Did thou know'st that all the family recipes have nothing on thee?
For thou hav'st more mystery inside than that which causes customers lickin'.
Though a platter of the Colonel's makes me scream "Weee!",
thou art more sensational than a samplin' of fried chicken.
It is easy for me to get lost in thou'st aroma,
smelling the savory air causes one go dizzy.
Thou make me feel as though I have pleasantly gone into a coma,
thy odoriferous power focuses active minds from busy.
Thine flavor that thou hast is satisfiable,
outreaching possibility of extra crispy.
Make'st the world yelp seeing thou aren't quantifiable,
all the chicken sacrificed in case of thou'st appearances, even show'st briefly.
So in what box thou'st art found to satisfy one's splendored sensation?
Thou'st will see when we meet again, there will be a correlation.
I have taken a whitened chicken bone, from which the unfortunate animal was used as dinner a few nights ago. The farmer seemed more than happy to give up one for the cause of the King. From this bone I have begun to carve a small Celtic charm, my brother's wife taught me the meanings of several and I have chosen the luck charm. It is said that the more you wear it, the more luck you will have. Duncan taught me everything he taught Daniel, including how to carve. It was only about three quarters of an inch wide on all sides, and the details were difficult with my wide blade, but it was turning out well. When I had finished the outline and cut the shape out of the rest of the bone, I took a lump of coarse dirt from the roadside and began polishing the edges to round it out.
I sat in the entrance way to my tent after a long day's march, and the rain had begun to pour down. There was not much else to do in the camp besides drilling, so I had plenty of time to make the charm. When the polishing was finished, I reached into my bag and pulled out my sash. Pulling three loose threads from the cut edge, I tied them together at one end and then braided them down to the other end. I took the charm and looped the braid through the top hole in the design, and then tied it around my neck and dropped it down the front of my shirt. I felt it through the cloth and put my hand over it. "Thank you Duncan, goodbye."
I heave a sigh and wipe the moisture from my eye. Tomorrow, we are told, will be the last day of marching, we will be in Portsmouth by mid afternoon and from there on to the ships. I have never been on a ship before, only small fishing boats, and I wonder what its like. Matty walks by on his way to supper, I jump up and join him, and I will ask him.
"Have you ever been on a ship, Matty?"
"Me? No, never."
"I wonder what it's like." said I
"Chris has been on one before." Matty smiled as we ducked out of the rain into the mess tent. "He sailed from Ireland to join up."
Hmm, that's right. I will ask him then. We get in line and two steaming plates are put in front of us, as well as two tankards full of water. No ale for the drummers, humph. We turn from the line and search for Michael and Chris. They are spotted across the tent, but Nicholas and his gang are sitting between us and them. I look at Matty and head off to take the long way around; we've had mostly no trouble with him, but they are growing bolder; and even though we are equals, he is older and stronger. So we avoid him and his English pals.
"I swear, if I was the cook in this place, Ah'd have made us all a nice big pot o' porridge, never mind this shite!" I swore when taking my seat.
"Oh, so yer a chef now, as well as a sword master?" laughed Chris.
"Aye, Ah'll kill you wi' mae sword in one hand and cut you up and put yer pieces in my stew with my dirk in the other!" I joked back. Matty's eyes widened at this and ducked his head down. "What's the matter, Matty?"
He looked nervous, but spoke anyway. "Is it true
I happen to love this exercise. Type for a pre-determined amount of time assuming you have no backspace key and your fingers will catch on fire the second you stop. This is what two minutes in my head looks like: The road isn't what I was missing. Close. not quite. Something that moves, sure, but not quite a motorcycle. Music does so much to my brain. Perpetually confused. Perpetually lacking in courage. music solves both. Courage. The great ones had the courage to move the way they wanted. Presented the fundamental threads their own way. universal audience. Found the rhythms that reached them and hurled them in every direction. Ultimate courage, facing everyone's response. Intensely personal. Trust. They trusted something. Ultimate courage, ultimate faith: That not only does one person's voice matter but that MINE matters, and that I'm accountable for its dispersal. Horrifying concept. Irrational. But only irrational because of personal effacement and sense of personal weakness, not genuine lack of worth. In which case, self-effacement is irrational. Self-hatred, irrational. Self-destruction, irrational. Self-deprecation, irrational. If worth is unknown, but depends on participation multiplied by an individual's self-concept, then to willingly nullify either variable with zero is an irrational act, and ultimately ineffecient.Participation X Self-concept = Personal well-being, feeling of self-worth and satisfaction(P) X (S) = Value (personal)Participation without self-affection is worthless. Self-concept with validation is groundless. No value without either. Either can be nullified by zero. MUST attempt. MUST believe yourself worthy of the attempt. Must fail.
I can't really say that I ever know what to write. So much of my time is spent stuck in the constant turning-over of thoughts in my brain that writing becomes a practice of rehashing what I've already thought of, making it more of a chore than I would like it to be. The conversations in my head tend to be so loud that they muffle the voices of those around me, so I don't tend to speak to a lot of people. What's there to say when you cannot listen? There are many people who often start a conversation with me only to quickly become bored or uncomfortable due to my short (or lack of) response. These people then begin to believe that I am arrogant, off-putting. I wish it were the case that I was so smart that I was somehow above conversing with people. No. It is simply that I do not know how. It's as though words dissolve in my chest before they can even make it up my throat. My face remains stoic as they wait on a response, not sensing my distress, my inability to form words in my mouth. I simply stand, stagnate, choking myself with the words I can't seem to say. My head's so low that the only things I can describe in accurate detail are my shoes. I believe my quietness to be a product of too much solitude. There's a sort of mystique that revolves around the quiet, brooding type: they must be deep, they must be intelligent, they must be...whatever - not normal - something like that. Perhaps that is me, though it is not what I would consider valuable, nor necessarily accurate. I wish it were true; that quietness equaled genius. If solitude bred genius, then you should find the deepest, darkest pit in the world; from there, take the man resting his head on his knees, staring blankly at the ground beneath him, and you will have found the wisest man in the world. Ask him any question you wish, and you will receive the most thorough and detailed of answers. Ask him things which he has never experienced: friendship, love, care, spirituality, reason, theory et al. Ask him these things and he will answer them for you more properly than the greatest wiseman the world knows. Tell him about yourself, and he will remedy any pain or loss that you may feel. He will listen until your throat has dried up, and then, because you have the answers which life has so cruelly confused you with, you will leave into the night sky, heart aloft amidst the understanding this man has brought to you. From then on, life will go a little bit more steadily, a little bit more comfortably. "Beware the heavy things," he will have told you. "Behold the light." And then, torn from the wonder and beauty of the world through new eyes he gave you, you will hear from the depths a quiet moan, a stifled gasp, a strangled sob. As though you're capable of calming him, you'll return to where he was. In the middle of a field, you will find him, head on his knees, weeping. "What's wrong?" you will say. His jaw will stutter, his lips will shake, his breath will catch, and finally, he will say the first words t
Free write to the writing prompt for March 6, 2012. Just playing around with everyday speech.
feathers flit on makeshift
not gossamer, but
daily growth accrues as
a measure of absolutes;
weakened still and fledgling—
once languid, atrophied
from disuse and
quiescent on anaesthetic
rouses to diffuse—
I breathe anew. expanding
on ascent as apterous balloons,
my lungs swell with amative
nonpareil is this:
consorting with acclivity is
a bottomless descent—
concurrent rise and fall,
the ethereal waxes material &
our coruscation palpable as
we tether together
[inseparable] and I
melt into your marrow—
a saccharine submersion,
a consummate coalescence
of poignant prepossession
& igneous incandescence.
our adulation as an entity
of ameliorated affinity exists
to eclipse any
of sacrosanct conviction &
you are it for me.
you are everything.
Every find something you wrote years ago and you wince at how bad it is? Here's one that I thought was just so clever and witty and now....oh dear lord what have I done?
For William Blake
with eyes of struggle
watch the wind blow history
from limb to limb
as experience foliates
leaves fall to deteriorate
in the soil of the retina
to plant innocence
in blooming vision
as the future oxidizes
events start to accumulate
in the wind breathing on my limbs
Pretentious note: I didn't copy and paste—I typed every word.
Here's something I just recently put together. Simple, short. I'm not very poetic, and I know very little about modern poetry, so I'm mostly just slapping words on paper.