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Vaka -> Vaka and his poems (11/13/2008 16:57:18)
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Oh hai thar.
Well, I recently got approved! It'll be lovely to see all your poetry, and to see your opinions of mine :)
Here is a link to the comments thread: Vaka and his comments on his poems.
Please feel free to drop me a comment or two regarding my poetry :)
So, without further ado, I give you my poems.
Walking Slowly On A Street
Walking slowly on a street
I pass un-hinged iron gates and slanted wooden fences.
I pass friends, and foes, past an old bike and a new car.
I pass clouds of grey and clouds of blue
I pass by fields I’ve often walked through.
I pass by my friends, whose company I have shared throughout many days.
They smile.
I pass by grandma, whose face is just a memory to me now.
Her warm, effervescent smile still never fails to warm my very soul.
I pass by my brother.
My reflection seen in him.
It’s clear he is my brother; he embraces me tightly, and whispers love in my ear.
I clutch his shoulder, smile, and walk on.
I come upon my mother.
A single tear is running down her cheek.
She speaks.
Soft, sweet harmonious voices.
She smiles and bows her head; she knows her time is come.
I look at her softly, the same tear rolling down my cheek as I take her in my arms and cry into the sky.
It has not gotten darker. There is only light.
She does not whisper, she cries, she shouts, she wails.
She uses that which is not given to her in life.
I could not expect any more.
My heart is with her, she knows that now. I will never leave her side.
She nods her head, kisses me lightly, and moves to the side.
I walk on.
I walk past trinkets; bracelets, watches, books, pictures, clothes and smiles.
I come to the end of the road.
A bright light awaits.
And on the other side of the road?
My father.
His face glowing with compassion.
That face, which has such resemblance to mine. That face, which I have not seen in such a while. The face that smiled, that frowned, that cried, that stopped, that burnt, that flew.
The face I thought I knew.
I have come to meet him again.
He opens his hand, and I take it.
Off I go, into the warm, bright light.
What Is This Life?
“What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?”
Words of a poet.
Words of a fool.
What is this life, but life?
Walking through fields of daisies
Running through a reckless storm
It’s all the same.
Full of care?
Oh, yes indeed my friend: full of care.
When a friend is comforted
But when a friend dies?
That is not care.
And neither is this life.
Do we have time to stand and stare?
Oh, dear poet, how wrong you are.
We have time to stand and stare
Time to laugh
And play merrily in the bright sunlit day.
And we have time to cry
In the bleakest, hopeless dark of the night
Whose ice cold veil covers any feeling there once was.
So yes, dear poet, it’s true.
Time indeed is few.
But I would rather spend my time
Cherishing what I have:
Loving my family, whose bonds are great and strong;
Laughing with my friends, whose voices resound in mine;
Living.
Not staring as long as sheep and cows
Whose minds are dull, and grief is not often a visitor in their hearts.
I want to spend my time living
Because, soon enough,
I will not get to walk through fields of daises
Or play merrily in the sunlit day.
For the darkness shall have her way,
And the shroud that blocks the light of life
Will once more be drawn over my head.
This life is nothing but a void, a waste.
No.
It’s a piece of paper.
Just itching to be written on.
Maybe not nice things, maybe not smart things
But there will be life in there, somewhere.
It’s just a case of finding that life, and make sure it’s the best you can make it.
The Singing Knife
Light, sound, movement, noise
Nothing.
Fear, irrepressible, insatiable,
Stabbing at my heart with the fury of a beast.
Clash, bang, splutter, thwack
Nothing.
Darkness, irrepressible, insatiable,
Stabbing at my heart like the ever artful fox.
Running, racing, crying, falling
Nothing.
Doom. Irrepressible, insatiable.
Stabbing at my heart with the blade of a knife.
Pressed closely to my heart, I hear it sing.
It sings of death, of pain, of hurt, of sorrow,
It is not cruel: the knife in my heart. It does not hurt.
Because it is not the murderer,
That knife was there, but it did not kill. It sits now in my heart,
Singing sorrowfully, of death.
But it did not kill me.
My blood trickles on its edge and to its handle.
It falls effervescently to my lap, as I lay hewn on the floor.
Though that knife has drawn my blood,
That knife has not killed me.
She has.
The Beat Of My Heart
Your breath on my skin
The feel of your hands
The kiss from your lips.
Your silky soft hair
The smile on your face
The way that you laugh
When nobody’s there.
Your radiant face
Your beautiful eyes
The way that I’ve missed you
For all of my life.
It echoes through my mind
Like a voice in a crowd of noise.
You, you echo through my mind
As I drift.
Through the endless crowd.
The endless crowd
Of constant, hollow beating.
The beating of my heart
The beating of your heart
They move as one.
And yet
Still, I drift
Through this never ending tide
Of life.
Paths Of Gold
I race past paths of gold and green,
Oh, I am heard but remain unseen.
My mind's a mess of blurry clouds,
I race past sheep and geese and cows.
My skin is taught, dirty and wet,
Upon my lateness, of which you can bet
I have not been so late from call
Since dawn began, and my curiosity enthral.
I race past fences, old and new
I race past hedges, hewn anew
I race past houses, young and old
I race past people, warm and cold.
For in this hour, full of fear
I see myself, not there but here.
I see myself for what I am,
A dishevelled form of what is called man.
For life, my friend, is just a race,
Past fields with rusting iron gates,
Past sheep and geese and cows and grass
Who symbolise your present, past.
If you race, my friend, take heed,
If you push past men with hearts of greed,
Then you, my friend, are the dishevelled form,
Because you, my friend, did not heed my call.
Yes, indeed, life is a race
It goes at such a speedy pace.
But now and then, when we hear our call,
We may stop, trip and fall.
But we must stand affront the boughs,
And stare at sheep, and geese and cows.
AQ DF
Car Ride
Car Ride
How many roads are there persisting?
“Turn this way”
“Turn right.”
But no, I say, for in the majesty of all things
Maybe I want to stop.
Maybe I want to halt, and see a “stop” sign for once.
But they are never there.
Only when they please.
But why should I be the lucky one?
Who gets to stop on this long road of ever falling darkness
Why should I be granted that privilege?
When men in front of me have been traveling for years more than I.
Maybe I need to stop.
Rest, awhile.
True, my signs may not be as frequent
Or confusing.
They may not say “Don’t stop”
But that doesn’t mean I’m allowed to stay here...
Even if I want to.
No, I must keep going.
For those behind me are impatient
And I must not wane in strength,
For I will be forced to rest.
And rest is for the wicked.
And so I must be wicked,
For want of rest displays unsteadiness of the mind
And my mind is often dreary.
So I will go on
In heart, in mind, I will continue,
I will go on
On this road of ever falling darkness
And I will not stop.
I will go on.
Not for myself, not to say;
Oh, I have valour
Oh, I have strength
No.
I will go on for the people behind me
Who will benefit from my departure
Into the ever falling darkness.
My Love, Your Perch
An endless fleeting
A lost love divided
And never in intrepid dreams
Were we divided
Yet here I stand
A morsel of a man
My honour lost
My wisdom spent
I am nothing but a morsel
And you
You on your high perch
You whine and you moan
"The height is too much"
"The gold is too dull"
You cry
While all the while
I sit here
You grow, grow into more
While i sit here and ponder
I ponder the many things
Why?
Why is it that we loved?
And why is it that I suffer?
Yet you
You on your high perch
You moan and whine
"I suffer, I suffer"
You cry
Yet I die
I die a morsel of a man
With no humility
And with no love
With no passion
Yet you cry
I die!
I die!
Yet still you cry!
"It is too high!"
"It is too high!"
Never more.
You
With your money
And your greed
You
You pillage all my love
And whine that i am to blame!
Never more.
Never more!
I die!
Becasue it hurts
Our love divided
Never in intrepid dreams
Were we divided
But now
On your high perch YOU cry
"I die!"
You die?
I die.
I Do Not Know
I can write of many things.
I can write of fools, of kings.
I can write of dreams, of films, of books, of song
I can write what is right,
I can write what is wrong.
I can write of him, of you, of her
I can write of them, of here, of then and now.
I can even write of me.
But what is me?
A wit, a charm, a smile, a grace?
A frown, a cry, a smell of distaste?
For that matter, what am I?
Some idling stranger, passing by.
No.
That stranger is me.
In the background I may be,
Though, in memories, I decree
I was in the foreground, I, and me.
But now I stand there
Behind clear glass.
You can see me, and I you.
You can watch me, and I you.
But you cannot hear me, nor smell me.
So is that me?
Behind the glass, the curtain, the veil
Is that me?
Even without the glass, I do not know.
I know not of my looks, of my smell, of my sounds.
Only of memories in the snow.
Does that make me... me?
What makes me?
I do not know.
I can write of many things,
Of fools, and kings.
But not of myself.
For I do not know.
Be My Friend
You and me,
We cannot be,
And now you see
You’re blind.
You and me,
It’s hard to breathe
You’re making me die inside.
You and me,
Oh why can’t you be
A friend, and a good one at that?
You and me,
Look, and see
It’ll only work this way.
Now me and you,
What can I do
To make you see I love you.
But only as a friend.
Me and you,
What is true
Is that you are reliable. That’s undeniable.
Me and you,
What I cannot do
Is tell you that you’re right
You’re not.
You’re not.
I’m sorry, but that’s true.
Don’t tell me lies,
Just tell me truth.
Don’t give me wit,
Just give me a smile.
Don’t pretend you understand,
When you don’t even know what I said.
Don’t stare into my ocean eyes,
And try to see what’s there.
Just give me laughter, give me smiles, give me joys, give me cries.
And be my friend.
Death's Arms
Death is but my fragile friend
Who walks a dark road,
Upon which no houses reside.
No shops vacate the empty buildings,
No street signs light the way at night.
No dogs bark in the street,
No cats stalk the dank alleyways.
There are no drunks,
No aggressors
Or people of unruly nature.
There are people, yes.
Quiet people,
Walking along that road.
But they do not disturb death; they have had their meeting.
No, he just walks on idly by.
Pass an elderly lady, whose cheeks are red with blood.
Pass a man, whose skin is yellow and eyes are red.
Pass a boy, whose body is broken and drained of blood.
These are deaths friends.
The old,
The frail,
The infirm,
The unlucky.
All who have succumbed to the fragile man,
And gone to him with pleading eyes.
Not begging, oh no.
Who would beg to be drawn away from life?
But with regret in their heart
They face him.
The old woman, whose heart is full and mind is dull.
The man, whose mind is blank, and liver full.
And the boy, who just wants his mother.
“Mine arms shall do for now, child” he says.
And he embraces that which has been left on the road.
He takes him by the arm,
And leads him into the quiet.
Yes, it is dark.
There are no street lights to guide the way,
Or shops, with their neon signs.
There are no dogs, nor cats.
But there are people.
Quiet people, who go their own ways.
Seek comfort in the fact that death is an amiable man,
And one friend is not enough for his dark road.
Seek comfort in the fact that there are no drunks,
No aggressors to disturb your long walk.
And seek comfort in death’s arms,
As he takes you along his road.
You're Like, Not.
You’re like thunder
Loud, and not dishevelled.
Your voice is like a ray of sun
Shortly blotted by a shower of rain.
Your eyes are shining puddles
Of dirt, and gristle, and pavement.
Your laughter is like the screeching of a cat,
And your tears are that of crocodiles.
You have no capacity;
None to love,
Or to care.
You refrain from happiness
For if you are happy, so am I.
And my happiness is not what you want.
Your nose has long since been cut off.
Your words are words of wisdom,
If our philosophers and politicians were madmen
Then you words would be words of wisdom.
For now, take comfort in my lies.
You don’t know this – I am not you.
I do not see destruction, or ignorance. Or both.
I have peace of mind in knowing what you are.
My restlessness lies in the fact that you don’t know what you are.
And you never will.
It’s like the truth is a scent,
And you have no nose, of course.
It’s there, I can see it, so can they
But you can’t.
Wrapped up in your ignorance
You find solace in places you shouldn’t.
Your reckless.
Wild.
Stupid.
And I take solace in that fact.
Because you can no longer hurt me.
You are like a hurricane,
Deadly, a force to be reckoned with.
I do not seek love with destruction.
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