Tag Archives: Old

Black Blue White New

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the  people on the ground,

heads bent,

un-phased

and unable to look at the ever reaching sky

 

“is it worth it?”

they ask,

 

“what,

i was just  little boy yesterday carrying my book bag,

the sun hanging deep and low over my brow

and my forehead stank of breath ad of  saltwater

tears, and–”

 

The shapes become all engrossing, so

i  find some

recluse

in an old painted book store

of who-knows where

 

suddenly

as i read a line from a silent ode he brushes against me and i don’t

know what is happening and suddenly he

is with me and suddenly he

is around me surrounding me and

the shouts of the street people seems to die in the

sound of his voice;

 

“ENTER MY MIND”

he says

(that’s a command)

“let’s

enter it

together

and  see

the glorious undertaking of you and me”

 

his eyes like seascapes

or sky-scapes

of piercing blue fantasies

as if

he was always

there

 

but with a rush of the train and the steam he’s gone

in the blink of an eye and a lash he’s gone

in the mood of a novel or book he is gone

and the slight inclination of head he is gone

 

and i lost that sky….

 

Now looking up to the expansive light

so much like his dazzling

unshakably passionate eye

i find myself on the street

like all the countless others,

among the thousands of women and children–i am just like them

and the whisper of giving up—i am one of them

and the shouts of the street

i am them.

 

love

seemed to pass me only as i was ready

in the fashion of

true bittersweet punishment;

i sat on a fountain and spilled coins from my pockets

and every wish was a wish for him.

 

 

now i am  holding him once more

and he surrounds and envelops the air

 

but this time i am dreaming it,

and this time the pavement seems all too hard

and the  spurs in the ground digging at my heels making them bleed

 

will you please

tell me

if i can even breathe

in this,

without at least some

well-deserved

exhilaration?

I think

in that case

i might just need

for you to feel

discovery

(but oh

it’s a pity i found the loveliest boy

In town

when he was just about

to wreck his vengeance

on me)

 

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

 

Untitled-poem written at age 11

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Last night I was reading Pablo Neruda’s translated work “Extravagaria” translated by Alaister Reid (which you should really make a note to buy, if you are at all interested in poetry), and then I suddenly got in the mood to read some of my older, more random poetry. I have spent a good part of the night and early morning sifting through old binders crammed with small poem fragments, half of which really make me realize how far my poetry has come in almost three years! Then I found this one, which is frankly one of my long lost favorites. I never get tired of this poem, and I thought you might enjoy reading it. So without further adue, here is me, writing poetry, age 11.

Untitled

Trees with stemless
leaves
grow in summertime.

finding the rainbows in the sky
the love, the war
and the blood of mankind

I am the orphan
lost in time
taking in the sights

of eternity

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of Consciousness #9

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I don’t think my hands have ever typed so fast! the rhymes literally poured out at a rate I was not sure to keep up at. i was possessed. utterly possessed. And I have just finished reading Joan Baez’s first autobiography, I don’t know if that helps…

 

Stream of Consciousness #9

who was who was pooh was greatly appreciatledy do

like whispers in summer

you were my love

like bouncing balloons on a string

you were my everything

like balls on bells on a summer day

you were my grass to my hay

my laugh to my chuckle,

my seat to my buckle

my trough to my stream

my laugh to my scream

my tie to myshirt

to my button

to my skirt

seam

you are were is my everything

like free lancing on the street

selling things so you can have food to eat

like strings on ropes and cords and strings

like my heart that constantly sings

whatever you do

you know you is my everything

like money in your pocket

like a chain of golden locket

like springs on balloons

and like the harvest moon

and like the trepidation s

or our silent meditations

and like the wind blowing at your feet and like having the stars to meet

like the wind blowing through the dust

like your mind saying, no , you must, you must

like this itch in my head that says you might prefer me instead

like this shallow of sorrow

that says there is no tomorrow

what’s the point of living,

I find myself saying

when everyone is already dead?

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 10

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The Sonnet Project: Sonnet # 10

my mother is as bent as olive trees

when on her back she sleeps before the moon

her eyes as muddy as her wobble knees

Send god it well, for leaves she us now soon.

The night is windowless as death’s embrace

Against an endless skyward eye that calls

The maidens, who, like sailors after chase,

this lover who destroys all saddened falls,

can heal the hole that wounds my aching heart

for mother’s lost, my life of freedom’s lost.

From her, oh joy, i cannot be apart

to once again find love, what is the cost?

oh lover, take thy herb and sugar cure

and feed to me of what I can endure.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Gobi Desert Cycle-EYES

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EYES

I long to lunge inside them

pierced with-what? how to say? an unnoticed sort of intensity

as if the reader had known nothing of their raw value

I long to lunge inside them

his lashes are fanned sticks opening up a glass world,

a curtain holding up a stage, looking in.

I want to hide inside them

Every day, the roundness of them pulls me closer, then tosses me back

In the end, he finds me sighing when I least expect it, and then i shiver audibly.

I want to hide inside them

even then, I still feel a sort of emptiness. he does not want me. probably he is thinking,

“I know, barely, I know you are out there somewhere ,I think”

(darling, if we walk by red storms, then maybe you will see me, and we can face them together).


Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

A Scene From Texas-poem written at age 12

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This is an older poem that I wrote when I was about 12. Was proud of it then, still proud of it now.

A scene From Texas

The windy tailgate

pulling up slowly towards the

misty sun

 

the pickups attatched to

wooden strings

fingering the landscape

like lost toys.

 

their wheels sidding around

in a circle,

their tracks appearing in a

circle

like my open mouth,

sucking in dust.

 

the orange moon

clouded up from the rain

the pebbles like collected

raindrops on sunnier asphalt.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet #9

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Sonnet #9

When I was six and ten some years ago

My brother lept into his muddy tomb

My mother died upon the rocks below

And father followed after to his mortal doom.

I was the orphan without personage

The daughter veiled from bows and frilly lace

The girl who climbed along the mountain’s ridge

And owned a small and sooty little face.

You see the watchman’s daughter, dark and cloaked

Concealed before she makes her last reprieve

To trade our lives and never be revoked

Would be a gift quite wondrous to receive:

The girl wakes up beside the mountains high

And I, beside her love, a’sleeping  lie.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

Golden Star Poetry and Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden’s “the floating Duchess of Biggleswade”, footnotes by Golden Star Poetry

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The Floating Duchess of Biggleswade, by Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden (and Golden Star Poetry)

It was snowing outside, and Laura was only half awake. or half asleep- but she was  an optimist, and always was one, so to her she was  nearly half-awake, and not the other way around. Once she regained consciousness, she groped for the lamp shade to turn it on, but only swished at the air where she so often felt something.  But how?  “where is the lamp?” she asked out loud. ” It’s…” she struggled for the right word, since ” lost” did not seem to fit the situation. Her lamp could not be lost, nor was such an idea possible. It was there last night, so surely it had to be here this morning.  “p’raps I’ve been dreaming. Yes!” , she thought , ” I must be dreaming! S’pose I’m  lucid..”. Suddenly, she became very exited, for it had been a very long time since she had last had a lucid dream. Quickly, she  thought of flying, worried that her lucid state would fade, but did not stir the slightest bit. She was definitely not dreaming.

Laura flopped back onto her bed. “then how?…” She thought, incredulously. ” My lamp doesn’t have legs, and it doesn’t have arms, so what in heaven’s name happened to it? A robber stole into my room in the middle of the night, perhaps? “But no”, she remembered ” that couldn’t  have happened! oh, heavens no! I’m the lightest sleeper around! you can’t wave a feather over my face without startling me! well, no matter, I shall take a look around to see if everything is in order”. To Laura’s shock, this was absolutely not  the  case. Every single lamp and electronic item had either lost a bulb, gotten smashed into pieces, or been thrown away altogether. The floor was littered with random piles of nic nac, bric-a-brack, bone-china platters,  and deed settlement papers, among other things.   “WHAT?!? Laura shrieked” WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON?!? WHO’S BEEN IN THIS HOUSE?!?” she moaned, falling onto a partially ripped chaise lounge. “I just wanted to be a simple HOUSE WIFE! OH XAVIER! XAVIER!” she wailed, chanting her husband’s name, (who, as it seemed, was not going to appear any time soon).

Trying to regain composure  she dabbed her eyes, got up, and tip-toed out the french doors and into the patio.  For a second, she froze. Not only could she see clouds all around her, but, she realized, she was In them! her entire house, and the patio garden, was in the air2

x  x  x  x  x  x  x x  x  x  x

“I must be going mad!”, thought Laura “One moment my lamp has gone on holiday, and the next, my house is floating above the ground!” “heavens help me! I’ve gone hopping mad! Insane! off my rocker! lost my marbles!-” ” you haven’t lost your marbles, madam.” said a voice. Laura jumped.  ” Blame me if you want to throw someone under the bus. But it certainly isn’t you.” Suddenly, a well dressed gentleman with light brown curls and soft hazel eyes stepped out of the corner hedge in the garden, where, apparently, he had been hiding. He smiled at Laura, then turned around and looked up at the sky. slowly he turned back again and looked directly into Laura’s eyes.  “Isn’t this just lovely? I know I’m having a splendid time! “, he said, cocking his head sideways “Aren’t you?”

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry 

FOOTNOTES

1-Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden is a Oxford student who currently resides on a cheap little flat in Northampton. He is your typical college student who chooses to spend his time by playing World of Warcraft, shopping at Waitrose, watching football on the telly with his mates, and running after his secret admirer, Harriet Braddock, who, according to Ed, does not know that he exists-and rightly so, for he is simply a character spun from my imagination and is not an actual living entity.

2 this story was later made into an animated short  by a dastardly movie company called pix-something, loosely basing it off of this story by Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden And Golden star poetry. 3

3  disregard all other footnotes. they were a horrid attempt at nonficionalizing a fictional idea, and therefore have been written for the enjoyment of the reader only.

Four limericks

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Four limericks

1.

I once took a trip to an isle

who’s native young girls had no style

they would walk to the zoo

dressed in rags and one shoe

(for the other was lost back one mile)

2.

On the side of a lake called Gadib

is an orphan still stuck in his crib

all surrounded by muck

and quite terribly stuck

without water or clothing or bib!

3.

when  you closely inspect through my room

you will see it’s in need of vaccuumme

all my sheets are a mess

(mom expects nothing less)

and to clean it is surely my doom!

4.

As I study alone for a test

I do find that it seems to be best

if I stand on a tree

with my leg to my knee

and the yoga takes care of the rest!

 

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

 

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet #8

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Sonnet #8

I run into a land that speaks of youth

that stirs with fire rage and gypsy band

and when at last at home I tell the truth

I feel a stranger but on my own land.

The flock of birds won’t stop to listen in

as I recount the days events alone

I find a loss of words as I begin

explaining all the joy of gypsy tone.

The lute is calling forth my destiny

The lyre is drifting in my spirit sleep

The tambourine has lulabied my infancy

And quieted my babe’s young urge to weep.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry