Writing – Page 2 – noblethemes

An igNoble Sonnet

Hast thou bequeathed thy love to another?
Perchance given thy heart to my brother?
And wouldst thou be so cruel as to leave me
Forsaken of all love as if dead to thee?
Oh, how high and haughty thou hast become
To be so naughty to leave me thus lonesome!
May the gods smile upon this wretched soul,
And Panacea apply her balm to fill this hole
Thou hast left in mine own heart torn apart!
Ah! The game of romance is such deadly art,
And I not an artist be, so thou must see
What great extent is thine own cruelty;
Yet shall ye turn away thine eye from me
For the sake of playing harlot so shamelessly?

Note: This is my own paltry attempt at Shakespearean sonnet, being 14 lines with 10 syllables per most lines… Try it at least once, right?

My Own Ars Poetica

Poetry may be a masterpiece of the heart torn apart,
Or the disconsolate word flow from a hole in the soul,
Or may be the sudden eruption of happy presumption;
She may be the lover’s cover in nearly numinous hover,
Or the sad ‘goodbye’ without really explaining why . . .
Poetry may come from the gut of a man caught in a rut,
Or the revelation of feelings long held in captivation,
Or may be exaltation of the contemplation of nature,
Or she may raise the hymn of otherwise silent praise;
Poetry may be sitting at a bar or wishing upon a star,
But above all, and with whatever else might be said,
She is testimony to the elasticity of the human psyche,
And in the end, poetry simply is . . .

Note: Inspired by an article written by Ken Craft kindly shared by Robert Okaji

High Calling of the Artisan (Revised)

As muses conspire to inspire poets and artisans,
Wraiths gather around the gateway of the soul
To emasculate all creativity, to frustrate the pen
Or brush, opening up the floodgate of confusion
To fixate some poor soul on some senseless sight
Or sound ‘n none that’s worth a pound of manure
And all to secure his attention on anything at all
But the intention to create; and thus making him
Into a kind of artistic reprobate who then hates
What he’s not done because he’s taken the bait
Of unseen creatures who only satiate themselves
By stilling the mind and killing all true creativity;
But the good muses pay the price and still play
On numinous harps to sharpen the wit of artistry,
Praying he will dive into the sea of his own soul
And be what he was meant to be by taking hold
Of pen or brush to begin to bring into our reality
What was not before — lyrical poem to be read,
Song to be sung, picture to be admired and more
To heal the hearts of sore humanity in its insanity;
To bring peace to the fires of funeral pyres and
To send love from above around the round world;
To be an artisan fulfilling his most high calling!

Note: First published in September 2016, now slightly revised and republished for the enjoyment (and perhaps edification) of new reader-followers. Blessings to one and all!

Seven Day Poem (Day Seven)

On November 29th I began a seven-day poem with one stanza, and committed to adding one each day thereafter for seven days. This is the final result of that seven day poetic journey:

Seven-Day Poem

You intrigued me by being intrigued by me
As I wondered, ‘how can this possibly be?’
Am I to have another ‘she’ in my poor life
And will it be but another knife to my soul?

Now part of my heart feels young once again
As I begin to ponder all of the possibilities
But reality attacks and smacks me in the face
Reminding me of my actual place in this life

I am not really old but I am growing old
And though my heart is warm, my body is cold;
And I have not the strength to chase rabbits,
Or to form new habits or weather the storm

But you, you would shove all else aside for love,
To drink deeply from the rich cream of full life,
To fulfill your most cherished childhood dreams,
And no team of strong stallions can tear you away!

You deny reality staring you straight in the face
As you pace back and forth considering the worth
Of a bond newly birthed in raw desire unearthed
Never thinking we’ve nothing to give for this to live

But roses still bloom in season for good reason,
And then their beauty fades, having bade farewell,
And those roses do die and never try to live on and on;
Ah! There truly is propriety in the society of life!

So now, even as my heart dances and soul prances,
Truth lances illusory dreams and advances reality;
What seems so lovely and beautiful is found only
In the crucible of fantasy and is simply not to be . . .

Note: The completion of this poetic journey was first posted on December 5, 2016, and is being reposted now due to some renewed interest as well as for the enjoyment of new reader-followers. Blessings to one and all!

Making My Vocation

Abjuration of an ill-thought declaration
Exacerbation of an impossible situation
One way one day, another way the next
Vexed by the crude unfeasibility of it all
Lacking of flexibility due to my inability
Coping now while hoping for an escape
Looking at infallibility and vulnerability
Knowing the differences and what I am
. . .
Climbing again out of this darkened pit
Admitting what is befitting my location
My vocation is that of a writer – I write

Poetry of Life

There was calm neath the palm tree, complete serenity,
But then you blew through in bending wind, transcending,
Offering no salaam, only aplomb at your sudden arrival;
Then you did flow like the tidal wave, but… where now?
After such glorious flow of exciting show, you’ve only left…

Line upon line so finely interwoven
And breathed across the Cosmos
Into heart sifted and adrift alone
But not made of stone in flesh
And bone, but rather radiant
And supple in rhyme and rhythm
With the multiverse of your poem

But there is the grander Poem interwoven in the Universe
To nurse hearts and souls that ne’er depart from the path
Of fine poetry in potency in probity of soul so knowingly
Open to Truth of Love that never fades in blight of night;
This is…

Poetry of Life

Note: First published in mid-June 2016, now republished (again) due to some rather unexpected renewed interest as well as for the enjoyment of new reader-followers. I would now count this as, perhaps, one of my best offerings. Blessings to one and all!

Big Fish in a Small Pond

He’s a big fish in a small pond, swimming proudly and loudly;
He’s critically acclaimed, you know? Well, if not, he’ll show you!
He’ll walk you down his promenade with his trifling accolades
So you’ll be sure that he’s really somebody after this grand tour;
And if he offers you a tidbit of his talent, you should sit in awe
And return many thankings else he’ll give you a good spanking;
If only you knew, he’s been published and received his reviews!
What does it matter if the sea knows not that he even exists?
He has his small pond, you see, and so he persists as a big fish,
And will dish out his importance to all of the minnows around
With boundless pride and arrogance . . .
But will anyone know when he has died?
He’s a big fish in a small pond, swimming proudly and loudly!
Just a big fish in a small pond, swimming proudly and loudly!

You Are an Artisan

Sometimes you get hit hard ‘n just feel like crying,
And sometimes even lying in bed hurts your head;
Sometimes you feel like curling up and just dying,
And sighing isn’t enough when you’re truly trying
To do your finest to fight through another life test
When you feel like a unwanted guest in the world
But you stand as tall as you can and give it your all
Even though it seems nobody really understands
And all you get in return are more hard demands
And so you wonder what to do, options too few,
But then you spy pen, pencil, or brush and hush,
For there they all are, instruments for your scars
To turn your pain into some kind of gain yet again
And in turn to bless others and maybe to impress
Something upon their minds and souls to unbind
Them from their own shackles with seeds sown
From your very own life blood . . .
You Are an Artisan

Streets of Gold

But is it worth it There are streets of gold
Or much better just to sit So we are told by the bold
This trek takes real grit Where there is no cold

The venture is long
And the going for the strong
And many turn wrong

There are streets of gold But is it worth it
So we are told by the bold Or much better just to sit
Where there is no cold This trek takes real grit

Note: Please go to actual blog page to read or you will not get the real effect of this cross-poem. It does not appear in the Reader as it is actually laid out on the blog page! If you are already on my actual blog page, then, of course, disregard this message. Thank you!

So Let It Be (SOC)

I long to speak your name in love and sing your way to joy unbounded
In fields of green so serene, with water brooks flowing nearby
Glowing silver among slivers of gold in untold rapture of love
Unceasing, caressing the world in peace unleashed from souls
Woven into finest tapestry — all one — like children playing
Round Maypole, holding hands and dancing, prancing with deer
In sheer exultation of jubilation in this new year without fear,
When we sing a new song where we all belong and long for heaven
On earth, rebirth of what once was dead, now resurrected
Of new dawning when fawns lie down with lions and the adder is
But another ladder of joy for babes’ hands in holes in the ground
To sounds of delight in light shining under brilliant sun
Just begun to rise in high sky where the eagles fly with doves
And angels sing above, raining down feathers of emerald blessing,
Pressing pleasure into every soul that trods the sod and swims the sea
… So let it be
… So let it be

Note: This is my second SOC poem first published in late June 2016. It seems particularly appropriate to share again at the beginning of this New Year with the hope and prayer that 2017 is blessed for one and all of my readers-followers! Also published on Pax et Dolor!