The Minstrel - A Poem

Friday, October 8Th, 5:58 P.M.
Mood: Whimsical, Musical
Music: Remember When It Rained, by Josh Groban

A Note: This poem was written for a friend of mine, who is an author. It symbolizes all who write, read, and enjoy the stories that pour forth from the mind of a writer.


The Minstrel - A Poem
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Look upon the ink that traces,

gentle lines upon the faces,

Of the ancient, cracking pages,

of the tale yet to come forth.

See her hand as it goes flitting,

adding lines both new and fitting,

To the story waiting to be born.

Hour on hour 'til time grows late,

weaving tales of death and fate,

What could cause that such a state,

should intrude upon the mind?

So it seems that she is fated,

still she writes here unabated,

though the hour grows late and light grows dim.

Spinning stories, weaving tales,

from her open mind that hails,

To the stories as they enter one by one.

Words, like rain pours from her pen,

crossed out, revised, then scrawled again,

Upon the page as blank and white as snow.

Lives and stories,

deaths and glories,

come from the hand that strokes the page.

Ghosts that flit about the gloom,

stories, told inside the room,

were she sits and writes yet still.

Dreams they are, that pour forth waiting,

to be told, of love and hating,

upon the page that waits.

Dreams, for without them we are nothing.

For what are we ourselves?

I shall tell you.

Dreams.

The Brief Yet Wondrous Life Of A Flame Struck In The Dark - A Poem

Thursday, September 23Rd, 4:35 P.M.
Mood: Foggy, Slightly Bored
Music: Life In Technicolor Part 2., by Coldplay



The Brief Yet Wondrous Life Of A Flame Struck In The Dark - A Poem
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The darkness crept in all around,
and filled the air without a sound,



The utter darkness hung about,
that filled the senses, stilled the shout,


And brought to one a dreaded feeling,
so dark, so cold, and yet revealing,


Of the tears, the moans, the screaming,
and the places, cold and teeming,


With the creatures of most ancient and forgotten lore.


Then for a second, a brief second,
light burst forth, though darkness beckoned,

Shattering the darkness, dispelling the gloom,
lighting the contents of the forgotten room you stood in so long ago.


And for moment fire shone,
and lit the air, the dust, the stone,



In that place now so far away.


And then it flickered, waved and sputtered,
as the wind with sighs and mutters,


Sought to quench the flame so dear,
the light that banished
darkest fear,



And then at last there in the dark,
the flame dimmed to but a spark,



And then at last the flame receded,
though it's light was sorely needed,



And the dark came swirling back,
from the corners and the cracks,



And filled the room once more.



What is the flickering of the fire but a life?

To be born into darkness.

To bring light.






To live.







To love.






And to dim, in the fullness of time,

leaving the mystery of darkness as it was when we came.

Is it not extraordinary?

The simple life of a flame struck in the dark.
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Pondering the Skull

Friday, June 4Th, 7:17 P.M.
Mood: Much Better, Contemplative
Music: Beautiful Day, by U2


The ancients often contemplated the skull and all of it's meanings. As early as the fourteenth century we see examples of monks collecting skulls and, believing them to be the home of the soul, collected hundreds of them and built them into walls, chandeliers, and even furniture.



The skull is a really fascinating thing to me, as it holds so much significance for so many cultures. It carries not only symbols of death for some cultures, but symbols of victory, rebirth, or the ascension into the afterlife.

The skull is a symbol of death, and as prince hamlet so eloquently put it, "Poor Yorik, alas, I knew him well." But why has it become associated with death? Perhaps it is the first thing that we, as humans see in a skeleton of a poor dead soul. Perhaps we are looking for a face, and seeing the cold dead eye sockets of a skull are put off by their cold and unemotional gaze. Perhaps.

Mechanical Gloom - A Poem

Wednesday, May 5Th, 9 :52 A.M.
Mood: Gloomy, Poetic
Music: Postcards from Far Away, by Coldplay





(Please Listen to the Included Music Below While Reading this Poem.)





Mechanical Gloom, A Poem
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A dark sky.
A spoken word.

The smoke pouring from the mighty stacks,
above the foggy cobblestone street below.

People shuffling too and fro.
Nowhere to come.
Nowhere to go.

The gears still turn.
The steam still pours.

The machines cannot feel.

They will continue to turn until the end of time.

Until the stars fall, the earth cracks, and the seas boil.

Even then, when all is dark and cold.

When all is dead,
and all is gone.

They will continue.

To what end I cannot say.

They are still there. You can see them if you wish.

They still work, they still toil and exhale their black smog as if sighing.

Though cracked and covered in rust and soil.

They work on.

They are all that is left.

Can a machine feel?

Can it love?

Can it hurt?

...
...
...


Can it die?


Or will it sit forever, in it's own mechanical gloom.


(This post originally contained a sound byte, please open another tab and click here to listen to it.)