Baci n. 84

"Baci n. 84" is definitely one of my less traditional pieces. I don't know where the idea came from, but the idea of the love of a tyrant intrigued me, and, for whatever reason, the quote that inspired the tale gave me visions of scifi. I am quite pleased by the final product, though I often question its value in the market place of writing... niche writing does that though. In any case, I hope you enjoy this piece. I know I do.



Baci n. 84
“Doubt thou the stars are fire… but never doubt my love.”
W. Shakespeare

Perceive my love, the fools still think to come.
Can see them silhouetted by the stars
Igniting the sky with their noble fire.
They are the most determined fiends, my love,
To think they can take you away from me
As though I but a simple village rule.

But this is my world, and this is my rule
And I beg the gods most to let them come
To learn just what it means to challenge me.
I am more the god across these far stars
And that they would come steal away my love
Will find them cast into unquenching fire.

I have searched too long through heaven and fire,
Across all the lands that lie under my rule
To find you, fair maiden; to find my love.
I’ve seen the destruction of things to come
Across the endless skies and dieing stars
To bring you, my belovéd, here to me.

But you have nothing to fear, here with me,
For you’ve ignited heart’s passionate fire
Which burns brighter than all of heaven’s stars.
Those peons who seek to take away from my rule
Are most unwise to hither this way come,
For they know not of my desire, my love.

But you will not miss your homeland, my love.
Here, always and ever, safe next to me
For their destruction is finally come.
I will send their homes and fields to the fire
That they may learn just how tightly I rule,
And how much power I wield ‘neath the stars.

Ah, see belovéd, the falling stars,
Are the headlands of your people, my love:
Now they can never take away your rule.
Your only home now is here Wife, with me,
Freed of your chains through purifying fire
To be my high queen for all time to come.

My kingdom is come, and your time to rule
As queen beside me: Lady of the Stars.
Doubt they’re on fire, but never doubt my love.

Bic Pen(itentray)

"Bic Pen(itentary)" is another one of those pieces where I whine about the muse. It is really a very simple structure, and a part of me would like to go back and expand upon it more, but there is the other side that really likes the execution of it as it is. Lately, of course, the muse has been active enough, but the motivation is lagging a little further behind it than is usual, so, at the moment, this piece feels particularly poignant. In some ways, I feel like I'm in the in-between times, where the story is about to be freed, and the world is going to become new and fresh again. But the story is not free yet, and the labours and toils we suffer while still imprisoned weight heavily. In part, perhaps, we are afraid, as is the ink, what lays beyond the ball. We approach, tentative. And of course, in the due course of time, as we begin to accustom ourselves to the world outside the pen; to the story upon the page, the weight we thought we were carrying slides off of our backs, and a new inspiration strikes; a new world unfolds, and we find ourselves staring once again at the Bic (or the keyboard). Of course, it is not always a tedious business. Just as often, the caper comes off without a hitch, and we get away, avoiding and evading the crystalline prison. But not every time. We do get caught. This is the muse. This is writer's block. Welcome to Bic Pen(itentary). Let's hope for a quick parole.


Bic Pen(itentary)

Each night they howl
“Let me Free”
from their crystalline
prison.

We wardens hear them
locked in the inky black
but to scribe their tales;
powerless

The muse hears them beg
one by one
before the board
for parole.

No matter what we
as wardens think
or how the stories
plead.

Though we may check
their cells
feed them
provoke;

Though the key lies ready
the bic posed
blank lies
the page.

The Muse has granted
no paroles;
none promising
proved.

So we writers,
who know justice,
stand ready;
with our pen

For when the Muse grants such;
frees the tale;
the pen descends
purposeful

And we wardens who watched
now prisoners become:
‘gainst the Muse
We’re powerless.

Perfection

"Perfection" is another old piece, and in interesting concept in and of itself. This poem stems not necessarily from my own views, because it was written to compliment a drawing given to me once upon a time. My old friend Erica Hegebarth(now Horton)drew it up, and I was so taken with it that she gave it to me. Unfortunately, I don't have a digital copy of it, but imagine a human like figure from the waist up, and below tentacles that are rising up, filling the form. There are shreds of skin still clinging to the tentacles, and the figure itself is looking out of a window frame that is suspended from the top of the page by some flesh like strands. It sounds more grizzly than it actually is, but I am still taken with it. Erica told me some of what she was thinking about when she drew it, and I combine that with my own ideas to write it.


Perfection

Peaceful; green; such perfect streets.
Perfect houses, perfect people, perfect trees.
Gazing out upon it all as the sun retreats,
Wonders I what it is everyone sees.

And as they walk their perfect dogs along,
Perfect feet in perfect shoes; a perfect beat,
Humming in perfect tune the perfect song,
The perfect song for this day’s feat.

And how look I to their perfect eyes,
My perfect house, it’s perfect lawn,
And thinking of their perfect blindness, sighs,
What caused this perfect light to dawn?

So perfect in their lonely perfect dreams,
Spending cash with the perfect aspirations of yore,
When will they realize it’s all just seems?
Would they abandon isolation and knock upon my door?

And if they would their reflection perceive,
Would they know perfection’s shattered mirror
While their greater skills continue to deceive,
Holding them back with their own hidden fears?

Who would look upon this mine home
To see my imperfections set down as manifold?
Would see my reflection as theirs, alone;
The harsh truth in the empty dreams of old.

The ugly truth that I know as me,
Knows that these streets are hollow too...
If they would but their empty hearts see…
If they knew that truth, what would they do?

Alas their perfect world is a bed of molded lies.
I can tell from this place what’s been said,
That comforting illusion to deceit ties
And the sad truth that they are dead.

They only see a perfect image
Through a perfect window shown,
Yet I know the truth of sacrilege –
The truth that we are perfected alone.

Though knowledge is in form, light,
Looked to, through, and cast aside:
Knowledge is truest corruption; blight
Forever the gateway of illusion denied.

So I’ll watch the imperfected world go,
Saddened by their hollow smiles,
Knowing what they may never know –
Perfection’s illusion truth defiles

The World According to Stanley

Following in the vein of story's that may not actually be about what they are about, "The World According to Stanley" was one of the those brilliant ideas that I could not resist writing. It is a few years old, but still makes me laugh. The premise, which I cannot tell, left me in stitches. I know a lot of people enjoy it, and I hope you do too, so without further ado,


The World According to Stanley

To Snatch Beauty

Well, we go from the shortness of a Haiku to the long free verse of "To Snatch Beauty." This is an interesting piece to me in couple of ways. It is an odd blend of Greek mythology and modern times. I like to call it a modern myth, but it's not a guess. No one believes what i write, so it's really just a modern tale involving old gods. And yet, in some ways, it is a myth. But you really have to read it to understand why. Suffice to say, it has to deal with beauty, and concepts of beauty.

The basic premise to "To Snatch Beauty" came about while I was laying in bed with my girlfriend at the time. We were talking and joking about my Women in Myth series, and I was complaining(only a little) about how a lot of them were retellings of myth. Though they all had a bit of originality to their premises, they were derivatives of the source text. I don't remember how it came up, or whose idea it was originally, but I do remember we were both in stitches over it. I had to write it. And though it took me awhile to do it, I finally did get it done. I can't tell you the premise now, because I feel it would ruin it. Read it and laugh. Read in and cry. Read it and groan. I hope you enjoy it. I know I did. In point of fact, I still do.


To Snatch Beauty

I'm certain you have passed her on the street,
But, then again, I doubt you would have known;
You would not have remarked upon her face
And your disregard would have been your loss.
Oh, you are interested now, you say;
My comments have intrigued your shallowness.