who needed you.

After a year without a visit, nor a call from you,
I’m convinced that being your big sister didn’t mean as much to you as it meant to me.

[Tal Spek]

“Kind of” is magnificent! I absolutely love it! The only thing I would change is this: when you say “a kid who kind of felt like writing”, do not stress the words “kind of” at all, leaving us to understand after a few moments. I am not sure if people will realize it, though.

The last one starts very, very well, but ends unclearly. You should make the resolve more understood, maybe even connect it to his wife. We need to see Oedipus fall, to see a tragedy. Only then will we experience the catharsis that can come out of this raw gemstone of a piece.

Last piece of advice – I think that it is better for your writing to explain it only after it is read and thought about. Because a piece that is explained at first is not as free to live it’s own life, and it’s faults and wonderful, special little details do not stick as much. It can be improved less, and is stuck with the same old meaning that you think of it with, not making others think as much about it, not gaining an independent soul.

[Raie]

I’d like to share a couple of my poems with you guys-
The first’s title is “Scavenger”

Pieces of beauty
scattered whispers
allusions of dreams
and of the future
we’re always looking for
for something more
than what we miss
give me just a little
touch of bliss
the vortex that pulls
tries to consume and blind
we run away from
to find the sun again
reaching toward the sky
to float on the surface
we hold our hearts out
like a beggars cup
oh but we were born to fight
the only thing is finding
what we’re fighting for
just to rise above the din
the clatter of shallow eyes
the blinking of grey materials
and we see a glimmer off a ways
for now we’re in a fishbowl
some of us are like lead
stillborns to begin with
and some of us always push ahead
always moving forward
to rise again
to wake up
and see the threads
untie and pull the seams
to find beautiful faces staring at us
but we must find the face
that sees us through
our own existence
and feels us in return
because
that’s the only place we belong
not
here.

______________________________________________________________

I identify also with Ariel’s style of… I guess you call it “thought words?”

~Goldie Locks~

Can’t tell if my heart is too hard or too soft,
all I feel is the anger and pain.
I’m trying so hard to differentiate, and learn if there is anything to gain.
I dream, but then hate reality- more and more.
Can I be the peace, If I cannot find it for myself?

How can one rise above, if they’re buried so far….
Uncertainty, feeling like an orphan in a sea of detached hearts.
Is there a home… is there ever a home for me?
Trust is hard to come by, if your life has been filled hearing lies
When people say what they don’t mean, and think it’s alright.
It’s not alright, that’s my heart you’re hurting.
I mean those things, so don’t tell me lies.
I know because you say one thing.. but drastically show otherwise.
Who cares? I can’t see your heart if you hide it from me.

No one should ever hide.

I grow my hair out because that’s the way I’m seen as beautiful…
but then I cut it because I want them to think myself is beautiful
Either way I’m invisible, if no one truly sees me.

No one should feel un-beautiful.

We are told what is right, and just believe it.
Who questions what all accept?
Then you’ll never know the truth.
So I don’t care to hear you tell me “what’s what”
when you’ve never questioned, or asked “Why?”
You try to tell me about myself, as if you know.

I know me. So no matter what you tell me, it does not change the truth.

You think my feelings aren’t reasonable… you like to judge my feelings as if they were “wrong”…
but you do not know my thoughts nor why I think them.
You do not know what I have experienced. Do you even care?
Do you like to think it is “nice” to be “nice” to people… even if you don’t feel connected to a person?
I have no desire for dishonesty.
If you don’t value a person, don’t waste their time.

Everyone should have someone who makes them feel cherished.

and never feel alone.

________________________________________

Thank you to everyone who shared their poetry.

• This reply was modified 9 years, 6 months ago by Raie.

[Jillian]

Time Makes A Visit

Time moving
outside of my awareness
spilling sand
waves in water.

There’s a window emerging
I’m supposed to walk through.
Step out into space
arms spread wide
for some wingless flight.

My toes catch the edge of the sill
gripping it like a birds claw.
My spine straightens
curving up, re-aligning my eyes
until they look direct and ahead.

A wind whips up from the other side
as I bend minutely forward
perched
pulling away
from the comfort
the familiar warmth
of my bedroom.

The icy chill of fear
drags itself across my cheek
threatening to undo
all the courage I have gathered
threatening to weigh down
the lightness in my feet.

Time beckons me forward
quietly urgent, palpable.
It drops a warning in my gut,
begs me not to waste the window,
reminding me gently that opportunity is fleeting,
and so is my life.

And as the grains of sand drift downward
to collect in all the memories and all the days
I have walked through since my birth
I finally feel the movement of it’s passage
I finally understand the message,
it always says:

Jump.

[Author]

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