These are some poems I've written over the past few years. I would like to write more, but dealing with bipolar can make being consistend difficult.
An epic poem begins by invoking the muses, Imagined tenders of the flame, Unaware of the hurt infidelity produces. Cleaving to tradition has its uses: Let a dead writer take the blame. An epic poem begins by invoking the muses. Desire that hesitates, loses. The artist chases her game, Unaware of the hurt infidelity produces. Inspiration comes as easily from love as from bruises; A broken home is a home just the same. An epic poem begins by invoking the muses. Consumed ash the flame diffuses, And art is met with acclaim. An epic poem begins by invoking the muses, Unaware of the hurt infidelity produces.
Why cars dost ye haunt me With forever the mellow roar of a savior Who comes in guise of crusty courier Yet in guile Be replaced by burghers seeking shelter From a day of meaning?
On Samhain night the veil of worlds doth part, Til roads must flood with fae and fiend and ghost. And last a steed so black and dour will rear A mane of mist, with hardened gaze aflame. Tho fearful most must be the man who rides This beast of shade, that stalks this night with glee— He—Dullahan—he comes our way tonight! On right he grips a whip of bone and barb; On left aloft a hand is held—is yet That haunted globe of sourly flesh which glows Of candle light the mate his neck doth lack? We curse the fate that deems our town, so fair, Will host so foul a guest on Samhain night! I hang a cross of gold, and say a vow: “That if his steed should stop an’ snort, my life I’d trade” – the breath doth leave my chest. My door— Alight with ghostly glare! He’ll broke no deal. No God nor man can tame what comes tonight! With cold an' leaden stride I join the host Of fae and fiend and ghost, to take my place Inside the swell of grief and tears that rise Like fog to meet the void this Samhain night!
Father, I need to know: Is my birth my sin, Or yours? You say my mother is a hag, But you left me with her. You say I am vile, But you made me. You say I am ignorant, But you never taught me! Father, I need to know: Is my coming out my sin, Or yours? You left me with her, And I will never leave my kin. You made me, But I shape the future. You never taught me, But I found my way! Father, you need to know: I will never leave my kin. I shape the future. I found my way. When Camelot burns, Father, Will that by my sin, Or yours?
Let me write your code-- I am an awful admin, But I'll rock your stack. Exception raised the Signal eleven, the song Of cracked memory. The deadline comes near. My code will never ever Work. We should ship it. My workmate likes Vim. I instead have picked Emacs. We fight forever.
The glass over your picture is dusty. Each day the memory fogs a little more, Of that time we sat together, Laughing on a carpeted floor. I don't think to clean it. We take our moments as they come, Across borders locked by plague, in The prisons of others' choices. Sometimes I forget the details. The placement of a strand of hair, Or the curl of a lip. The tiny, but not trivial. I cannot snap another picture, No lens can bridge this length. But another medium can carry And echo across the gulf. A voice. A voice as warm and gentle As a late-spring sunrise, That sways like a dancer, Graceful and divine. I used to wipe a glass And pray I would see you clearly. Now I close my eyes, And hold you more vividly.