Literary Hype

2011-12-31T23:59:00.013-05:00

LITERARY HYPE INDEX

Most Recent

Crave
Slip Loose the Shackles
Silver and Smoke

31 DAYS OF POETRY

(2011)

Day 1 - Death of a Small Town

Day 2 - Carving

Day 3 - The Ballad of Rennratt

Day 4 - Clouded Vision

Day 5 - Ignoramasaurus

Day 6 - Go down to the great flowing river

Day 7 - Call out to the Stars

Day 8 - Thin Ice

Day 9 - The Hardest Part

Day 10 - The Castle in My Heart

Day 11 - Sifting over Memory and Bone

Day 12 - Coraleiya tavandar

Day 13 - Does He

Day 14 - Broken Window

Day 15 - carry away

Day 16 - Blueprint

Day 17 - Julie Andrews is a Punk

Day 18 - Halfway up the mountain trail

Day 19 - Give me peace this night

Day 20 - Stopping by her on a hungry evening

Day 21 - Sit Silent in the Tall Grass

Day 22 - One More Shattered Dream

Day 23 - On Cave Wall

Day 24 - Pain descends on demons' dark wings
Day 25 - On the first day after the world ended

Day 26 - Lasting Impression

Day 27 - soft love, spoken in shadow
Day 28 - I Like 'em (Tribute Poem for Breast Cancer Awareness)

Day 29 - Spider Rage Chronicles
Day 30 - Seething Passion, Purest Felt

Day 31 - Sing the Song of Night

See the 2010 version of 31 DAYS OF POETRY

Mayday (guest-story by Cat C)
Malaise Blues
Vigil
What I wouldn't give
Psalm 30:5 - A Rebuttal
When I say your name
Always Remember

STORY ARCHIVE

POETRY ARCHIVE

BOOK REVIEWS

MUSIC

Slip Loose The Shackles

2011-11-27T11:19:00.000-05:00

Slip loose the shackles,
Pry open the cage door;
Cross the threshold of your prison -
Free forevermore.
You Like
You Love
You Lust
You Loathe
You light the life you live.
You live your life to light the night:
How much more can you give?

Control the panic
That rises in your throat,
Stitch together threads of courage -
Wear them like a coat.
You Fly
You Flail
You Fling
You Flare
You fight the fear you feel.
You feel the fear you're fighting:
How much of life is real?

Ascend the ramparts,
Climb over castle wall;
Unsheathe your sword from scabbard -
The Enemy must fall.
You Clash
You Claw
You Cling
You Cry
You cut the cure you crave.
You crave the cure of cutting:
How many can you save?

Set free the captives,
Ignite the tar and pitch;
Burn the castle to the ground -
Kill that sonofabitch!
You Sling
You Slay
You Slip
You Sluff
You sell your soul for spite.
You spite your soul's new dwelling,
Will e'er again be right?

Allow the embers
To slowly become cold,
Drifting thoughts of yesterday:
Back when you were Bold.
You Aim
You Arch
You Ache
You Ail
You always ask around.
Will any be affected
When you're in the ground?

Accept the future,
That grips you like a vise;
Your life is just a wager -
Tossed with loaded dice.
You Dare
You Dig
You Dash
You Drag
You damn the dreams that die.
You die for dreams' unspoken screams;
Will anyone ask why?

Slip loose the shackles,
Pry open the cage door;
The archway opens only once -
What are you waiting for?

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Silver and Smoke

2011-11-20T21:34:00.001-05:00

Deep in the well of savage salvation
Clinging to strands of silver and smoke
Scraping the stone without degredation
Swallowing life, and starting to choke

Far-away land, ephemeral glory
Carving out rock, for marble and slate
Step to the stage; deep allegory
Breathing out fire, acquiring hate

Trilling the notes, alluring incitement
Call for the soldiers' echoing song
Blind to the strike, a sweeping indictment
Knowing the words, but singing them wrong

Leading the Chorus in sonorous splendor
Beating back Gravity's pull to the ground
Silver-laced shadow hides the surrender
Ashes to ashes, Stone falleth down

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Crave

2011-11-14T16:44:00.001-05:00

Crave,
within your soul,
what you never
thought you'd miss

Linger,
on the taste,
of your lips
so sweetly kissed

Shiver,
at the memory,
of your skin
so soft caressed

Forever
be embraced,
as you are
divinely blessed

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31 Days of Poetry (2011)

2011-08-31T23:59:00.020-04:00

31 DAYS OF POETRY

(2011)

Day 9 - The Hardest Part

Day 10 - The Castle in My Heart

Day 11 - Sifting over Memory and Bone

Day 12 - Coraleiya tavandar

Day 13 - Does He

Day 14 - Broken Window

Day 15 - carry away

Day 16 - Blueprint

Day 17 - Julie Andrews is a Punk

Day 18 - Halfway up the mountain trail

Day 19 - Give me peace this night

Day 20 - Stopping by her on a hungry evening

Day 21 - Sit Silent in the Tall Grass

Day 22 - One More Shattered Dream

Day 23 - On Cave Wall

Day 24 - Pain descends on demons' dark wings

Day 25 - On the first day after the world ended

Day 26 - Lasting Impression

Day 27 - soft love, spoken in shadow

Day 28 - I Like 'em (Tribute Poem for Breast Cancer Awareness)

Day 29 - Spider Rage Chronicles

Day 30 - Seething Passion, Purest Felt

Day 31 - Sing the Song of Night

See the 2010 version of 31 DAYS OF POETRY

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Sing the Song of Night

2011-08-31T20:47:00.001-04:00

[Day 31 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Sing the Song of Night.
Let the music of radiant Moon kiss light and life
upon Sparkle and Shadow, their ethereal dance
playful yet responsive to Night's dark rhythms.
The drums of Night are Deep Magic, their
percussive power a memory of an Earth who still Remembers.

Sing the Song of Night,
canvass cover of Night's silent circus,
sweet and searing symphony of salvation and sin.
Stars appear by permission only, crowded into
cosmic amphitheatre, eager to hear those
first faint Night Notes, after the crimson crush of
Day's departure slides slowly off the stage, and
the new deep purple darkness concert commence.

Sing the Song of Night,
swollen swarm hangs heavy in the air,
a buzz seeps into bone, and thought,
and brings the tiniest trickle,
the echo of memory of the Deep Magic.
They say Memory lives in the blood,
but nowhere will it even cast a shadow
other than within the Night Song,
when chords of pure light and pure darkness
blend into infinity,and add themselves
to the music of forever.

Sing the Song of Night,
voices of the Chorus
rising in rhapsody,
blending their life, lust and lies
into perfect concomitance,
harmony to honor gods,
and gods of gods,
and those who remember
when Song and Breath
were not separate words.
Crystalline spotlight shines down
Silver on Center Stage,
awaiting Aria,
and Illumination,
of the way back,
of the way forward,
of the way out,
and the way in.

Sing the Song of Night, and Remember, and Believe.

And Begin.

[Note: I have written poetry about Night before, many times in fact. (Who hasn't? Without the Night the only people writing poetry would be Optimists, and screw them.) The two that come to mind as perhaps most on point with this one are The Night Sits Softly in the Early Morning Sky (sort of the opposite - about Night turning into Day), and Echo of Light (about an eclipse, and only "poetry" on the sense that it sure ain't prose.) Check them out if you're interested.]

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

See the 2010 edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Seething Passion || Purest felt

2011-08-30T01:12:00.001-04:00

[Day 30 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

[Author's pre-poem Note: Like songs, an essential part of poetry is to hear it, not just read it. Otherwise a huge component is missing. I would read them all to you if I could. At least read it to yourself quietly: I beg you. The || is something I made up as a visual cue to tell the ~~reader~~ reciter that there is a measured pause in the middle of each line. If you read it without those pauses the whole meaning gets jammed and you'll make Hypey cry.]

Seething Passion || Purest felt
Hearts can mend || Souls may melt
Essence of || Angelic grace
Vicious Violent || Darkness laced
Desperate Need || Ascending Lust
Reigning Ash || return to dust
Fluttered nerves || Reddened blush
Acid burn || and somber hush
Passion's trails || clinging smoke
Shivered fear || Desire woke
Shouted bark || or whispered plea
Longing floats || in Ether Sea
Joy and suff'ring || never tame
Bound as one || in Passion's flame

[Painting: "Venus, supported by Iris, complaining to Mars" by George Hayter. c 1820]

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Spider Rage Chronicles

2011-08-29T07:19:00.002-04:00

[Day 29 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

[The Following happened early Monday morning. I went on a Twitter rampage about it, and later, thought it was pretty funny. Is it a stretch to use it as a poem? Well.....Would I use it if I wasn't so far behind schedule? Well......The point is, it's awesome. The reason it looks a bit scraggly is because I cut and paste each individual post so that you could read it from top down rather than from bottom up. I know, I know - Hamanitarian. Enjoy.]

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

See the 2010 edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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I Like 'em (Tribute Poem for Breast Cancer Awareness)

2011-08-28T00:00:00.010-04:00

[Day 28 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

When I was first asked by the good people of RSVP Erotica to write a poem to fight Beast Cancer I was admittedly confused. This was much like when I shaved my hair, which at the time was all the way down my back - and I was asked to donate the hair to fight cancer. How could my hair fight cancer? I wondered, but hey, if it's for Science....Similarly, if my writing a poem will defeat Breast Cancer....I'm on it.

I tried for a few days to write this elegant poem that conveyed all my deeply held feelings about breasts (of which there are many), but I couldn't get the right feel for the situation. I kept pinching and pulling my words, tweaking them, massaging them, sometimes chewing on them in vain hopes of getting it just right. It was so hard! I got those words to stand up at attention, like little top hats, but no matter how much I molded, I couldn't get it the way I wanted.

In a text conversation with my friend Jacquelin I jokingly dashed off a few lines, and she wrote back, "This is good! You should use this!." Yeah, I countered, but it's not epic. It's not the Peer Gynt of Pecs I was hoping for. "It's just like you say in the poem," Jacquelin argued. "When it comes to boobies, lots of different types will work just fine." Yeah, I guess she's right. So, without further ado, I present my first (and hopefully not last) poem to fight Breast Cancer. I'm not sure if you're supposed to just slather this poem directly on them or what....but I'm sure it can't hurt. -Hyperion

I Like 'em

I like 'em big, I like 'em bouncy,
I like 'em small (around six-ouncy).
I like 'em firm, I like 'em floppy,
I like 'em neat, I like 'em sloppy.
I like 'em peach-pink, I like 'em dark-cola,
I like 'em covered with areolae.
I like 'em pushed up, or swinging easy,
I like 'em curved sharp, or big as Weezy.
I like 'em tear-shaped, or nicely rounded,
I like 'em delicate, or when they're pounded.
I like 'em on virgins, I like 'em on whores,
I like every pair, but mostly yours!

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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soft love, spoken in shadow

2011-08-27T00:36:00.003-04:00

[Day 27 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

I love you
like no one
else has ever
loved you, like
no one else
will ever love
you, with the
window to my
soul open for
you and only
you to see
the darkness within.

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Lasting Impression

2011-08-26T16:44:00.002-04:00

[Day 26 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

"I stood by the river and watched the water float by implacably, unaware of my power to bend its course to my will. I stepped into the waters and I stood in the river, a monolith, as I bathed in Heaven's pure light while the waves broke upon my body, the water forced to find a new path. I laughed deep, the sound cleansing my lungs and throat as the water washed over my soul. I stepped back on land and looked down in pity at the river, still floating by, still unaware of the lasting impression I had made."

[Painting: "River Telfi" by Mark Cox. See his Gallery here.]

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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On the first day after the world ended

2011-08-25T07:06:00.008-04:00

[Day 25 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

On the first day after the world ended Corver Telic arose at 6:18 am,
the same time he had every day for the past 23 years.
Corver slowly stretched his arms and legs while sitting on the side of the queen-sized bed,
reaching for Maggie Magoo by feel rather than sight
when he heard the soft jingle of her collar,
as Corver tried not to fully open his soft hazel eyes
(everyone remarked upon them; no reason we should not as well)
before he had to.

Maggie Magoo was Corver's pure-bred Alsatian,
in case your mind wandered far on that one,
which is commonly known as a German Shepherd,
but Corver did not prefer it for an animal he regarded as royalty
among the upper echelon of finer dog breeds,
and insisted on the more weighty description.
Perhaps this was to counterbalance the Alsatian's unfortunate appellation,
though Cover had to admit that "Maggie Magoo" fit that dog like a favorite pair of jeans,
comfortable,
unpretentious,
welcome at any occasion.

Maggie Magoo led Corver down the stairs of of his
two-story three-and-a-half bath Tudor home,
and though Corver still had not opened his eyes,
and Maggie Magoo was close to legally blind
(you wondered if that's where her name came from, didn't you?),
neither bumped into the wall or tripped over a briefcase.
They'd been doing this same walk every day for almost 13 years,
and both knew the way
(literally in Cover's case),
in their sleep.

Normally the first six o'clock hour does not attract many curious eyes on Harford Street,
but this day was any day but ordinary.
After all,
this was the first day after the world ended,
which we mentioned at the beginning,
but it is worth saying again,
as you very well may have been distracted in the meantime by Maggie Magoo,
and who could blame you?

Eyes were everywhere,
peering out behind drawn curtains and fully verticalized blinds.
Normally these people would still be asleep,
or getting ready for work,
or pouring processed marshmallow nutrition into milk for feckless four-year-olds,
but not this morning.

If any had slept it had been fitfully,
and most had been up all night,
pacing,
or checking ph levels and electrical charges on basement water tanks and generators,
tension pulled taut as a wire through the long still night,
but now it was morning,
and Lord knew what was going to happen,
but whatever it was,
it was going to happen now,
or soon,
right?

And there was Corver Telic and Maggie Magoo,
walking north on the eastern side of Harford,
crossing over where Poplar Lane intersected,
and traversing back south,
this time on the western half of Harford's contribution to suburban sprawl.

People knew Corver Telic.
Never married - there was talk, you know -
but most respected him,
and who didn't love Maggie Magoo?

Cover was an engineer of some kind over at Bigelow,
which manufactured electrical track for light-rail back East.
Folks knew Corver could be counted on to buy band candy and raffle tickets for the endless parade of community-subsidized high school extra-curriculars,
and it was known that as long as courtesy was kept Corver would not narrow a baleful eye come Halloween to those Trick-or-Treaters who long since should have graduated to fidgety dry-ice-bedazzled mixer parties where the ever-hanging threat of making out
(or not making out: which could be worse?)
kept all but the most clear-skinned and letterman-jacketed in a perpetual state of dry-mouthed near-terror.

And who didn't love Maggie Magoo?

Now the residents of Harford Street watched
Corver Telic and Maggie Magoo take their walk,
complete their accustomed morning circuit,
and know Not what to make of it the residents did.
There were no telephone calls back and forth,
east and west along Harford's tree-lined early-morning seeming placidity -
how could there be?

Likewise,
there were no texts,
emails,
Waves,
Buzzes,
IMs,
DMs,
AMs,
FMs
or Status Updates,
and not once were the words
"just saw Corver Telic and his Alsatian Maggie Magoo outside taking their walk!"
RT'd
with added WTF?s for emphasis.

But people saw,
and people who didn't see found out,
in that inexplicable way we have of collectively just knowing something we could not possibly,
and without any discussion,
argument
or an army of support-augmenting Likes,
people reached the same conclusion.

Corver Telic was taking a stand.

Corver and Maggie Magoo arrived back home at 6:47,
Corver having managed to keep his eyes virtually shut the entire time he'd been awake.
Corver Telic was not an unobservant man -
engineering is all about the details -
but whatever powers of paranoia,
er, perception
Corver possessed were dulled by the fog of and haze of sleep still hanging over him like a low marshland in late winter.

It would not be until almost eleven minutes later,
when on his second burning-hot segment of
Ice-cold/hot/lukewarm/hot/ice-cold shower he took every morning,
that Corver's eyes suddenly opened so wide,
that one might be forgiven for thinking Corver Telic was
practicing for a Marty Feldman Impersonation Contest down at the local Odeon.

It was at that moment that Corver Telic suddenly remembered
what no one would possibly have forgotten,
and therefore what so many had ascribed lofty motives to him for "taking a stand,"
as it would be universally
(well, townaversally)
known in the days to come.

Corver Telic realized it was the first day after the world ended,
and there was no job to hurry to be on time for,
to make his lunch for,
to get dressed for,
to shower for.

Corver omitted the last ice-cold cycle of his routine,
and stepped onto the bathmat in front of the fogged-over mirror,
temporarily unusable for reflection,
which suited Corver just fine.

Drying off with a
lemon-yellow
big fluffy-cloud,
bed-bath-and-way-beyond-necessary

towel

(one of the few indulgences he permitted himself),
Corver wondered if there was anyway he could break his routine and fall back asleep.

It may not have been the Tienanmen Square stuff-of-legend
for which he was currently accredited,
but you have to start somewhere.

At 7:06 am,
Corver Telic climbed back into bed for the first time since....ever,
and took his stand,
lying down.

(No word on what position,
if any,
was taken,
or held,
by Maggie Magoo.)

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Pain descends on demons' dark wings

2011-08-24T20:26:00.002-04:00

[Day 24 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Pain descends on demons' dark wings,
soft and silent save for a faint ripple in the air.

It alights on the shoulders with an embrace;
enveloping the body like a warm winter cloak.

There is no attempt to shrug it off; this is the
touch of an old lover, and they greet one another

with the familiar intimacy that only those who have
shared union can know. The ritual of seduction,

seemingly grotesque, is actually a comfort; a moment
of calm and clarity before the night that is to come.

This is not a coupling the quarry would choose,
and in a few hours there will be impassioned imprecations

and beseeching bargaining for the cessation of ravishment,
all to no avail. Pain takes what it wants, when it wants,

as much as it wants, and there is no safe word that
beats back the shadows' sting. This is their world:

there is no reality but the two of them, together,
and the gasping hunger that must be satisfied.

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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On Cave Wall

2011-08-23T23:29:00.002-04:00

[Day 23 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

[it will make a lot more sense if you say it (out loud or in your head) to the tune of "Frère Jacques" Here is the music to help out:]

Dancing Shadows.........(dancing shadows)
On Cave Wall................(on cave wall)
Flick-er-ing-be-fore-me
Showing-me-re-al-i-ty
Turn Away.............(turn away)

Mocking Shadows.............(mocking shadows)
On Cave Wall................(on cave wall)
They-won't-tell-us-what-it's-like
Once-we-get-up-outside
Turn Away.............(turn away)

Casting Shadows.............(casting shadows)
On Cave Wall................(on cave wall)
Even-though-I'm-frightened
I-have-to-see-what's-out-there
Turn Away.............(turn away)

Finally Made It.............(finally made it)
Out of Cave................(out of cave)
The-light-is-hot-and-blinding
Every-thing-is-diff-erent
Turn Away.............(turn away)

Silly Shadows.............(silly shadows)
On Cave Wall................(on cave wall)
How-could-I-have-thought-that
You-were-ever-real-life?
Turn Away.............(Never Stay)

Notes
Apologies to Plato's Republic (Book VII, Chapter IX)
(And while I'm at it, Apologies to Thumbkin)

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One More Shattered Dream

2011-08-22T07:39:00.002-04:00

[Day 22 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

I dreamed an epic fantasy novel, or at least the beginning of one. It was so
complete: the names, the action, even the high-prose (in a Tolkien-esque way),
that in my dream I knew immediately that the novel was real and that I was

simply dreaming it in word-for-word detail. Though this might seem strange,
it really should not be. Presumably, if I have read something, it is in my brain
and available for complete recall, if only in the relaxed Theta-wave state.

It was only at the end, the lucid part, the rise to waking, when you start to know
you are dreaming and have even a small measure of control but still are dreaming,
that I realized the novel was one I had never heard, and I was creating as I went.

Frantically, within the dream, I tried to write it down, preserve any way I could,
going so far as to use mnemonics to remember names and trying to sear the words
of the magical story into the ground so that I might recall them upon waking, all the

while knowing how desperately useless it was. As soon as I woke I would (and did)
start to lose the details immediately; the crisp prose and poetic high chant crumbled
before me, the note-perfect names jumbling into random morpheme syllables of pure

sound, like listening to two people speak a language you do not know. Even the
narrative details, so tightly constructed and self-contained, suddenly became loose
threads of cliche and confusion. Like a sandcastle facing the tide I lost the story,

first the beauty of the moments, their shape and form, then the very substance of
creation, until it was indistinguishable with the surrounding land, and I am left only
the hollow pit in my stomach, the tightness in my chest, and the keen burn of loss

at the back of my eyes, the only comfort the numbness that comes with adding its
weight to the chamber of failures in my heart that is already overflowing, but can
always accommodate one more shattered dream.

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Sit Silent in the Tall Grass

2011-08-21T21:24:00.003-04:00

[Day 21 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

The lurking leopard lies in wait, hungry to the point of weakness for his next meal, but ever patient, watchful, ready.

The leopard does not go out chasing his prey. He could. The leopard could launch off the ground with powerful leg muscles into the air in the blink of an eye.

The leopard can hunt down his prey and jump its hindquarters, dragging down a wildebeest, impala, or even a young foal zebra.

In an instant the leopard would be on top of the creature while it was still reeling from the pain of the claw marks scratched into the its haunches.

The animal begins to thrash wildly, desperate to hold on to control, to life. But it is not to be, as the leopard takes the creature by the throat.

You might think the large predator would rip out his victim's throat with his razor-sharp fangs, but instead the leopard suffocates his victim.

It may thrash about, but soon comes submission, and the prey spends its last few moments with its conqueror almost intimately, in a slow ride from this plain into shadow.

So that's one way.

Even with powerful, controlled strides, excellent closing speed, and a viciously perfected killing technique, the leopard prefers to watch his victims first, without being seen, drawing ever closer. Leopards are master stalkers, and when inclined love to glide through the brush and slide over rocks, blending in so completely they simply disappear.

The leopard can creep right up to his victims unawares until the creature can literally feel hot hungry breath on its neck.

Given the choice, the leopard would rather risk losing a kill than to forgo the seduction of stalking, the dance of death that fulfills a need within the predator as deep as the sustenance that sustains him.

So that's another way.

But the third way the leopard has of taking his victims is by far his favorite, though it is very rare indeed. A leopard loves nothing more than to sit silent in the tall grass and wait.

Perfectly still, mastering his carnal urges to kill and feed, the leopard will lie in ambush, allowing his prey to walk right up to him, never realizing the peril.

Only when the prey is literally within the leopard's grasp does he spring, and take what is his, what he waited so long to devour.

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Stopping by Her on a Hungry Evening

2011-08-20T23:19:00.003-04:00

[Day 20 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Seeing you across the square
Cannot help but stop and stare
Heart begins to skip a beat
Electric current in the air

Appearing good enough to eat
Delectable and tartly sweet
You can feel my growing need
Flushing red and rising heat

Reaching you with desperate speed
Paying consequence no heed
You will be my greatest sin
On your body I will feed

You are ready to begin
Liquid fire from within
Taste the night upon your skin
Taste the night upon your skin

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Give me peace this night

2011-08-19T23:56:00.003-04:00

[Day 19 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Give me peace this night,

that I might face the morning light
with some small measure of courage.
The days have been brutal, not likely to change,
pinned down in a trench between Enemies and Expectations,
not enough bullets to make a charge or withstand the next assault.
But that's life, you're always in over your head. I can handle it, or at least I could.

If I could ever relax.

I need time spent
where I'm not dwelling on the turmoil
of what happened that day, the pressure of what
will happen the next. I need meals where I can enjoy the food,
savor the taste and not have my chest turn to fire the rest of the night.
Mostly, I need sleep. I need to turn off my brain from the unending onslaught
of worry, fear, and scathing self-loathing. I need tension to pour out of my body,
so I can give in to exhaustion and have a few precious hours without thought or care.

Tomorrow will burst on the scene soon enough,
filled with calamities and untold horrors. I don't know how
I can stand against the tide, but I will do it anyway, just as I have
always done, and will always continue to do, until I'm at last swept away.
But I need strength. I need some small core of grace, a reserve to hang onto.

So, please, give me peace this night.

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Halfway up the mountain trail

2011-08-18T13:15:00.002-04:00

[Day 18 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Halfway up the mountain trail,
Bent over at the waist,
Trying to catch my breath.
You look impatient and annoyed,
Not bothering to hide contempt.
You know little about life,
And even less about me,
But that does not mater
When only one of us
Has the energy to speak.
"Are you coming?" you ask,
Bouncing lightly on your toes.
It's all I can do
To stand back up straight.
My side is on fire.
My breaths are tortured gasps.
I want to keep up,
But know how this ends.
"You go on without me."

Note
I'm more and more convinced that the sounds of words and how they fit together are even more important than the words' meanings, especially in poetry. Counter-intuitively, then, I decided to try to write something with five words in each line, which is arbitrary and ignores rhythm, the foundation of poetry. It was just an experiment, to see if there was something to it. It worked okay, surprising me. Without any effort I found that I could "think" in these five word lines, with only one exception. It may seem like I split up the sentences to achieve that effect, but imagine them being voiced by the narrator. He has no breath, so even his inner thoughts are truncated. If you imagine the end of each line as him taking a huge breath, I think it will make more sense. (And in case you were wondering, I had to take the word "I" out of the second-to-last line to keep it consistent. Everything else came out right without counting words.)

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Julie Andrews is a Punk

2011-08-17T15:10:00.001-04:00

[Day 17 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Raindrops on Tin Roofs and Thanksgiving Turkey
NFL Playoffs and lots of beef jerky
Very bad girls who beg for their spankings
These are a few of my favorite things

Five-Dollar Foot-Longs and Grilled Stuft Burritos
Sun Chips and Pringles and Nacho Doritos
Totinos Pizzas with Chocolate Puddings
These are a few of my favorite things

Fifty-inch Plasmas and Unrated Blu-Rays
Girls in short dresses with black lace lingerie
Legs that she covers with white silk stockings
These are a few of my favorite things

When my team chokes
When my pee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad!

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Blueprint

2011-08-16T23:59:00.003-04:00

[Day 16 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Elusively
Fearfully
Unobtrusively
Carefully
Narrowly
Objectively
Thoroughly
Effectively

Silently
Sequentially
Violently
Eventually
Hurriedly
Aggressively
Luridly
Transgressively

Demandingly
Voraciously
Commandingly
Sagaciously
Soundly
Sensationally
Profoundly
Inspirationally

Abnormally
Bestially
Stormily
Celestially
Resplendently
Gloriously
Transcendently
Victoriously

[Note: I don't know if I got this poem to work the way I wanted it to in my head. I debated whether to put commas after each word, because if you just scan down quickly you miss what (I hope) I put in there. The proper way to read it is to read each word as a line of poetry, and pause between lines. Ach! Now I know I"ve failed. if I have to explain it, I didn't do it right. Well, anyway, give it another try, doing it that way. -H]

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carry away

2011-08-15T21:29:00.002-04:00

[Day 15 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

carry away the heartache, carry away the lies
carry away the pity and disgust within your eyes
carry away the sadness, that makes you feel so blue
carry away most everything, but darling, never you

eliminate the violence, eliminate the rage
eliminate anxiety that locks you in a cage
eliminate the danger you fear is coming true
eliminate most everything, but darling, never you

atone for your transgressions, atone for callousness
atone for thinking you could walk away without a mess
atone for all the things that you swore you'd never do
atone for almost everything, but darling never you

forgive yourself the petty, forgive yourself the dumb
forgive your self-pity that you allowed to make you numb
forgive the hurt you caused, and that others caused to you
return to where you're loved, and let's begin anew

[painting is La Femme dans les vagues (Woman in the Waves) but Gustave Courbet]

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Broken Window

2011-08-14T18:56:00.000-04:00

[Day 14 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

She stares out her broken window-pane.
"If I only knew now what I knew then!"
Once she was young, and brash, and quite vain:
She had life by the balls (not the mention the men).
There was a time she defied her fate,
But there's no more need to pretend.
A glance at the clock: it's half-past Too Late --
-- and a quarter until The End.

Somehow Life had slipped past her guard.
So much happened. (She didn't know when.)
"Why was everything always so hard?"
How many times starting over again?
It would get better, if she could just wait.....
But there's no more need to pretend.
A glance at the clock: it's half-past Too Late --
-- and a quarter until The End.

She narrows her eyes and wells up her rage.
(She'd rather attack than defend.)
She wrote the book and can recite the page.
Now join in the Chorus of the "Unfair Amens!"
But sagging Weariness overwhelms Hate,
And there's no more need to pretend.
A glance at the clock: it's half-past Too Late --
-- and a quarter until The End.

There was a Time, when Hope was so Great....
But there's no more need to pretend.
A glance at the clock: it's half-past Too Late --
-- and a quarter until The End.

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Does He

2011-08-13T02:22:00.002-04:00

[Day 13 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Does he know how lucky he is to have you?
Does he wake each morning with a grateful smile?
Does he realize what he's got and savor every moment?
Does he tell you that you make his life worthwhile?

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Coraleiya tavandar

2011-08-12T16:44:00.004-04:00

[Day 12 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Coraleiya tavandar

gellimonya shalizar

fledderetten voulei-kai

antokimo reedohmai

floy gahpi-gonn, floy gahpi-gonn

keederenden-tevadel

floy gahpi-gonn, floy gahpi-gonn

keederenden-paravell

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Sifting over Memory and Bone

2011-08-11T16:44:00.001-04:00

[Day 11 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Tripping through the Light to find the Stone
Sifting over Memory and Bone
Tracking through the maze, filled with acrid, angry haze
Destined to forever be alone

Packing up the iron that can save
Splitting light across the arcing wave
The Past sings out the Storm, clotted red and salty warm
Shadows on the wall inside the Cave

Clawing through the carnage and the mud
Searching for a sign to end the Flood
Weakened by the Thirst, and the Remnant of the Cursed
Coursing with the venom of the Blood

Hidden Stone, forever lost from sight
Flowing through the Shadows of the Night
Bone - reduced to ash - wears the Silence like a sash
Never to return into the Light

Notes
1. I seem to have written this while I was asleep. At least, I have no memory of it. This is the third time I have woken up with something sitting next to me that sounds vaguely like prophecy. The first time I woke to find these words written on the wall (in my handwriting) next to my bed. The second time was one paper, but was in no language I'd ever heard. (I was obsessed with those "words" for months.) As for this, I have no idea what it means, but it tickles the back of my mind, as if I SHOULD know.
2. For what it's worth, I did change about 4 words from what was written (I felt guilty, editing Asleep Hyperion), and there was one word I simply couldn't decipher, so I had to come up with my own. Other than that, this is exactly what appeared on the page.
3. I noticed as I read this aloud (and I beg, you, I BEG YOU, to do so), that the meter was exactly like a poem I wrote last year for 31 Days of Prophecy called Missing Beat. I remember that poem drove me crazy because I could "hear" a fourth beat in my head for Lines 1,2 and 4 of each stanza, even though there were no words. I don't know how to explain it more than that.

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The Castle in My Heart

2011-08-10T15:21:00.002-04:00

[Day 10 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

speak to me one last time and tell me
there is no future, no hope for us,
and i will tear down what i created
for you; the castle in my heart.

i will take down the ramparts,
the towers, the very fortress
where you ruled as queen, stone by stone,
and i will wall off my heart from the
light of hope with those very same stones.
i want you to stay. to live in the castle
forevermore and be mine, as i am yours.

but if this is not what you want,
then speak to me one last time.
let me hear it in your voice
and see it in your eyes,

so that I may tear down the castle in my heart.

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The Hardest Part

2011-08-09T14:22:00.002-04:00

[Day 9 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Given the way, the days go by
he asks her why
her heart's so cold
Taking his hand,
she understands,
why so few lovers ever grow old

Down the trail
they walk in veiled
conversation, hiding pain
Never before
had so much more
than coursing love between them lain

Promises made
and hearts displayed
in quiet whispered lovers' songs
Held up to the burning Fire
the words speak liar
the notes sound wrong

Holding on,
the vanishing dawn,
the fading light of lovers' glow
The hardest part
of broken hearts
is learning how to
just
let
go

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Thin Ice

2011-08-08T20:32:00.000-04:00

[Day 8 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

'When I was younger,' he told her, 'I worked at hay-time
on my uncle's farm. It was the dead grip of Summer, when
the Sun has the land, and the air, by the throat.'
'I asked you how you feel about Me,' she said primly,
her back stiffening with womanly indignation,
'and you're describing some hellish haze of yore!'
'I'm getting to that. Be patient.'
She glared and sniffed and hmpf'd her thoughts,
but otherwise stayed silent.

'As I was saying,' he began again, the picture of wounded dignity,
''twas beastly hot and we were bucking hay, which meant heavy jeans
and long-sleeved shirts to keep from being scratched to death.'
Her eyes popped. She intook voluminous breath, preparing an
assault of verbal tongue-lashing. He raised a hand to forestall the
inevitable 'I'll show you scratched to death!'

'Please....let me finish.'

Her arms crossed beneath her breasts; if she had a tail it'd be lashing.
He dissuaded himself from pithy comment on how enticing her figure
looked in that position, and went on. 'When we came in from the fields at lunch,
then at night, after eight, sometimes as late as ten, the light all but gone but
the heat still hanging, we were parched. Thirsty like there is simply
no way to describe. They had a well by the barn, deep, with water so cold
it hurt your hand to hold a glassful.'

He looked at her. She was no longer pouting, but was staring at him intently.

'They say, when you're super hot, and
super thirsty, don't drink cold water.
They also say do not drink fast, and
do not drink a whole lot at once.'
'You'll get sick.' she finished.
'Just so.' he said.

'When you're so hot all you can do is pant huge gulps of air, and
your mouth is so dry any saliva is like paste, and you're so thirsty
your head hurts almost like a migraine - that's when you must be
the most careful. Don't drink too much, don't drink too fast, and don't
drink too cold, You'll throw up. Your stomach will ache. You'll get chills. All of it.'

He paused, milking the moment, letting it hang heavy and ripe between them.

'But it doesn't matter, 'cause when you're THAT thirsty,
you don't care if you get sick. There is nothing on this Earth
so painfully delicious as cold, refreshing water when you're
dying of thirst. And you can't help it. You gulp it down, as much
as you can, as fast as you can. No matter the cost you know you'll pay.'

One more pause, then he brought it home.

'THAT's how I feel about you. You're dangerous, sure, this is known,
I've been warned. I know I should be careful. I know I should go slowly,
but I can't. You're the cold refreshing water, and I'm a man dying of thirst.
I just can't get enough of you, no matter what the cost.'

That shut her up.
(For awhile, anyway.)

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Call out to the stars

2011-08-07T23:06:00.001-04:00

[Day 7 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Call out to the stars tonight
Your dreams, your hopes, your fears
Let their heavenly radiant light
Shine down and dry away your tears
Set your burdens free to fly
Into the twinkling sky above
Reap their endless grace on high
Be shrouded in celestial love

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Go down to the great flowing river

2011-08-07T21:56:00.000-04:00

[Day 6 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Go down to the great flowing river
By the large rocks bleached white with age
Listen close to the water's peace
And let it melt away your rage
Stay there for a day and night
And day and night and day again
Come back when your heart no longer
Bursts with unrelenting pain

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Ignoramasaurus

2011-08-05T04:44:00.011-04:00

[Day 5 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

[Note: I started writing this poem yesterday, and I don't know what happened. One minute it was a short poem highlighting sound and color, with a "voice" I'd never tried before, and the next thing I know it's a 10 page story written in fountain pen and my hand is throbbing with muscle cramps.

Oh, and the story....more AfterDarky than anything I've posted there before.

(Wait. I don't think I want to use that term. Let's go with AfterDarkly than anything I've posted before. Much better. Suck it, people who get offended for a living!)

I have no idea how long the poem would have been, but since I ended up with a story I cut it off here after the first few lines, so you can at least see I fulfilled my obligation. For those of you who want to see what happened next, there's a link at the bottom - but I warn you - you better have your big girl panties on; it ain't for the weak of heart. -Hyperion]

Ignoramasaurus
(the poem, not the sexy story)

"Quickly!" She said, turning sharply
on her leather-strap stiletto heels
without looking to see if I followed,
and click-clacking across the marble floor.

Did I follow?
What am I, an ignoramasaurus?
'Course I followed.
If you'd seen that broad,
you'd follow too.

She moved real quick, but I don't know how
that dame did it, wearin' a buttoned-up
dark suit with a skin-tight skirt to her knees
that hugged her curves like a jockey riding
the rail around the quarter-pole at Aqueduct.
Her gams were sweet........

If you want to see more, check out the After Dark Tale Ignoramasaurus (For Mature Audiences)

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Clouded Vision

2011-08-04T16:44:00.006-04:00

[Day 4 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Brisk Clouds on the move, in the haze of a late afternoon sky.

They know something.

Overheard some passing birds as they slipped
in and out of flying formations, following ancient
migratory patterns etched in their hollow bones.

A secret message, written in code, hastily scrawled
in the entrails of a private jet. ferrying some unnamed
tycoon to the next stop on the checklist of his unending greed.

The Barometer. It never could keep anything to
itself, cresting and collapsing in slavish rigor to the
melodramatic tyranny of local weather. The bi-polar
pied piper, if the Barometer knows anything,
even the hint of anything, it wouldn't keep quiet.

Whoever dropped the dime, the Clouds
clearly know something. They're slipping
away in small packs, huddling close
to one another, safety in numbers;
the sky ain't no place for a lone wolf.

The Clouds look ruffled and unfluffy.
More than a hint of darkness skittering
through their porous curves. You don't
want to rile Clouds up. They don't handle
stress very well. One minute they're peaceful
and serene, the epitome of soft marshmallowy
innocence; sometimes they'll even play charades
if you ask nicely. But if Clouds even get an inkling
of lack of interest they suddenly see betrayal and
they will lash out viciously; an injured nimbus badger.

Clouds have Borderline Personality Disorder.

If we could get Clouds on the couch,
in some semi-darkened safe room
of therapeutic healing, no doubt we
would hear tales of abandonment,
you know how that water vapor says
it wants to be with you forever, how
it loves you, and then it just disappears.

Poor things. No wonder Clouds are so twitchy.
They try so hard to win affection, too.
Tell Clouds some news and they'll exclaim,
"You can't be Cirrus!" (Clouds love puns,
but you knew that. Even if you didn't know it,
now that you know it, you realize you always knew it.)

They're moving faster now, the Clouds,
racing to join a super-gang, so desperate
to be part of the group, and not alone.
I don't like the looks of that new crowd one bit.
They are dark and twisted; into the most shocking things.
(See, I made a pun too. I would get on well with Clouds. I understand them.)

They know something, those Clouds. They always do.
That's why it pays to watch the skies.

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The Ballad of Rennratt

2011-08-03T17:56:00.003-04:00

[Day 3 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Today's poem is actually a song. I borrowed the tune from a classic Simpsons episode where Homer leads the Nuclear Power Plant on strike and Lisa cheers up the strikers' spirits with a Peace-movement-esque Protest Song. Listen to this clip a time or two before you read the poem, so you get the tune and the cadence in your head. Tempo is very important. For example, of the last word in the 1st and 3rd line of each stanza is elongated in pronunciation to fit the rhythm. (Where appropriate I have tried to indicate that.)

Finally, all poems are better when read aloud, and I always hope people will do that for my poems (and thereby get more out of them). But for this one...c'mon - it's a song! You gotta sing along!

The Ballad of Rennratt

So gather 'round children
And take off your hat
For a tale of wonder
'bout the Legend: Rennratt

She was born on a mountain
To a fierce red-tailed hawk
Who, when seeing her hatchling
Was in for a shock

CHORUS
So she grew up a predator
And she never knew fear
She thought she could fly-y-y
With her big mousy ears

Instead of soft feathers
She was covered in fur
What hawk has a tai-ai-ail
Her mom was unsure

Little Rennratt was darling
As she played in the snow
And her mom could not toss her
To the valley below

So she grew up a predator
And she never knew fear
She thought she could fly-y-y
With her big mousy ears

When Rennratt was grown
She went down to the town
And her courage and cunning
Gained her quite the renown

The city was teeming
With big dogs and cats
But they learned not to mess with
A red-tailed Rennratt

So she grew up a predator
And she never knew fear
She thought she could fly-y-y
With her big mousy ears

Rennratt loved to gamble
And she piled up big debts
So she took to the Sea-ea-ea
To become a Pirate

So, don't ever talk ba-a-ack
Or the plank, you will walk
She'll hoist the black fla-a-ag
'Cause Rennratt's a hawk

So she grew up a predator
And she never knew fear
She thought she could fly-y-y
With her big mousy ears

So she grew up a predator
And she never knew fear
She thought she could fly-y-y
With her big mousy ears

[And because I happen to know that there is no song to which Rennratt would not like to thrash, here is an up-tempo instrumental version so you can sing The Ballad of Rennratt. Be careful, though: singing this poem is a powerful aphrodisiac to all women and pirates.]

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Carving

2011-08-02T15:26:00.003-04:00

[Day 2 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Carved into a tree - the letters R.S. + J.L.
A little over five feet up off the ground,
on the south-west side.
The letters run slightly crooked up and right;
about eleven o'clock, I'd say.

Who were R.S. and J.L.? When were they here?
What did R.S. hope he would accomplish?
(I assume R.S. is "he"; men are the ones who
gouge into things, deface perfect beauty,
so desperate to leave their marks.
He would have put his initials first,
not out of chauvinism, not exactly,
but taking ownership of the act, in his own way
trying to shield her from his fit of romantic destruction.)

Did they share a picnic beneath the branches
of this large white oak? Did they watch the sun
disappear over the far hills? Did R.S. then take J.L.
in his arms, on a blanket she'd brought from
home, did he softly whisper kisses into her ear,
then slowly, as gently as he could (for J.S. was
an innocent), did R.S. make love to J.L.,
on this hill, beneath this tree?

Did she try to stop him, the mysterious
(and why do I think somehow fragile?) J.L.?
Maybe she did at first -
"Oh, you mustn't hurt such a lovely tree, Reginald!" -
but halfheartedly, for we know June was secretly pleased.
"It is okay, Jalinda." Robert answers back.
"The tree demands a testament to our love!"
And Joan laughed as Randall kept at his carving.
And Jemima sighed, knowing better than to argue
when Rudiger had his mind set on something.

These names don't feel right.
The couple return in my mind to R.S. and J.L.;
somehow those two feel real to me now.
Perhaps it is because I have stood here
beneath this white oak for many minutes,
staring at the carved-out letters R.S. + J.L.;
wondering who they were,
when they were here,
and where they are now.

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Death of a Small Town

2011-08-01T15:48:00.001-04:00

Word goes out, and about, around town,

promenading on the square, like the young

and wealthy, bursting with its own self-importance.

Death - it had been decided.

Soon - not months, or weeks, or days, but hours.

Included in the message - now spread like wildfire

to the edges of town, hitching rides to the four corners

on farmers' carts - there will be no appeal.

There will be no reprieve.

Nightfall - when the last kiss of orange-red warmth

disappears behind mountains to the West -

the sentence will carry out.

When that time comes the townsfolk will gather -

the privileged trying to use haughty looks and

pointed sniffs to keep the low-born at some remove -

but in vain, for the people keep coming

and coming

and coming,

and soon silk robes rubs against rough burlap,

perfumed musk intertwines with stable muck -

no one would miss this moment,

so they all press together, now silent,

now perhaps just a touch scared.

And then the Sun is gone.

And then the people get what they came to see.

Day 1 of the 31 Days of Poetry (2011)

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Mayday

2011-06-17T07:46:00.001-04:00

“Mayday”

(Guest story by Cat C)

May frantically tapped her pen on her notebook, cunningly plotting revenge against her jumped-up, cheating-son-of-a-bitch boyfriend Tony. He wasn't always a son-of-a-bitch; Tony was once the best thing since sliced bread...until this morning, anyway!

May found texts on his phone from someone called Rhonda. Rhonda?? Who is she? May hadn't a clue. All she knew was that she wanted to kick the crap out of this Rhonda! In her texts Rhonda said that she couldn't wait to see Tony again and that she had such a nice time last night and that they must do it again some time....oh and that she couldn't believe someone as hot as Tony could possibly be single.......

WHAT???!!

May was beside herself and wanted to have it out with Tony there and then but instead she kept her cool, wanting to first get all her facts straight and work it all out in her own mind, then 'POW' - aim straight for the jugular and have both their guts for garters, make them both suffer how she was suffering now, make them both feel as shitty as she felt now!! How dare they!! Her tears of sadness became tears of anger. He will pay! And so will Rhonda, the bitch!

Tony was once her world, but at this moment in time May felt as though her world had come to an abrupt end. However, the more May thought about the last two years of her life spent with Tony, her fond memories started turning bitter. She had always put him first and her life revolved around him, but Tony's life didn't revolve around her. Tony's life revolved around Tony. She never felt as though he appreciated her and she started to realise how self obsessed he was.

Sure when they were together, it was good, but where were they going? Was he ever going to commit? He was un-sympathetic to her feelings and no matter how bad she felt, he wouldn't make time for her unless it suited him. He never cancelled drinking time with his mates, but he had cancelled evenings with her to go out drinking with them. He had never bought her flowers, and she was not his priority in life. It had taken something like this to make her realise all these things! How could she have been so dumb? May was good to have around when it suited Tony, she was his guaranteed 'thing'! Well not any more!

May continued to rack her brains trying to work out who Rhonda was....did she know her? May couldn't picture a face. She began to imagine what Rhonda looked like. Hmmm....dark hair, olive skin, slim? Slut! She won't be so pretty when May got her hands on her!

May thought she heard the front door and the image of Rhonda disappeared from her mind as she began to panic. Oh my god, Tony’s home! She went silent and could hear and feel her heart beating as though it was going to jump straight out of her chest. Should she confront him now? She had to! How could she face being civilised towards this low life piece of scum who had just shattered her world?

As her ears adjusted, she realised Tony wasn't alone. She could hear laughing. Who is he with? Didn't sound like anyone she recognised. May crept to the top of the stairs and crouched down to get a closer look. She caught sight of long, red hair and then heard giggling again. It was a woman! It was RHONDA!! Tony brought Rhonda back to our house for an afternoon shag!! What the Fuck? May was fuming now, her blood boiled and she wanted to run straight down and kill the pair of them right here, right now!!

She pulled herself together and calmly walked down the stairs, composing herself along the way and straightening her hair and shirt. She wiped away wetness from her eyes and nose with her sleeve. She took a deep breath. Be brave May.

Her heart still beating, she slowly opened the lounge door to see Tony and Rhonda kissing on the sofa. May couldn't speak....she tried but nothing came out. She just stood, staring with a blank expression on her face.

“M-M-May!!” Tony shouted when he threw Rhonda to one side as he jumped up, straightening himself. “May, how long ...erm I mean....It's not what you think.”.

Tony rushed towards May with his arms stretched out but May was fixated on Rhonda, who just sat there with a shocked expression. May didn't know why but she started laughing! Laughing out loud, hysterically!

“Is that it?” May said. “Is that Rhonda?”

Rhonda stood up. “How do you know my name, and who the hell are you?”

Rhonda's words were like a red flag to a bull. May looked at Tony with hatred in her eyes.

“YOU! You can fuck right off, get out of my life! I don't want to set eyes on your good-for-nothing arse ever again......and YOU....” Her eyes were now on Rhonda. “You're dead meat, bitch!”

With the words barely out of her mouth May stormed towards the red head, grabbed her round the throat, pushed her down on the sofa and began to punch with all her might. I’m not going to stop punching until this slut stops breathing!

“May...May......MAY!!!” Tony grabbed May's arm and May jumped up. “May, I think you were having a nightmare, are you ok?”

Tony looked at her with a concerned expression. May stared up at him, still breathless, her heart beating fast. May realised it had all been a dream.

“Erm....yeah.....I'm fine.” she replied, feeling slightly embarrassed but at the same time still feeling angry towards Tony for being such a shit in her dream!

“Ok hun, so long as you're ok.” Tony kissed her on the forehead and turned the bedside lamp off again. He snuggled against her and sighed. May waited for a minute or so, still agitated, and then said,

“Tony, who's Rhonda?”

“Huh? Rhonda?? I have no idea babe. Why?”

May breathed a sigh of relief to herself. “Nothing, just asking babe. It's ok.” May lay her head on Tony's chest and hugged him tightly until they both fell back to sleep.

Sweet dreams!!

Cat C is a British Hip-Hop Artist and Singer/Songwriter. You can check out her music (and her group Wild Pack) on their official website - http://www.wildpack.co.uk/. You can also listen to her music and find out more about Cat by checking out (and Liking!) Cat C's Official Facebook page.

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Malaise Blues

2011-03-11T19:33:00.001-05:00

My lassitude kicks my assitude.
My malaise infects my days.
My akathisia sets my path, you see-uh;
fomenting my haze, craze and blaze.

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Vigil

2011-01-17T15:48:00.007-05:00

You've never shut me out before.

You've always let me share your pain.

Even when there was nothing I could do to make it better.

Even when I was the cause of it.

It's always been us against the world.

Now I look across the chasm into emptiness.

Into nothing.

Into silence.

I don't know what it means.

I do know what it means.

No, I don't know what it means.

I imagine horrible things.

I talk myself out of them.

I imagine worse.

There is almost no worse feeling than bracing for the Inevitable,

unable to stop it, knowing it's coming, just not when.

Or what.

It's always been us against the world.

Now I'm just another part of the world.

Maybe not.

Probably not.

I'm sure that's my selfish thinking, making it too much

about me and not realzing all you're going through.

But when you don't know you imagine.

The mind can't take the emptiness.

It fills in the cracks.

We perceive Silence as Assault.

Even when we know we shouldn't.

I'm here, standing vigil, keeping the watch.

Waiting.

Let me in.

Please.

Let me in.

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What I wouldn't give

2011-01-09T22:40:00.000-05:00

What I wouldn't give for just a moment more,

To hold you in my arms, and feel my heartbeat soar.

What I wouldn't give for a minute on the clock,

To look upon your body, or just to hear you talk.

What I wouldn't give for another precious hour,

To sit beside you quietly and feel the building power.

What I wouldn't give for the passing of a day,

All the things we wanted to but never got to say,

What I wouldn't give for the stretching of a week,

Crossword puzzles, old movies, and dancing cheek to cheek.

What I wouldn't give for the full turn of the Moon,

Kisses every midnight, breakfast every noon.

What I wouldn't give for the luxury of a year,

What we did would not matter, because you would be here.

What I wouldn't give for a lifetime of my girl,

You and me together, taking on the world.

To pull this time together - I admit it would be tough,

But I could have forever, Darling - it wouldn't be enough.

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Poetry

2010-12-31T23:53:00.016-05:00

POETRY

All I Ever Am

Always Remember

Anacrusis Itare

Angel's Reflection

Ar'kharani

As long as it takes (Guest Poet)

Avalanche

The Ballad of Dusky Rose

The Ballad of Rennratt

Because Loathing Should Rhyme

Bloodsong (Guest Poet)

Blueprint

Born in a Garden

Breve Ambessa

Broken Castles

Broken-Down Bench in a Concrete Gazebo

Broken Window

By the Gate

By the time I get to Patagonia

Call out to the Stars

carry away

Carving

The Castle in My Heart

Clouded Vision

Come Now, Darkest Angel

Coraleiya tavandar

Crave

DayNightFight

Death of a Small Town

The Death of Hope

Does He

Fallen Into Shadow

Falling Into Darkness

Four questions asked to an aged tree

Floor Monsters

Forbidden Colors

Full Tide

Give me peace this night

Go down to the great flowing river

Halfway up the mountain trail

The Hardest Part

Her Elegance is Back

Hidden Scars

I don't mind your darkness

Ignoramasaurus

I Like 'em (Tribute for Breast Cancer Awareness)

In Sorrow's Embrace

In Sorrow's Embrace (v.0)

In The Gloaming

In The Stillness

Invocation

I want one day

Julie Andrews is a Punk

Lamentation

Lasting Impression

Lonely Wish (Guest Poet)

Malaise Blues

Mirrored Desire

Missing Beat

No Taste for My Reign

On Cave Wall

One More Shattered Dream

On the first day after the world ended

Pain descends on demons' dark wings

Peace

Prisoners of Time

Psalm 30:5 - A Rebuttal

Punishment/Salvation

Question Posted to Her on a Rainy Afternoon

The quiet agony of hidden shame

The Rider

Roses are....

Seeking Grace

Seething Passion, purest felt

Seventeen Seconds

A shadow falls

She was a Princess too

Shimmering Sadness

Sifting over Memory and Bone

Silver and Smoke

Sing the Song of Night

Sit Silent in the Tall Grass

Slip Loose the Shackles

soft love, spoken in shadow

Spider Rage Chronicles

Spinner's Tale

Stopping by her on a hungry evening

Stuffys 4 Life!

Swirl

Take me away from everything that is not you

Tell Me Why

Thin Ice

Thoughts of her while falling asleep

Together in the dark

Travel Down That Road

Unwoven Tapestry

Vigil

The Visitor

Waves

What I wouldn't give

When I say your name

Why Does the Lamb's Blood Shimmer?

A Woman of Long-ago Me

***

By Famous Authors

The Hollow Men

(T.S. Eliot)

She was a Phantom of delight

(W. Wordsworth)

The Soul's Expression

(Elizabeth Barret Browning)

When I Have Fears

(John Keats)

When We Two Parted

(Lord Byron)

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Book Reviews

2010-12-31T23:49:00.001-05:00

REVIEWS

The General Book of Ignorance

The Alphabet of Manliness

I Am America (And So Can You!)

The Dangerous Book for Boys & The Daring Book for Girls

The Rise of Charlie Drop

The Traveler

Owly: The Way Home & The Bittersweet Summer

The Jesus Dynasty

James Howe

Quick Takes

Lost Girls and Love Hotels

Last of the Breed

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Stories

2010-12-31T23:43:00.002-05:00

STORIES

The Adashar ^-CK

Adventures with Sea Hag

Agony

Banjo

Blister

By The Light of the Moon

Colors of War

The DragonStone -CK

Elf Tale I - Exitus Terrarum

Elf Tale II - Black Rock Hold

The Field ^-CK

Going on a Lion Hunt ^-CK

The Ghoral Part I

The Ghoral Part II

The Great Hunt: Part 1 ^-CK

The Great Hunt: Part 2 ^-CK

The Great Hunt: Part 3 ^-CK

Halloween Tales

Jacyndra ^-CK

Mama Said I Could

Mayday (guest-story by Cat C)

Monkey Barn Campfire Story

Monkey Barn Campfire Story: HOT POTATO

Muddy Water ^-CK
The 100th Word

Our Man Red ^-CK

^Saffron

Shadow-laced (100-word Story)

Trilogy

Troll Story ^-CK

Vicious Jack^-CK

[CK - refers to a Carnivus Kickassius Story

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Music Lyrics Analysis

2010-12-31T12:33:00.001-05:00

This page is dedicated to analyzing pop music lyrics. Perhaps they aren't the most profound words we hear each day, but they are the most ubiquitious.

#376 Hit Me With the Truth, Hypey
Analysis of Back Stree Boys' "I Want it That Way" and Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time"

#383 War (songs), What are they good for?
Analysis of Johnny Hates Jazz' "I don't Want to Be a Hero," Guns N' Roses' "Civil War" and Nickel Creek's "The Hand Song"

#444 Panic! At the Disco
Analysis of "I Write Sins Not Tragedies"

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Psalm 30:5 - A Rebuttal

2010-12-20T07:44:00.001-05:00

"For his anger is but for a moment; His favor is for a lifetime: Weeping may tarry for the night, But joy cometh in the morning."

-Psalm 30:5

Grey dawns fitful and blearly, bringing
no warmth, or comfort, or peace. It is
Christmas week, as if we should barely
hear the tintinabulation of bells. Doesn't
feel that way. Not here. Not now. What
gloom comes from within, and how much
Heaven's chosen Light? On the head of
a pin put that. Joy cometh in the morning,
says the Lord.

He must have meant a different morning.

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When I say your name

2010-12-20T04:44:00.003-05:00

When I say your name - if only for the

few brief seconds it takes to conjure,

sitting lusciously within my mind's reach,

then pour out of my throat, flow off my

tongue, slip between my teeth, linger
on my lips and hover in the air - for
those few seconds the pain is less,

I don't hurt as much, and for that,

I thank you.

[the painting is "Miranda" by John William Waterhouse]

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Always Remember

2010-12-16T15:23:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I miss you so much my body wracks with silent sobs, It's physical grief, tears unshed, wounds unbled, but felt deeply, a deep illness I cannot shake.

Always remember that you were loved, as you remember the Moon's whispered kisses on your skin in the Night.

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Four Questions asked to an aged tree

2010-11-07T15:13:00.002-05:00

How hard do you have to swing before the voices go away?
How pure do you have to sing to make her turn around and stay?
How long do you have to lay down in the mud to get the ring?
How much do you have to pray before they'll tell you who is king?

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All I Ever Am

2010-11-06T15:11:00.002-04:00

All I ever am is tired
(But) sleep will hardly ever come
I do not have what is required
To give up Thought's unceasing drum

(And) even when the voices quiet
Pain remains my body's King
Inciting bones and flesh to riot
Making muscles bow and sing

I lie exhausted, always waiting
For the blank of Nothingness
Soon the screaming, now abating
And Sleep's gentle tenderness.

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