Your life is a poem

I have read poetry, beautiful prose and deep philosophy birthed out of adventurous lives. I have also read poetry, beautiful prose and deep philosophy birthed out of what would appear to some to be mundane existence.

So I find myself considering the fact that all life is poetry - all life is beautiful prose - and all life is deep philosophy. We may not see it in every day, and every experience, but I assume it must be there.

What then makes our lives so mundane if all life is poetry? Our perspective I suppose. One of our great needs, then, is to be the poet - to be the mystery writer - to be the philosopher who finds the art in life.

The Cash Poem, (a purposely mediocre work) by Phil Wyman

The Cash Poem, (a purposely mediocre work) by Phil Wyman


I received a letter in the mail
called a risk alert
Don't dash to read a poem it said
or with the law you'll flirt

Please note the date of copyright
and the name upon
a poem of inspiration about
loved ones come and gone

It will cost you lots of cash
helping those who hurt
about $250 bucks
for copyrighted works

For it is the cash that matters
and the things that we can buy
at least this is so for the poet
though not for you and I

So before you copy a poem
to comfort a forlorn friend
consider the risk of a lawyers' notice
of copyright infringement

Now, take it slow and consider
writing your own poem
it may take time but it is worth
not being sued for your home

So be less swift to copy
and show a little brains
in the face of people who will write
dear, sweet things for gains

If you don't then you will learn
respect for lawyers and courts
especially when you find your cash
goes flying out the doors

Avoid an edict being read
at the courts and dash
right back home and write your poem
and save yourself some cash

addendum to my work of Parody…

Now my little mediocre poem
is free for you to share
I wrote it in 25 minutes
no cash - cause I don't care

Palm Sunday Prayer

Palm Sunday thoughts: identifying with the season of bright sadness

Today we come with Jesus
into the gates of Jerusalem
we hear the lifted praises
and the voices of the mob
but in the pattern of their praise
we hear their turning camouflaged
beneath the joyous cries
those who praise the loudest
will next week shout "crucify!"

i, among the frenzied crowd
take my place to find
that i have shouted both in praise
and in betraying jeers
and i as well have sat upon
the ass trudging into town
the bright sadness lies before us
as fandom becomes betrayal
and betrayal turns to love

Nor smiles upon these leeches' lips

For we have dreamt about things that darken the days
We smile in our sickness and celebrate another's pain
Our strength is in their sacrifice
We eat their flesh
We drink their blood
Not in humbled thanks, but gorging pride

And when another day shall dawn, darkening our eyes
There shall be no sacrifice nor smiles upon these leeches' lips
Our weakness is the loss of strife and harm
No flesh to eat
No blood to drink
But in hungered cries, we'll surely starve

A•L•ONE

ALONE
my thoughts are my own
at least, I think so
one moment they are controlled
The next unhinged and swinging wildly
    squeaking in the winds
from cursed tri-tones to harmonious hymns
I vacillate ALONE

LONE
independent soul?
or whited, blighted bone
now sanded down to whistling moans?
from barren desert dust staring blankly,
    blinkless to each gust
with eyes as holes and empty trust
I exemplify the LONE

ONE
looks down from stark sun
caught bare I can not run
knowing this, I am undone
and blistering heat becomes some comfort
    where our souls might meet
sorrow sucks from joy's warmed teat

multiplied by ONE

still working on the hope of bardic transference after sleeping on Cadair Idris

Hark Dark Night

Hark Dark Night

Hark

Dark Night

Light Flies

Sighs Hiss

Kiss Fears

Years Pass

Ass Speaks

Freaks Bard

Scarred Mind

Kind Word

Heard Late

Fate Dodged

Lodged Dreams

Streams Free

Flee Dark

Hark

Light

 

Poem: The Woes of the Ornamental Sword

 

 

The Woes of the Ornamental Sword

standing sword, in the corner

unsharpened, tarnished blade pointing downward

too dangerous for play

too benign for war

standing sword, in the corner

casts its thin shadow toward the coward

too alike are they

too hopeful for more

standing sword, in the corner

a naked, unsheathed blade facing forward

too violent to pray

too far from the door

Poem: embracing the hangman

embracing the hangman

for aching joints, and scratchy skin

I know I am alive

for clutching chest, and labored breath

I know I am alive

for downcast eyes, and heavy heart

I know I am alive

for troubled mind, and wanting words

I know I am alive

in pain and not in pleasure, in sorrow not in jest

in loss and not in treasure, in tossings not in rest

these muted tones of struggle from graying days of rain

the lonely rooms of silence with clicking clocks as friends

send me to the hangman - a full embrace I give

that which is killing me is teaching me to live

Have you ever found it necessary to embrace your pain in order to keep your sanity?

Poetry belongs on paper (a poem)

This poem was written rather quickly as I was waiting for a video of Mary the Goth Theologian to download onto Youtube.  Rather than get up off the bed, and get my notebook, I typed it on my Mac.  There is something rather sterile about writing poetry on a computer.  So, as you can read that was the theme of the poem.

This is also the ongoing pursuit of the poetic skill I should have acquired by sleeping on Cadair Idris.  The only real way for me to discover whether I have poetic prowess beyond song-writing is to offer this to people who actually read my stuff.  So, here it is - offered as a screen capture from my Mac.

I will remember you (poem)

I will remember you

friends from distant places
   whose words bend on the wind
      they somehow reach my longing ears
         now strained by hammered pains

he who remembers me
   will be remembered too
      like water to dried prophet's lips
         and rain upon parched land

sorrow is my prison
   and yet my freedom too
      betrayal is my enemy
         till friend's words salve the sores

I will remember you
   the kindness and the calls
      have now poured life into my soul
         through tears and sweated brow

Yes, my attempts at testing poetic prowess on the heels of sleeping upon Cadair Idris continue.  Photos and video of the climb.

Airplane Poetry - The Waning Gibbous Moon

 

The following poem was written on the airplane from London to Boston last night.  As you will notice from above I spelled Gibbous incorrectly, so it is corrected in type below.    The out of focus section on the bottom of the page gives the date 2/26/2010 and says "On a plane "home" from Wales. Remembering a [gibeous] moon low in the sky in the early morning about a month before."

The Waning Gibbous Moon

     by Phil Wyman

The waning gibbous moon slung low upon the sky
Winks, and bids the dawning day goodbye
It mocks me with its eloquence
It portends darker nights
And with the waning gibbous moon I sigh

The waning gibbous moon slides down to meet the line
Stops, where earth meets sky and dark meets light
Inerrant gibbous moon I sense
Prognosticates my life
and with the waning gibbous moon I cry

The waning gibbous moon slinks out beneath the sky
Flees, to squeeze the night time and the tide
O, soothe me omen gibbous moon
Reveal where I might fly
and with the waning gibbous moon I'll hide

Still in need of work, but basically there.  This is the continued efforts of seeing if sleeping on Cadair Idris made a poet or a madman out of me.

Restaurant Napkin Poetry

"Woe to me!" I cried. "I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips... (Isaiah 6:5)


When scripture and how we feel meet.

I Am No Poet (a silly poem with lessons on rhyming built within)

So, I thought I would write a poem for a humor poetry contest. Instead I ended up with this poem, which teaches rhyming styles by modeling them and mentioning them throughout the verses. Now the side notes on what styles are referred to in each stanza are not meant to be in the body of the poem. They are just there for this blog post. This is certainly one of the silliest things I have ever written.


I am No Poet (a dirge of commonness)

I am no poet (1) broken rhyme
and I know it
I am broken
I always blow it

my strange addiction (2) double rhyme
sad affliction
is oft doubled
within my diction

I have tried to hide (3) assonant Rhyme
my moral bind
but lessons lurk
within ass'nant lines

repeating within (4) inside repetition
my mortal sin
it lunges large
and it screams again

I have tried to end (5) simple, masculine
this single trend
be masculine!
but I always bend

now trying to quit (6) consonant rhyme
but never quite
cons'nant struggle
not ever quiet

I can not fake it (7) imperfect rhyme
please or placate
imperfectly
out falls my mistake

If given an or-ange (8) scarce rhyme
squeezed like syringe
scarce my options
still all will cah-ringe

this evil duress (9) light/unstressed
lightly unstressed
would fall away
If I weren't careless

with my dreams too high (10) wrenched rhyme
it cuts to my
soul so wrenched it
pains me but few cry

This, my rich idol (11) Rich Rhyme - homonyms
once thought idyll
now I find that
it leaves me idle

repeating my words (12) identical repetition
my type of words
identical
repetitious words

like macaroni (13) Macaronic Rhyme/multilingual
plain bolonga
it will be known
gwladwr ydw'i



so I am destined (The Final Mourning)
to be questioned
and ridiculed
whenever mentioned

wrong time to be born
now I must mourn
hanging my head
live up to my scorn

You see, in this time
metered sublime
free verse is loved
but poets can't rhyme