An Ode to Nature (Spenserian sonnet)

You govern rhythm of mans semantics

And thus thou art loved by many for much

The source of animosity's antics

Yet thou prod the heart to r'solve things as such

Serve for some weary, an impalpable crutch

Concurrently thou can take away rest

And leave lowly man with oh, but a touch

Of thine own harmony, rings in his breast

Through long courts of light thou leadeth your guests

And guide with bright eyes their pitiless gait

But show them the door quite promptly unless,

By chance they're themselves the weavers of fate.

To thine be the glory and honor and yet

From where you draw power we too oft' forget.

-E.p. copyright 2009

-untitled-

Time machines, and bringing things back,

Conduct my train of thought and I'm running off the tracks,

A hot air balloon and the light of the moon,

Have landed me here and I'm stuck without a map,

Now I'm inclined,

To slow down the time

Feelings of love for you, at seventeen,

Priests and populations say I don't know what that means,

But from waiting for you, to kissing you in August

I'm sure that what I've told you is as true as it seems

Now I'm inclined,

To slow down the time.

How I Feel

Hi.

I feel like I'm ready to be something. In light of recent events, my life seems to be panning out in a myriad of directions, most of which I am satisfied with. Some I am not. I want to do everything, and not be defined by a career, but that's dumb. Though it's backed by rational thinking, to the rest of the world my delimma seems juvenile. And maybe it is. After all, I am just a teenager, without any meaningful ideas to my name. (why am I always so sarcastic in posts? this, I am not sure of) You know what I wish? That everyone dressed up all the time and men wore coats with tails, and women wore nice dresses. Everyone would ride around in horse-drawn carriages and converse about meaningful things along the way. We wouldn't be so blunt. Men could talk to women in much more clever, thought-provoking ways, and women could respond equally as mysteriously. Men would carry flasks, embossed with family crests, or large print initials. We'd carry our initials and our family name like it meant something, and treat people like they meant something. Boys would sneak off with girls late at night, to go swimming in lakes on the outskirts of the town, or kiss them on canoe rides down moonlit rivers in the middle of summer. Kisses would be so special. And during the day, we'd have extravagent games of pirates and navy, using elaborate wooden "spears," donning hats and our fathers' old boots, on ships of bedsheets and lumber. We'd sail far away, to beautiful places. Littered with precious metals, and jewels bigger than we could carry. Our eyes would be restless, always searching the world for new things. We would never have to realize the reality of where we were, even that would be masked by the flasks of men, and the adventures of boys in love with girls, and girls in love with dreamers. I want to be in love. I want to be in love with a girl who won't accept the harshness of the world. Who will overcome it with me, and hand in mine, reprimand the evil in the world. Who will forgive me for who I was, love me for who I am, and support who I want to become. I want to love a girl like that, forever and unconditionally.

This is how I feel.

No good.

I miss you.

a lot.

My music interest has been deciphered by the Music Genome Project as follows: a subtle use of vocal harmony, repetitive melodic phrasing, mixed acoustic and electric intrumentation, major key tonality, electric rhthym guitars, and (last but not least) offensive lyrics.

awesome.

Michael Jackson has died, almost like he was human?? nah.

I've invested 101,119 dollars in stock. I've profited 3,000 overnight, not too shabby.

I also feel like writing today, so later I believe I'll do just that.

Children of the Spring

Secrets told in higher places,
Feeble holds on all prior traces,
We are far off, together and alone

Our skin is soft and loved by sunlight
Fire flies sing tales of fire fights
Fought right where we stand, bullets shot between our hands

Lets stay here, where only love is constant
Lets stay here, where the river knows our name
I'll run my fingers through your hair,
Your touch will leave me lying there
And our lovesong will ring
over hills and children of the spring

All evil things behind us now,
We fell in love and we both know how
We've grown into musicians, composing selfless dispositions

We set out to find ourselves together,
In your baggy jeans and my fathers leather,
We have arrived, and the sky has kissed your weary eyes

Lets stay here, where only love is constant
Lets stay here, where the river knows our name
I'll run my fingers through your hair,
Your touch will leave me lying there
And our lovesong will ring
over hills and children of the spring

Lets stay here, and nurture what we're given
Lets stay here, and live for what it's worth,
We'll get old and stay like this,
And in spite of all these things,
Our lovesong will ring forever, sung by children of the spring.


-E.p.
© 2009

This whole thing is ridiculous.
nothing makes sense, nobody is genuine.
People say I should learn to trust people. I say people should give the world something to trust.
And I don't know what I want to do,
I dont think I ever will.

I know this, as long as people keep giving me reasons to distrust their nature, I will do so.

Adversus solem ne loquitor, alea iacta est.

Fallacy

While people go on living,
And the world stays steady
On its heavy, constant turn
I've sought this, and I have learned.
I've brought this, what I have earned.

That men all grow up just to die,
They leave their wives and money behind,
Their wrinkled faces see no new places,
but their hearts embrace constricting cases
In cages these men lie.
In cages they will die.

-E.p.

© 2009

Picturesque

An ancient man, with a troubled mind,
A heart of stone, and a mouth of lye,
Sits patiently in a rugged chair
By an open window that draws no air,
He sits, and he waits, and he ponders there.
The world just past the window pane,
Is serene and glorious and quiet and sane.
And full of birds that lull the grass to sleep,
And willows that watch the finches weep,
And where wolves tend to shepherds' sheep.
He seeks it.
But his past keeps him sitting there,
By the open window that draws no air,
In the confines of that wooden chair,
He sits, and he watches, with an empty stare.

-E.p.

© 2009

Questions

I was out yesterday, buying clothes for easter.

I walked out of a store and saw an elderly black man outside the door. The man was paralyzed and appeared to be in a very poor state of health. He was sitting in a sorry-looking electric wheelchair, the rubber was peeling away from the wheels, the metal was dirty and corroded. From one of the handles, the man had hung a plastic bag, full of what appeared to be trinkets, aluminum of some sort. He himself was wearing a torn denim jacket, stained and faded, his pants were also torn, and came down only to his shins. One of his hands, thin and atrophied from lack of use, sat on a crooked steering stick. The other hung loosely from the other side of the chair. His feet were placed awkwardly on the footrests, both turned inwardly. He wore tennis shoes, both of which had but partial soles.

As I passed this man, he slowly looked up at me through the rain, through sad grey eyes from under his black toboggan. His mouth hung open, exposing large gaps between his yellow, crooked teeth. He blinked as the rain hit his face, but stayed intent on following my gaze as I walked away.

And when I got to my car, I sat there for a while. I thought about that poor man, and what a struggle it must be for him, just to live. He obviously didn't have the resources to accomodate his disability, he most likely never will. And, in a futile attempt to empathize with this man, I stepped out of my car, with my able legs, and my adequate clothes, and I stood in the rain. I stayed in the rain for that man. I stayed in the rain for this man, if you can call me that.

God works in mysterious ways.

A Tranquil Place

I sauntered off not too long ago,
To a quiet wood the wind doesn't know,
Gath'rings of moss blanket the trees,
The flowers bloom and withdraw as they please,
The day speaks in verse, the nighttime flees,
And there, twilight falls, and never lets go.


The air is never thick, never hot
And the cold of the dark, it long ago forgot
It holds the pollen above the ferns
To catch the sun as it twists and turns
Through the maze of branches the tree-trunks have earned,
And I pay it all tribute with the words that I brought.
I share with the wood the peace that I sought.
The trees nod their heads, for the breeze found their lot.
I wouldn't leave such a place. No, I will not.

-E.p.
© 2009

Bad Things

Ive grown up, and been places, and thought about people, and analyzed people.
Been analyzed, and disregarded. Been held to high standards, and stooped to my own low ones.
Stooped to many things.
But, high and low I've noticed one thing. One thing has stayed consistent. I haven't been very far, nor have I been here very long, but here, people are inconsistent.

There it is, the only consistency I see in people is their inconsistency.
Its a sad thought. I'm guilty of the same though. So this must be hipocrisy. deviating from my own ideals, into the very thing I accuse people of.

I think I'll keep to myself though. Wouldn't want to be exposed for the very thing I'm exposing.

Here ye people, the King decrees:
"All men heretoforth take what they see."
The people cheer, and wave their hands,
They stake what are, already, taken lands.


-E.p.
copyright 2009

Poem

A wishful thought ought not stay long,
In the minds of men who this way throng.
Their eyes are restless, they bicker and sneer,
Here,

Reason reigns from the bosom of fear.


-E.p.
© 2009

A Soldier's Poem

A Soldier's Poem

A young man's back is broken down,
When an old man trods on another's ground.
He is stripped of self and sense of place,
The rigor chisels his uncut face.

He bows to beasts that rear with pride,
He's forced to take his homeland's side.
He awaits with angst the day of fate,
Bullets and borders to puppet Man and state.

The order sounds but no one hears;
The hardest men pray prayers through tears.
The air is thick, the sky is black.
Men fall to his front, and run at his back.

The young man, now old and grey,
Recalls the rolls of fate that day,
And the faces of many men who died -
Before their time, for another's pride.

-E.p.
© 2009


yes I meant "rolls" of fate rather than "roles"

Drawing

Sorry for the low quality scan. Sketch in the making. Went for a mysterious, matter-manipulating hand exploring the intricacies of something. A sphere I guess.